Release Date: [07/26/2046]

Host: Jonathan Whittaker

[Intro Music Intro fades in, swells, and fades into French music. ]

If Tokyo serves as the center for fine dining in the east, then there can be no doubt that the foundation of taste and technique in the west must be France. From croissants to mother sauces, French Cooking has served as a cornerstone of culinary arts in ways that few can truly fathom. I am walking down the Rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré in the La Marais district of Paris, not far from the Palais de l'Élysée. It is a warm, muggy sort of day and it’s about three in the afternoon. I’m heading to L'Étoile Dorée, or in English, ‘The Golden Star.’ It is Paris’ most unique and ambitious restaurant for fine dining.

L'Étoile Dorée doesn’t look like a restaurant. The first floor is a shop, the windows of which show off the dozens of grade A meat girls available for those lucky enough, and rich enough, to be able to afford a Sterling dinner. I gaze in. Brunettes with fine alabaster skin are the most common, but there is a smattering of tanned blondes, a few dark skinned African girls, but no redheads. True gingers are rare outside of Ireland and the genetics needed to mix the right body type with the natural hair color have proven to be challenging. 

I step inside. The girls are chained by the throat and wrists to iron rings, each standing beside a spec sheet. I see data on precise biological markers, physical measurements, and even genetic data. The French take their grading seriously and I walk down the row of beautiful women, all exquisite, all breathtakingly gorgeous, each one resigned to her fate. 

I chose a petite girl who catches my eye. She is a brunette, her cute, slightly upturned nose and small mouth particularly appealing. Her spec sheet states that her name is Marie, that she is eighteen years and three days old, that her bust size is ninety, her waist circumference is sixty, and her hips are ninety. I convert the numbers in my head to Imperial. 36-24-36. She is neither thin nor fat, but perfectly proportioned. A genetic marker graph shows that she is fifty-four percent Sterling. I indicate my preference to the concierge and a moment later her collar is attached to a leash, her hands bound together, and I am handed her lead and directed upstairs. Room Four.She leads the way and I walk behind her, admiring the smooth curve of her flanks, the muscular tightening of her calves, and the glimpses of the bottoms of her cute and adorable feet as she climbs the stairs in front of me. I can see the pink puffiness of her slit, glistening with expectation. The hallway is long and even through the sound proof doors I can hear the sounds of sexual activity. And... other things. Soft moans. Cries. The occasional scream. She stops in front of the door marked with the word “Quatre” and opens it, revealing a small room. Inside there is a twin sized mattress, covered in plastic sheets, the frame of which is metal and equipped with attachment points. Opposite the bed is a set of metal, modern stocks. A rack on the wall holds a set of bondage cuffs, while a display of whips, paddles, canes, and crops is mounted opposite. A nearby shelf holds different vibrators, massagers, and phallic tools. Lastly, there is a tray of surgical steel instruments. Scalpels, hooks, picks, forceps. 

She stops in the middle of the room and kneels, bowing her head respectfully. Her knees are spread apart, her hands resting on her thighs, palms up. The tips of her breasts are taut and pink and perfect. I do not know why she is so compliant. I am permitted any excess, up to and including extinguishing her life. And admittedly, part of me wants it. I spot the attachment points on the bedframe and I reach down, taking her hand, pulling her up. It takes nothing to move her where I want, sitting in the center, only to lean back, legs and arms spread. I am quiet as I put the bondage cuffs on her wrists and ankles. I secure her hands and feet, bending her in half, her beautiful pussy laid bare and exposed and vulnerable in front of me. She is limber, her cute little feet around her ears as I peer down at her pink, freshly waxed pussy. 

There are different kinds of hunger. I sate one of mine over the next forty-five minutes, well within the required timeframe. When I am through, her sex is raw and red, the leather paddle taken from the wall is coated with a sheen of her cum, and my own effluvium is dripping from her slit. She is tender to the touch, the mixed back and forth of punishment and pleasure has ripped multiple explosions from her young body and she stares up at me with an exhausted, but satisfied expression. There are more marks on her bottom, the bottoms of her feet, and across her breasts, but they are superficial. Minor in fact. I have left the tray of gleaming stainless steel tools in their surgical nests. There are different levels of sadism and I do not personally need bloodshed to satisfy my needs. As I dress, she closes her eyes in relief, but also resignation. I leave her there, knowing that in a moment she will be taken to the processing room where A&E’s machinery will remove most of her internal organs, essentially setting the clock on her final breath.

