The Restaurant

Old Mr Postlethwaite's choice for Henry, of all people, to accompany him to lunch was met with some consternation by the young men at the office. Henry didn't work any harder than anyone else, they felt. He was certainly not smarter than Frank, for instance, or Malcolm, or even William. Then why did Mr Postlethwaite, the man they'd all wanted as their mentor since the day they started at the firm, the only living founding partner of Harrison, Postlethwaite & McGraw, choose Henry over any of them?

It was a mystery, they decided.

Henry himself took in all of this with his usual stoic demeanour, but privately, he was thrilled -- albeit not for the same reasons his colleagues would be. Lunch with the old man! Clearly, it would be an exclusive affair, for Postlethwaite had deep pockets and... refined tastes. Wherever he took Henry for lunch, it would doubtless be a place of decadence and questionable legality -- and despite his chosen profession and boyish appearance, Henry frequently found himself drawn to the darker, more hidden aspects of society, like a moth to a bright flame.

"You know what it is," his sort-of-friend-at-work Malcolm was telling him now. "That face of yours. The old queen has a crush on you, that's all."

"Maybe. Or it could be that he noticed me doing my job. You know, as opposed to all the plotting and scheming to get ahead you guys do."

Malcolm guffawed. "That's absurd."

Henry simply smiled.

***

Same as every day, Miles woke to the soft sound of classical music. He stretched, let out a contented moan, and sat up on the bed to take in his cell. That's how he thought of his room here, anyway; not as a prisoner's cell (he was free to leave at any time, as long as he gave two weeks notice and honoured the terms of the non-disclosure agreement), but rather as a monk's cell. The sun flooded in through the single window, reflecting off the white-washed walls. In the corner stood a small writing desk and a chair, on top of which lay his folded clothes.

Miles stood, stretched again, got dressed and slipped out of his cell. His destination was the refectory for a quick breakfast. Lunch time was in an hour or so, and if the past couple of days had been any indication, the restaurant would be packed. He'd need all the strength he could get.

He nodded a good morning at his colleagues and sat down at the long wooden table. Everyone was sipping on their prescribed smoothie. Chef had a very specific dietary plan for each one of them, something to do with influencing their flavour. Miles sucked at the straw. Avocado and cucumber, again. Blegh.

"Hey, Jake," Miles said, turning to the freckled, red-haired kid to his left. "Wanna trade smoothies?"

Jake's eyes grew wide. "But, Chef said... he'll... Miles, it's not allowed."

Miles chuckled. Jake was so young -- he'd recently turned twenty -- and so earnest that messing with him held no challenge at all. Still funny to see him get all worked up, though.

"Leave the kid alone, Miles." That was Ed, a heavyset, middle-aged black man who used to be a cop in a previous lifetime. "For once, I'd like to have breakfast in peace."

"Aw, you're no fun."

Ed looked like he might say more, but at that moment a soft chime sounded. Miles swigged down the last of his smoothie.

"Right, gentlemen," Miles said. "Let's get to work."

***

The Restaurant didn't have a name. Henry turned over the menu in his hands; the cover was smooth and black. No logo, no name. From the outside, the building had looked like any other non-descript house in the street. Only when Mr Postlethwaite had pressed the buzzer and announced himself -- and Henry had worried the old man might have gone senile -- had they been let in and led to a dining area through a long corridor. The Restaurant was much bigger on the inside than Henry had expected. Most likely the proprietors owned several houses in this street, and had wrecked the interior walls to create this big dining area. Henry had to admit it was all very clever and delightfully mysterious.

And, despite how hard it seemed to find and get access to the Restaurant, it was packed -- though, Henry noticed, all of the clientele seemed to be male. Curious.

A waiter hovered at their table, carrying a tray. "For the gentlemen," he said. "Some amuse-bouches, while you make your selection. Compliments of the Chef."

Mr Postlethwaite nodded his thanks as the waiter put down two small plates on the table. The amuse-bouche was a smoked salmon tarte with a grating of cheese, and a dollop of a thick, white sauce he couldn't identify.

Another waiter appeared promptly to pour champagne. Mr Postlethwaite raised his glass. "To your health."

