Table For Two, And Two, And...

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.

"Of course, monsieur," the host replies. "If there's nothing else for the moment, you may disrobe to your pleasure."

He gives us one more chance to respond, then offers a small bow and heads towards the service entrance. It's a subtle door, barely distinguishable from the wall until it opens. He vanishes into darkness, leaving us to make the next moves.

We smile at each other and head towards the table. We use the sturdy seats to brace ourselves; it makes removing our shoes easier. After that, we give each other an adorably incomplete strip tease. My husband undoes his belt, buttons and zipper, then slides his dress slacks down to his ankles. I find the subtle, hidden zipper that separates my elegant black dress into two parts, and consign the lower half to the floor. Curt slides down his black boxer briefs; I set aside my purse. That's where my panties are. He loses his socks; I keep my thigh-high stockings on. The white carpeting beneath our feet is a delightful blend of soft, fuzzy, and supportive -- much better than SofTile, but undoubtedly more of a hassle to clean. I'd expect nothing less; it's more for the employees' benefit than the customers', and the Coastal Alliance prides itself on giving workers a fair shake.

"Mmmm," Curt says. He's being a naughty boy. He's devouring me with his eyes. For the next hour or two, I'm technically not on his menu.

I feel much the same about his cock, but I play my part. I put my hands on my hips and say, "Curt, you have this pussy at home."

He flashes me a grin. We like each other. We have fun. Not all of it is sex.

Most of it is sex. We have good jobs. We have friends; some of them, we don't even have sex with. We have interests. We keep up with the news. Sex is our passion. It's also our hobby. As a wise man once said: hobbies cost money; interests are free.

The private room affords us the luxury of shedding everything, but the restaurant's pretension of elegance amuses us. We stay clothed from the waist up for now. We take our seats, still grinning at each other. Said seats are ridiculous; they have to be. They're designed to maximize patron and employee comfort, while also providing said employees ready access to a patron's lower bits, whatever those may be. I'm sure the holonet has technical manuals; you can search for them if you like. We're here to enjoy the ride.

We each key in to our chair's interface. To our delight, we find saved settings. It's been months since our last visit, but information storage is cheap. With one flick each, instead of a dozen flicks and swipes, we both settle in comfortably. We switch to the main intranet, and call up the menu.

"Oooh," Curt says.

"How much?" I immediately ask.

He gives me a guilty look. That's enough for me to quickly locate the offending entry.

"Wow," I say, my eyes widening. "For that price, you should get to milk the futa's prostate with your cock and drip-feed me the stuff."

"Yes, well," he replies, "setting aside the fact that that would be illegal, that level of effort rather defeats the purpose. Besides, you're paying for the science, too. You don't want to get hooked on the pure stuff without having guaranteed access."

"Well congratulations, honey," I say. "You've made a powerful aphrodisiac seem incredibly unsexy."

"Saves us money, I suppose," he replies with a wink.

"True enough," I concede. "Tell you what: let's get our service ordered, then we can do a milk course."

His eyes light up. I can't help but giggle. He just gets so excited whenever we come here, and it's adorable. Not only that, but, for the past two months -- ever since I got the new modification -- Curt has had milk at home, just like he has pussy. I can't recommend it enough, by the way, and I'm sure the owners of Eden Be Eaten would agree. Ever since the science took another leap forward, lowering the price of the mod and fine-tuning its daily production cycles, the restaurant's milk offerings have exploded. I can't wait to check out that portion of the menu. First, we need to pick out who's going to take care of us down below.

"Mmmm, the femboys look good tonight," Curt says. The holovids are richly detailed. 3D resolution is much more expensive than storage space, but again, I doubt the Eden Be Eaten feels the pinch.

I narrow down my own search. I'm in the mood for something sophisticated tonight -- maybe someone closer to thirty than twenty. It's odd how much looks still matter for someone who'll be servicing me under the table, but they do, so I don't discount them. Experience matters too. I imagine getting my pussy teased, more than eaten, for a good portion of the milk and main courses. I picture alert eyes filled with confidence.