I follow the signage to the third floor. The room is mostly dark, except for the exceptionally well lit stage. There are stations, each illuminated to show off a different restraint. I recognize them from the literature. On one side is a stretching rack, complete with a turning wheel and ropes. On the other side sits a robust set of wooden stocks. But while this interests me, I can’t help staring at the rear of the stage, where two clear Pyrex bins sit, filled with water. One of them is empty, the black plastic pump and heater sitting along the far wall of the container. But in the other is a girl. Long, thick luxurious hair cascades off the left side of the bin and she floats, bobbing along, eyes closed. Her body is encased in a plastic bag, up to the neck, and filled with what I can only describe as a marinade of lemon, herbs, and cream. The pump and heater hums softly and I can see the readout, showing seventy-five. I translate that in my head for the Americans. One hundred and sixty-five degrees in Fahrenheit. It takes me a minute to realize that the girl floating in the sous vide is blissfully unaware of her predicament. Or perhaps she is already cooked.

A dozen small tables, each covered with a white cloth and expensive flatware surround me. Most are already occupied by single individuals, but there is one couple. A male host escorts me to my table and I am seated. A sommelier arrives and pours me Champagne. I am not opposed. At the beginning of a meal, a sommelier will almost always steer you toward a wine that acts as an aperitif - designed to stimulate the appetite, refresh the palate, and pair cleanly with lighter starter dishes. The last tables fill up and then the girls are led out.

There are two of them. The first is a brunette I do not recognize, though she is stunningly beautiful. She is led to the stocks, her head and hands placed into the circular openings, locked into place, and then a spreader bar is attached to her ankles. It forces her open, her ass up in the air, begging to be paddled. Or caned. To my surprise, a fucking machine is rolled up behind her and the gentle hum of the motor fills the room as the hugely thick dildo begins moving in and out of her ass, fucking her bottom thoroughly. More alligator clamps are produced and this pair goes on the girl, only for a pair of heavy weights to hang from her tits, rocking as she is brutally buttfucked. The assistant clamps a vibrating pendant to her clit.

But then another girl is rolled onto the stage, secured in a butterfly position to a perforated metal table. Steel loops go around her neck, torso, upper and lower arms, thighs, shins, and ankles. She is unable to move and the table tips, slanted so that we can see every inch of her. Her eyes are wide and frightened, but she says nothing as she is positioned in the very center of the stage. I am unsurprised to see the young lady I’d enjoyed in my private room. I knew there was the possibility that she would be chosen for tonight's dining experience and I feel a renewed excitement. I tasted her raw, the salty tang and quivering flesh hot under my tongue. I wondered how she would taste cooked. 

A plate is set on the table beside me and I smile. The French are very particular about their dining and I find a trio of bites, known as the amuse-bouche. The first bite is a Parmesan Crisp with Herbed Ricotta. It is rich and creamy, made of a baked parmesan wheel topped with a small pipe of whipped ricotta and a single microgreen. Next to it sits Gourmet Arancini: A tiny, crispy, deep-fried risotto ball stuffed with fontina cheese or truffle paste, served warm. The third is a Caprese Skewer: A cherry tomato and a mini mozzarella ball are skewered with a basil leaf, drizzled with olive oil, garlic pesto, and a balsamic vinegar glaze.  

As I eat, one of the sous chefs goes to Marie. He holds in his hand a basting brush and bowl. With long, wet strokes, he begins painting the marinade over her skin, teasing her erect nipples and going down to her clitoris. Even after what I did to her in our private room, Marie’s chest heaves with excitement, especially when he makes sure to brush the fluid through her labia and even into her depths. He extracts a cooking vibrator from his apron pocket and works it into her, eliciting another groan of passion as she tenses, tightening around the sexual toy. I find the process fascinating, and even arousing. I wonder if she prefers my cock, or this thicker, but shorter toy. She is clearly aroused and I watch as her hips grind and thrust, unable to move more than an inch. It must be maddening, to have that soft brush dipping and swirling over her sensitive nubs. 