"And yours, sir."

The champagne was excellent. So was the amuse-bouche. The flavours mixed nicely, but the big surprise was the sauce. It was lukewarm, had a spicy tang Henry couldn't place, and a surprisingly refreshing aftertaste of avocado and cucumber. Without it, the smoked salmon and cheese would have been good. With the sauce, they were elevated to exquisiteness. Henry said as much to Mr Postlethwaite.

The old man nodded sagely, a twinkle in his eyes. "It's not a taste for everyone," he said. "But I had a feeling about you, Henry."

"Sir?"

They were interrupted by the waiter's return before Mr Postlethwaite could offer an explanation. "Have you made your choice, sirs?"

"Yes," Mr Postlethwaite said briskly. "I'll have the broiled codfish for a starter, and then the steak au poivre."

Henry folded his menu. "That sounds delicious. I'll have the same."

"Excellent, sirs."

A commotion on the other side of the Restaurant drew Henry's attention. "What's going on over there? I think I can hear someone moaning."

"That's the milking," said Mr Postlethwaite.

Henry looked at him in confusion. "Milking?"

"Yes, sir," the waiter said. "Our Chef only works with the freshest ingredients. That's why the milking takes place right here, in the Restaurant."

"I'm sorry. I'm lost. You milk what, exactly?"

The waiter cast a questioning glance at Mr Postlethwaite. The old man chuckled. "Go on."

"Perhaps," the waiter said, licking his lips. "Sir would like to see for himself?"

Henry didn't need to be asked twice.

***

Miles groaned. There was a prostate stimulator buried inside him, vibrating on the highest setting. It made his teeth buzz. Meanwhile, one of the Restaurant employees, a tanned young guy with slicked-back black hair named Sergio, was jerking him off with steady, long strokes. Just the way Miles likes it.

As always, Sergio wore a latex glove and wouldn't make eye contact. To be honest, that freaked Miles out a bit the first couple of times. But you got used to it. He learned not to take it personally. After all, this was a job and they were both professionals.

He groaned again. Very close now; thanks to the prostate toy Miles had been leaking a steady stream of cum for the past couple of minutes (which Sergio had dutifully caught in the receptacle) but this was gonna be the big one. Miles would need a break after this.

Sergio continued stroking Miles' dick, his face impassive.

Oh, shit, this was it! Miles gasped and shuddered; the toy buried in his ass seemed to buzz even harder as he clenched down on it. With a cry, Miles started shooting thick ropes of cum. His knees buckled, and he grabbed on to Sergio to steady himself. Meanwhile, the young man continued to stroke Miles, focussing his attention on Miles' frenulum, while also taking care to aim Miles' discharging cock at the receptacle.

"Fuck," Miles sighed when the spasms induced by his orgasm finally ebbed away. "Great job, Sergio." By Miles' own count, he'd deposited at least seven shots of cum in the receptacle. And that was without counting everything that'd trickled in before his orgasm.

Sergio nodded, his face blank as ever. "Break time? I need to get this to the kitchen, and I'm gonna try and get a smoke in."

"Go for it," Miles said, still panting. He looked after Sergio as the young man trotted off. The Farm, as they called the milking area, was an open space on one side of the Restaurant. Miles knew that plenty of clients payed extra to get seats close to the Farm. Right now, he saw a waiter giving a youngish guy "the tour"; every day, there'd be some client who'd never been to the Restaurant before. Miles knew the spiel these guys were fed by heart now.

The waiter and client were standing near Jake. Unsurprisingly, Jake was somewhat of a favourite; Miles rather liked the guy's youthful enthusiasm himself. Right now, Jake stood bent over, his lean, freckled body gleaming with sweat. Jake's hand was a blur as he jerked his long cock with a vigour only twenty-somethings seem to possess. Then again, this was Jake's first real job, so he was bound to take it a bit too seriously.

Behind Jake was his handler, older than Sergio but just as stone-faced. Miles couldn't recall his name. The man was fucking Jake with a big purple dildo, while offering verbal encouragement. "Yeah, take it, you little slut," the man said. Miles admired how he could deliver his lines with such feeling yet look so bored. "Feel that big cock. You're my little slut, aren't you? Say it!"

