Release Date: [08/2/2046]

Host: Jonathan Whittaker

[Intro Music Intro fades in, swells, and fades into Big Band Jazz, the sounds of vehicles, talking people, and industry, then the sound of tires on wet pavement. ]

I am in the city that never sleeps and the sounds of traffic, of bustling people, of car horns and trains and garbage trucks fill the air on West 46th Street. It has rained recently and everything is wet, so that practically every surface glitters distractingly. I do not need a map to find my destination. The mouthwatering scents are guide enough. 

Rows of what look like apartments line the street, but the ground level of each is a restaurant and I find the similarity to L'Étoile Dorée on the Rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré to be almost planned. There is an old world homage going on here in Hell’s Kitchen and I wonder if the French know about it. Americans are the quintessential cultural adapters. Or thieves, depending on your perspective. Their language, while called “English”, is actually an evolving cacophony of stolen verbiage from every known form of spoken word. All that was required was that it appealed to the colonial heathens. It is why a biscuit is a cookie and chips are fries. Quite confusing. They treat culinary art the same way, taking the best of every culture and fusing it, adapting it, perverting it if you will, into something that becomes more than the sum of its original parts. 

I cannot argue with it. Their food is bloody amazing. Even if they call the lift an “elevator.”

I open the door to a restaurant called “Clove and Belly.” It is considered to be one of New York’s most prestigious eating establishments. I am greeted first and foremost by a tremendous glass case that sits in the foyer. It is well lit and stretches from the black and white parquet floor to the ceiling. Inside stands a woman, legs spread so that her toes barely touch the glass walls, her arms lifted above her head, both wrists secured in a pair of what appears to be gold manacles. She is absolutely stunning, long beautiful black hair, white alabaster skin, not a freckle or blemish on her skin. She glistens in the light and I realize that she has been oiled, every inch of her. Her breasts are overly large for her frame, which is how Americans like their women. My eyes flicker to the clamps upon her breasts, and the matching one on her clit. They are... impressive. I see gleaming copper, rubber, metal and beneath each clamp hangs a strangely shaped pendant. A black leather band encircles her right thigh, so high up that it is almost touching the petals of her sex. Tucked into the band is another pendant, a wire emerging and then snaking its way up to her slit, disappearing into the pink wetness. 

In front of the glass case, on a short pedestal, is a simple control panel with just two buttons. Both are of equal size, though one glows with a verdant emerald hue, while the other glitters like fire. The girl’s eyes track me as I stop and look at the buttons, and her chest begins to heave. She shakes her head desperately and begins speaking, but I cannot hear her. The case must be sound proofed. She mouths a word when she sees my inquisitive look and I understand. With a shrug, I do as she asks. 

Evidently the green button activates a fluctuating wave of vibrators and sonic pulsing that feels incredible because the girl practically swoons. A shudder flows through her form, rippling from her toes to her breasts. Waves of acute pleasure wash over her and she moans, eyelids fluttering, eyes rolling up into the back of her head. The entire experience lasts almost ten seconds and then she gasps, slumping, chest heaving. To my shock, I realize that she has orgasmed. Fresh fluids coat her thighs. Slowly her eyes track back up, focusing and she gives me a wane smile and says “thank you.” 

So I press the red button. 

Instantly I know she is screaming. Her body arches violently and her back arches. She rises up on tiptoe, every muscle in her body tensing. Her hips thrust forward and her jaw has clenched. Eyes closed, she thrashes against unseen pains. The next ten seconds are an eternity for her and when she relaxes, I see the tears flowing down her cheeks. She looks at me and I see a flicker of hatred. Were she not bound and behind glass, I would fear for my life. So I press the red button again, leaving her to fry and sizzle in the case as I move toward the greeter.

Like the girl in the case, the woman standing at the hostess station is beautiful. She is tall, blonde, and opals glitter at her ears. A black lace choker draws my eye to her throat, though her impressive cleavage becomes the next visual destination. Her dress is made of a black mesh that leaves absolutely nothing to the imagination. Not the hardness of her pierced nipples, the tiny dip of her navel, the smooth flat surface of her belly, the shaved beauty of her mons, or the protruding nub of her clitoris. She hands me off to another stunning girl, a few years younger, except she is wearing nothing but a similar choker. She is adorably cute, but probably just a touch younger than my usual preference. I wonder if she will one day be an ingredient served. It doesn’t matter. Her bright smile and glittering eyes are enough. My eyes however are drawn to her bare breasts, where a familiar set of clamps cling to her nipples. They are the same as the ones on the girl in the glass case. I spot a similar clamp attached to her clitoris. The waitress turns and as I follow, I can’t help noticing the plug through the mesh dress, deep in her ass.