The waiter removes my empty plate and another is set down in front of me. I recognize the Rillettes de Fille and pick up the single slice of grilled baguette. It is covered with a layer of shredded, chilled meat that I know was slowly confited in fat with thyme, bay leaf, and white wine. Some decorative microgreens top the pate and I take a bite, finding a rich, melt-in-your-mouth texture that blends seamlessly with the crunch of the toast. And while I practically swoon from the flavors that swirl through my mouth, down in the kitchen, more flavor profiles are being built. 

Marie is approaching her first orgasm, but just as her twitching hips and heaving chest make her coming climax obvious, the sous chef sets aside his brush and cup. He produces a spiked metal cylinder and presses it to Marie’s left shoulder, rolling it down the slope of her breast, onto her nipple. I remember sucking on that pink tip, then bunching her breast up in my hand and viciously spanking it until she cried out, just an hour or so before. But this torment, with the sharp spikes, seems more intense. Tiny red dots appear and to my astonishment, I even see a little bit of blood spotting. It is a Wartenburg pinwheel, rows of sharpened points digging into her flesh. And he is pressing. Hard enough to break skin. He rolls it back and forth across Marie’s tit and more crimson smearing appears. She screams, clenching her fingers tightly together and I am somewhat confused. The torment is undoubtedly painful, but not unbearable, until it hits me. The marinade he painted on her skin must be citrus based. 

Like pouring lemon juice on a paper cut. 

Back and forth, now across both breasts, the sous chef tenderizes Marie’s bosom until the skin turns an incredible shade of pink. Far more intense than the light spanking and rough squeezing that I inflicted upon her. There is some minor bleeding and he wipes some of the excess blood from her chest and the other chef hurries over, the basting brush and bowl in hand, only to apply a fresh coat of marinade. She screeches, her toes curling, as the acid eats into her skin. There is no damage. Just the pain. I watch the torment as I feast and the sous chef moves the pinwheel downward, over her belly. While not as sexual, he spares no inch of her front and as his partner begins painting fresh lemon cream across the now tenderized epidermis. I expect him to roll it between her legs, but instead he picks up the wheel and moves it down to the bottoms of her feet. 

I too have an appreciation for Marie’s feet, her tiny toes and delicate arches are superb and I made sure to give each sole a thorough spanking while my cock continued to thrust through her insides. But this torment, with the pinwheel, far exceeds what I did to her. While she squirmed and whimpered and even yelped as the paddle struck, now she screams, shaking and twitching violently, trying desperately to get away from the tenderizing pins. She is unsuccessful as the bottoms of each foot sport the spreading pattern of red puncture marks. Then the chef moves up her legs, along the calves, then her thighs. She is suffering, sobbing, but it isn’t until he rolls the spiked pinwheel up her labia to the apex of her sex, that I hear her begin to beg for relief. Marie bucks and squeals as her clitoris is punctured and perforated, tiny pinpricks of agony that makes my spanking of her clit pale by comparison. The lemon cream must burn. 

As I finish my Rillettes de Fille, they release her feet, then her thighs, then her waist from the metal board that has kept her still and unable to escape the preparation. Sobbing, Marie is slowly slid into a large, firm, clear plastic bag. Lemons, herbs, and more cream are squirted in, helping her body slip downward. The chefs maneuver her legs into the same butterfly position. Finally her hands are freed and she cradles her breasts as the bag comes up to her neck. I watch curiously as it is closed around her delicate throat and a small hose is inserted. One chef pushes her hands down to her sides, through the bag, and the air is extracted until the plastic tightens around her form. Suddenly she has no ability to move, her knees bent outward, showing us her perforated labia and swollen, sore clitoris, her beautiful pink breasts, the nipples tight and hard, squashed against the plastic. She squirms, gasping, and I realize that even breathing is now a challenge for her. 