I swipe through two screens, and then find my girl: Mary, twenty-five, dark hair and light almond skin, petite as anything. She has the confidence I'm looking for. Most girls try to be sexy for their holovid captures; some succeed, but many end up looking silly. Mary's body language is different; so is her smile. She clasps her hands behind her back, and she looks more like a naked supervisor than a naked employee. She's going to give my pussy a thorough, sexy inspection, and then run some real-world tests. I tap the holoscreen a few times. I request a stern business outfit. I get a green light and a cheerful ping almost immediately. Mary knows her strengths.

Curt, meanwhile, has chosen a tall, skinny femboy with long, red hair -- Skim, which isn't necessarily a nickname. The holovid that caught my husband's attention featured the twenty-year-old server in black lace and mesh, a matching choker, and leather cuff-bracelets. Eyeshadow and dark lipstick completed the goth look, while a pair of thin, wire-frame glasses lent the ensemble a hint of geek chic.

Curt keyed in the specific request for that look, and got an ETA of ten minutes. I key in Mary to arrive at the same time. It's rude to start getting eaten while others are still waiting.

Neither of us are nearly as picky about our ass worshipers. The restaurant makes recommendations based on experience, tongue size, and stamina. We both err towards experience and stamina, and each find an athletic-looking woman in her mid-thirties. They both look like gym rats who focus mostly on cardio. They're not similar enough for us to shout "twinsies!" or "jinx!" at each other, but it's still worth a chuckle. We're both thinking the same thing: we have all weekend to give our assholes a proper workout. Tonight, we'll enjoy long, slow, relaxing rim jobs to pair with our other pleasures. It's easy to overdo the anal stimulation while you're eating actual food.

I suppose that it doesn't go without saying: oral service is technically a part of the main course, offered to anyone who pops in for lunch or dinner. The other part of that course is an actual meal, and you know what? The food's not bad! It is, however, the cheapest thing on the menu.

That leaves the milk course. As I'd suspected, that part of the menu has expanded considerably since our last visit. It's tough to find a truly unattractive pair of breasts in the Coastal Alliance, at least until the aging process finally starts winning the battle against science -- usually at seventy years for us mere mortals, and significantly longer for our small population of futanari. We're Eden Be Eaten veterans, and we know to focus on flavor.

We're also a little boring, though. My own milk, served up once a day like clockwork to my husband, is light cream with coffee -- and yes, I did mean to say it in that order. I don't blast him with the full cup-of-joe experience moments after we wake. I quickly find a pale, perky pair of coed titties that offer up a cheesecake-liqueur blend; it's a popular enough flavor that I had options for servers. Being boring has its benefits.

Curt, meanwhile, hones in on a powerful cappuccino, promising whipped cream, cinnamon, cocoa, and hints of cayenne. The light brown pair he'll be suckling from deserve to be called breasts, rather than titties. I instantly think of a mother in her early thirties who just finished weaning her second child; she keeps herself in excellent shape despite -- or maybe because of? - all the running around. Her breasts, as a result, are a large, beautiful combination of youthful and matronly. Curt and I have decided to adopt, when we're ready. It'll be another year or two, I think. My titties will stay titties for a long time.

We key everything in. Per tradition, we don't formally request our main course or dessert yet. We do spend the time before our first sextet arrives casually flicking through those two menus, though, sharing thoughts and teasing each other's likes and dislikes. It's just the two of us for the next few minutes; we can be crass. We're also discussing actual food half the time. There's no harm in threatening a little divorce when your partner eyeballs some extra-slutty Brussels sprouts.

We barely hear the service door slide open, but our chair interfaces offer up gentle pings. We swipe away the menu holos, give each other a final, knowing glance, and let the ridiculous machinery do its work.

The first time we came here, we acted like silly virgins -- tech virgins, that is. When the chairs started moving, we yelped and squirmed. We began casting our eyes about the room on instinct, trying to regain our bearings. We eventually laughed -- at each other, and ourselves. It didn't take too long for us to relax and learn to love the absurdity. Now, we treat it like a spa day, albeit one that features a low-key sexual carnival ride. We let the machinery and the staff take care of us.