The restaurant is a half circle, with the kitchen forming the flat end, though I suspect most of the cooking is not done on the two large prepping counters set to either side. Indeed, there are a pair of heavy stainless steel swinging doors on either side of a pair of giant ovens, leading to more kitchen. As I am seated, my attention goes to one of the ovens. A large readout shows the temperature, set to three-hundred and seventy-five. My brain converts this to Celsius. One hundred and ninety degrees. The front door is opaque and the light inside is on, giving me an astonishingly clear view of the girl, bound inside. She is on her back, thumbs bound to her toes, knees bent, legs spread, hair caught in a heat-proof bag. A simmering apple is jammed into her mouth, a thin steel wire holding it in place like a gag. The air inside the oven shimmers with heat and even without seeing the crisping darkness of her lovely skin, I know that she has expired. My mouth waters.

The waitress places a small, plastic box on the table next to me. Two buttons. Red and green. 

Waitress: If you need me, just press this red button at the top. If you think I’ve provided you phenomenal service, just press this green one. What can I get you to drink, Master?

My eyebrow goes up and my hand hovers over the box, finger poised half-way between stop and go. She stands there, her smile almost wooden and I can see just a touch of fear in her eyes. I ask the question. What if the service is lacking? She points to the red button again and I nod. She braces herself, as if expecting debilitating pain. Then I press the green button.

Her entire body tightens instantly and for a second I think she will collapse into my arms. She shudders, the rippling pleasure surging through her. It is so intense that she is forced to brace herself on the table and I am absolutely sure that her cunt is dripping. Slowly she fights back toward focus and then she gives me an absolutely adorable look. I smile, give her my drink order, and watch her hurry off. I suspect service at the Clove and Belly is rarely problematic. 

I have ordered a Johnny Walker to start off with and the waitress returns with my whiskey and a glass of ice water. Then she disappears. A moment later she places a spinach salad with apple vinaigrette in front of me. As I taste the fresh baby spinach with apple slices, toasted walnuts, and a tart apple cider dressing, the girl that was in the glass case out front is led into the restaurant proper. 

She is not as tall as I thought her to be and I realize that the case flooring distorted my perceptions. She is no longer wearing the clamps on her nipples or clit, but the leather band around her thigh is still in place, as is the wire going to her pussy. Her hands are bound, this time with nothing more than rope and she is brought to the very front of the cooking area. She glances around and for a moment our eyes lock, but that flicker of anger and hatred I saw is gone. She is terrified. And sad. One of the attendants reaches for the steel cable and hook, only to lift her hands upward. A moment later the winch above her retracts and her arms are hauled upward, lifting and stretching her until her toes are pointed, barely touching the floor. Another attendant comes forward with two leather floggers, handing one off to his compatriot. And thus, standing on either side of the girl, they begin the tenderization process. 

The waitress is beyond attentive, because as I finish my salad, trying hard not to give into the desire to lick the plate, she shows up, scooping the dish away while setting another small serving in front of me. This time it is an apple and cheese crostini, formed of toasted bread slices with a creamy mixture of brie and goat cheese. I favor this approach as I frequently find the pungent flavor of goat cheese to be overly strong. This is perfect and combined with the light apple-pomegranate salsa makes for a crisp, festive bite.

Which is what the whips are doing. Each leather flogger contains over a dozen supple leather thongs and they bite into the girl’s skin with each harsh blow. One attendant seems focused solely on her breasts, slashing and beating her heavy globes with almost manic focus. The other man is slashing his flogger across her buttocks, occasionally targeting the backs of her thighs. She endures the first dozen or so blows stoically, heroically even, but then the pain overwhelms her and she begins crying out, sobbing as the hurt shoots through her slight frame. Soon her bosom is a rosy shade of pink and I have no doubt her ass matches that color. 

Out in the kitchen, one of the chefs is at the stove, sauteing shallots. Even as the whips continue to crackle against the skin of the girl hanging, he adds bourbon. In another pan, I watch as he melts butter, adds smashed garlic and a heaping handful of herbs. The butter foams and smells nutty. He pulls it from the heat and sets it aside. 

The two attendants continue the whipping, though they have now moved to other parts of her body. Thighs, calves, back. But despite these new targets I am pleased to see them still continuously go back to give her breasts or bottom another stinging lash. She shrieks, twitching and jerking as her skin is excoriated and now I am beginning to see individual welts, lines of soft carmine appearing on her stomach and thighs. The floggers move up and down her back, along her legs, even to her calves and her head thrashes side to side as the pain ripples through her bound and stretched form. I wonder how much she can take when one of the attendants grabs her right leg by the ankle and lifts it up, almost to shoulder height. It creates the perfect target and his partner wastes no time in leaving over a dozen, blistering blows straight to the girl’s glisten sex. 

My waitress hovers. The second I take a sip from my glass of water she refills it. My whiskey glass still has two or three sips left and a second appears. And when I catch her eye and point under the table, she gets on her knees and goes beneath the table cloth immediately. Her fingers find my erection and I help her expose the rigid cock beneath the material of my trousers. Her mouth surrounds my manhood.

It is not the best oral sex I have ever had, but it suffices. As the girl from the glass case is beaten until she is the color of a lobster, my cock throbs until I groan with release. It is here that the waitress fails. She is unprepared for my eruption and coughs, spraying my loins with a mixture of saliva and jism. She cleans me quickly, but even she knows this qualifies as poor performance. She emerges out from under the table, an apologetic, almost horrified look on her face. We both glance at the button and she nods, clearly knowing she deserves it. 