Marie is picked up and then placed into the empty bin of water. She slides in with a gasp, a leather strand looped around her neck to keep her from going completely under. It isn’t enough to choke her, but it does not make breathing any easier, especially with the tight bag already constricting her ability to move. The chef sets the temperature and she squirms, the water sloshing slightly. I see the gauge change as the water temperature begins to rise. 

Opposite Marie, the other girl in the sous vide is removed. She is limp and I now have no doubts that she is fully cooked. The chefs take her body to one of the cooking stations and the bag is cut open. The most incredible smell fills the little restaurant and with sharpened knives, the chef begins slicing into the limp roast, removing her breasts and her pussy in full cuts. Plates come out, trays of roasted vegetables and pots of sauce. I watch with amazement as cuts of her flesh are set upon smears of lemon cream, set next to seared potatoes and charred broccoli. Fresh thyme is sprinkled upon the top, and a lemon wedge is used as garnish. The chefs and the wait staff move like a well oiled machine and it is only moments before the fresh plate sits in front of me. I pick up my fork and take a bite. Divine.

But while I am in heaven, the girl in the stocks shudders, still enduring the rapid buttfucking that causes her entire body to wriggle. The alligator clamps on her breasts have drawn blood, and I can see the seeping fluid flowing down the clamp chains to the weights. 

Before I am even finished with my entree, a simple green salad is set beside my plate and I find the flavors of vinaigrette refreshing when altered with the richness of the Longe de fille. As I eat, the chefs remove the weights from the girl’s nipples and stop the brutal thrusting of the machine positioned behind her. She lets out a sob of relief as the stocks, head and wrists still entrapped, is rolled forward. She is moved into the same position at the front of the cooking area, where Marie was prepared, and then she is rotated so that we can see her bottom. Her anus is a gaping hole, stretched wider than I’ve ever seen on a girl and possibly even torn somewhat. 

One of the chefs steps forward with a huge wooden paddle and begins spanking the girl. And not lightly either. These are brutal, hard, violent blows. She screams and would have undoubtedly kicked her cute little feet, except they are still bound in the spreader bar. Instead, she wiggles her ass delightfully and I watch as her white creamy buttocks turn red almost instantly. The spanking continues, blotching appears, and her torment is so acute that she does not see the other chef approaching with the sharpened skewer. He steps to her side, bringing up the piercing point and without hesitation, jams it deep into the side of her left tit. 

She feels it, even worse than the spanking, which stops just long enough for the skewer to completely penetrate the breast, only to prick, pierce, and push through the other tit. As she sobs in agony, the spanking starts up again. The stocks are rotated as the spanking continues and then, much to my astonishment, the floor opens and something far more traditional rises. 

Madame Guillotine. 

It is a small version, but the girl in the stocks actually faints as she sees it rise in front of her. This only makes it easier for the chefs as they open the stocks, push the wooden frame away, and then set her in place. A simple box is placed beneath the opening and then they begin spanking her again. Her ass must be on fire. This rouses her and when her eyelids flutter and open, she cries out with pain. The other chef then picks up a massager and jams it between her legs, up against her clitoris. It is this mix, this agony and ecstasy, that confuses her brain. She shudders, pleading and begging in French so fast that I am unable to understand her. But clearly, she is approaching orgasm. I watch, fascinated as her body tenses, her eyes close and she cries out, this time, not in pain, but in pleasure. 

The blade falls and I jump, startled. Her voice is silenced instantly and her entire head thumps into the box. Her body, pussy squirting cum, slowly falls over to the side. Applause erupts around me and I put down my fork, joining in. What a display! The chefs immediately go to work, carrying her body up to the counter, butchering her. I doubt I will get to taste her flesh, as it is more likely that she will become the next Rillettes de Fille. But I do not care. Just watching these men work, creating these fine tasting dishes, has been a joy. 





Eating Wild — Episode #5: The Big Apple

Eating Wild — Episode #4: France’s Special Sauce