Funny thing about Jake, he couldn't blow a load unless someone talked dirty to him.

"I'm your... little... oh!" Jake's body bucked and spasmed. Lightning-fast, Jake's handler stepped to the front of him, receptacle at the ready. "Oh!" Jake said again. "Shiiit! Oh, fuck!" Glob after glob of white cream sprayed out of his dick. Miles didn't doubt Jake's sperm would've flown two meters far, had the receptacle not been there.

Miles smiled to himself. It was always a pleasure to watch Jake cum. Something about the way every muscle in the sweaty body tightened, the expression of pure rapture on the young man's face as he kept exclaiming "shit!" and "fuck!"... And the sheer quantity of his load, my god. Jake was the biggest cummer among them, easy. Miles sometimes wondered what it'd be like to receive Jake's load all over his face and chest, maybe in his mouth even...

He shook his head to clear the images. He was, after all, a professional. Watching Jake from a distance would have to be enough.

The waiter continued the tour, leading the young man along. Miles picked up snippets of the waiter's speech. "--still very young, so the bouquet hasn't really come into its own yet. Still, there is something invigorating about a young man's milk, and the quantities by which he delivers, combined with the mild taste, make it ideal for sauces of all kinds. Now, if you'll--"

They'd stopped to watch Ed, the big ex-cop. Now, contrary to any intuition, what Ed liked most of all was to be spanked, and that's just what his handler was doing, going at it for the moment with a thin rod. "Oh," Ed moaned. "Oh, Daddy."

"Daddy loves you," the man doing the spanking said in a monotonous voice, as if he'd said it all too many times before. He probably had. "Daddy needs to punish you because he loves you."

"Miles?"

Miles looked up and found the young client staring directly at him. "Is that... Henry, is that you?"

Henry broke out in a grin. "Miles! God, it's been what, seven years?"

"Since college, yeah." Miles was grinning too, now. "Andy's parties, remember?"

"How could anyone forget those!" Henry shook his head. "I didn't know you worked here. When did you stop being--"

"The day I found this place, actually. Tell you the truth, me working here, it's kind of a bribe."

Henry laughed. "Why doesn't that surprise me."

They talked for a while, mostly about work. When Henry mentioned his hopes that this might mean Mr Postlethwaite would become his mentor, Miles pointed out a bearded, hairy hipster-looking guy in the back. "Pete," Miles said. "He's kind of an asshole, but damn, if his cum doesn't make for the best cheese. Tell the old guy to try some, he's sure to be impressed."

Pete, meanwhile, was jackhammering a young Restaurant staff member while grunting loudly (though the staff member seemed less impressed, trying to hold his Kindle steady enough to be able to read). As Miles and Henry watched, Pete groaned and slipped out of the staff member who wordlessly held out his receptacle. Pete's muscles bulged and vein showed up on his forehead as he shot several ropes of creamy, white cum down the receptacle, making animal noises all the while.

***

The food was delicious. When eating the broiled cod, Henry's mind wandered to the big black man being spanked. Likewise, when the steak arrived -- served in a creamy, white sauce with pepper and a dash of whiskey -- he found himself thinking of the young ginger's face contorting with pleasure as he shot load after load of cum in the receptacle, in what seemed like an endless orgasm.

"I was right about you," Mr Postlethwaite said. "Out of all the young men at the office, you were the right choice to bring here. Half of them would have been disgusted, and the other half wouldn't have been able to shut up about it."

Henry raised his glass in acknowledgement. "Thank you. Oh, by the way, a friend of mine recommends the cheese."

The old man ordered, and the cheese was quickly brought to their table. "A friend?" Mr Postlethwaite said. "Then you've been here before, after all?"

"Oh, no sir. An old college buddy of mine. It seems like he's working here, now. Says it's the restaurant's way of bribing him."

"Bribing him? Whatever for?"

"Well, sir," Henry said. "Before he worked here, my buddy used to be a restaurant health inspector." He delicately put a piece of cheese in his mouth. It was very good.