Until the main course, I won't have a great view of Curt. I don't mind; I have my own pleasures to focus on. I catch a glance of Mary sauntering in, whip-smart and severe; she's accentuated her business attire with a pair of black-rimmed glasses. My bracelet and wrist holo show a request. It's from the restaurant, on Mary's behalf, to use fingers -- no penetration -- and I happily grant it. Mary most definitely knows why people choose her. They want her to take charge down there.

She gets into position below me, and immediately begins teasing my smooth pelvis and outer lips with her fingers. She gives a series of intrigued, then satisfied, 'hmmms' and 'hmmmphs.' It's perfect. My pussy starts moistening and heating up for her right away.

My asshole worshiper quickly joins her; I never even saw her in person. I'm not put out, though. Whenever my attention isn't on my meal or my husband, I'll be thinking of Mary. I feel a strong set of hands stroke my hips and outer thighs. Sam, my backdoor girl, already knows she can use my body for balance and leverage, and even massage me if she wants. As clever as these chairs are, it'll still be difficult. I keep my body trim and tight, just how Curt likes it; most of my ass and quads are directly upon the padding. I'm sure Sam will make do.

"Oh," I sigh. Mary's and Sam's tongues touch me for the first time, in tandem. I'm very sure my backdoor girl will make do.

I let the chair's neck and headrests tilt my lips towards a waiting titty. I glance up at my provider -- a sprightly, freckled bottle-redhead with a compact track-runner's frame. The sporty ponytail is a favorite of mine. She also has beautiful green eyes. I flash her a grateful smile. She smiles back, then bites her lip. She's naked upon a seat of her own, and it's even more ridiculous than mine. It's eminently necessary, though. Just as my husband gives me an orgasm every morning when he suckles, I'm sure I'll give Cassidy one tonight. It wouldn't do to make her stand and lean over me.

I don't wait for the request; I tweak my bracelet, granting Cassidy permission to stroke my hair and pet me while I nurse. The last thing I see before I close my eyes is an erect nipple upon a small areola, surrounded by a mound of soft, pale skin. It's already glistening with my first taste of Eden.

A night at Eden Be Eaten is all about submitting to the experience. There are no power dynamics at play unless you insist upon them. The feel of Cassidy's nipple and titty in my mouth is instantly soothing, and the flow of her warm milk makes me sigh with equal parts contentment and delight. I immediately feel an emotional bond forming between the two of us. I don't think about the biology. I don't think about the euros flitting between accounts. I don't... think. I accept the temporary truth; it's not a lie just because it's fleeting. I love her. She's caring for me, providing for me, feeding me with her very body. She runs her fingers through my hair. I feel myself melting in all the best ways.

I think of Mary. I feel her fingers and her tongue. She's so capable. She's so confident. Her body doesn't belong to me; mine belongs to her. She gives me feather touches over my stockings, and then pauses just long enough to make me ache for the transition between fabric and bare skin. When her fingers finally cross over, I shiver in delight. My warm nectar flows freely for her; I know my husband loves it, and I hope Mary does too. I faintly hear another round of 'hmmms' and 'hmmmphs.' They're lower, smoother, and more seductive. She knew exactly what I needed; she's telling me she likes the way I taste. It's a small, petty thing, but it lets me relax even more. It fills up the room with sensuality and positivity. It makes it even more of a warm, safe, loving space.

Sam is completely in sync with her partner tonight. When Mary's tongue tickles, Sam's gently laps, allowing me to focus on the more intense sensation near my pussy. When Mary gently kisses my outer lips and clit hood, Sam rapidly flicks the tip of her tongue across my pink little hole. When Mary gets down to business on my engorged button, Sam rhythmically pushes against my muscles. The outer ring is even more relaxed than usual. Her tongue slips in easily, and I groan my delight into Cassidy's titty. Sam proves her competence down below. She teases all around the inner ring, making it quiver. She finds the spots that send electric zings into my tailbone and up my spine.

I forget all about being teased. I let the duo take me all the way. I make sure to release Cassidy's nipple so that I don't accidentally bite her. My eyelids flutter, even though they were already closed. My mouth opens wide. My voice catches, and then I let the entire room know that I've reached the peak of Olympus.