Her yelp of agony is almost as loud as the sounds coming from the girl in the glass case. One arm clutches her breasts, the other hand shoots down to her pussy. She grimaces in pain, her body jerking violently as the electrical shocks course across her nipples and clit. In a flash I know what I want and I press the green button. Evidently the system is designed so that both pain and pleasure can be experienced at once. The waitress shrieks, pitches forward and I catch her just in time to keep her from landing on my appetizer. I pull her into my lap and feel her body twitching uncontrollably. Before the sensations end, I hit both buttons a second time and shove my right hand down between her legs. I feel the wetness, then the powerful squirt. How deliciously naughty. As she shudders in ecstasy, I give the green button a few more taps, just to push her back into sexual desperation.

Down in the kitchen, the chefs move to the occupied oven and with heavy hand protectors, pull the tray from the heated depths. Instantly the scent of cooked meat fills the dining area and my mouth waters as the girl inside is carried forth. Her eyelids are closed and sunken. The tray is set aside to allow the meat to rest and it forms a unique backdrop to the tenderizing still being done to the girl from the glass case. 

The whipping is done, as is my waitress, and I push her off my lap. She collapses in a heap on the floor next to my chair, shuddering as the after effects of the multi-orgasmic wave slowly subsides. Fluids seep from her pussy and If the waitress doesn’t master herself soon, she won’t notice that I have finished my appetizer and the plate needs to be taken away. I will feel obligated to press the red button then.

At the cooking station, the whipped girl is carried limp and half-conscious, and placed upon a huge steel tray. One of the sous chefs bag her long brunette locks and then using cooking twine, binds the girl’s thumbs to her big toes. It forces her to spread her legs, exposing her luscious, flushed, freshly whipped slit. The wire is pulled from her cunt and I see a massive vibrating sex toy. This is removed, as is the strap around her thigh, and one of A&E’s cooking vibes is inserted into her sex. Her hips thrust slightly. 

Then comes the basting. I believe it is the hot, melted butter and herbs and she mewls, her face wincing as the golden liquid is poured down upon her bust and then spread with a brush. The tips of her breasts harden and soon she glistens, every inch of her body coated. The chef takes extra care between her legs, working her clitoris and even pushing into her sex, down her perineum, and to her ass. I’m not worried. I know she has been processed and cleaned, and stuffed. For all intents and purposes, it has already ended. 

I press the red button and on the floor beside me, the waitress shrieks, her body jerking as her eyes snap open in pain. Her heels thump on the floor for a few seconds and I can only imagine what it feels like to have the sharp voltage streaming across her nipples and clit. Eventually she shudders as the electricity ceases. She gulps, eyes wide, her chest heaving, and she gets to her feet, looking at me fearfully. I tap my empty plate and she grabs it quickly, darting off. 

Down in the kitchen, an apple is wedged between the teeth of the basted girl and the long wire wrapped around her head. Then a bracket, which I had not noticed on the girl taken from the oven, is secured around her neck. It holds her down to the tray, restricting her movement to mere inches. Two more metal straps are looped around her knees, ensuring her spread open position is maintained. Her skin is seasoned, salt and pepper and garlic fall upon her body until her skin looks dimpled and crusted. A heat-proof bag is filled with her hair and then one of the chefs holds up a needle. The thumb of his freehand pulls the girl’s eyelid up and I watch in fascination as he lowers the tip, closer and closer. She screams in panic.

I understand. Eyeballs in an oven results in a dramatic battle between expanding liquid and shrinking tissue.  The best method to prevent them from exploding as the gelatinous fluid, called vitreous humor, turns to steam and expands outward, is to provide an escape vent. The needle goes in and then comes out rapidly and her eyes clamp shut. Bloody tears stream down her cheek and the chef goes to her other eye, prying it open. She shrieks, pleading and begging, fighting him, only to lose. She opens her one working eye only to see the dropping needle. It digs in and she jerks, her throat locking up, only to relax into unconsciousness, overwhelmed by the bitter pain. I suspect that she has gone into neurogenic shock. She is carried to the oven. 

The temperature indicator shows a mere seventy-two degrees Fahrenheit. Room temperature. She is slid in and the light comes on above her. They shut her in and her head turns, revealing that she has regained consciousness. Her eyes remain shut, her mouth moving, dulled and muted sounds of her shouting. I watch as the chef turns the dial and the number on the temperature gauge increases. Heat washes over her and she struggles. I watch as her breasts heave and heave. The temperature hits a hundred and continues to climb. She sobs, bloody tears flowing down her face, to her neck. At one hundred and four she stops moving and even her breathing is barely perceptible. A minute later, when the oven reaches one hundred and seven, she stops respirating and her body is cooking. Her agony is over.

And my ecstasy soon begins. 

The chefs begin carving up the resting girl, taken from the oven just twenty minutes before. She is plated, strips of succulent meat resting next to roasted garlic and herbed mashed potatoes, broccoli rabe, just barely blackened on the edges, and then covered with a maple bourbon cream sauce.  

The waitress brings me my dish and as I dig in, she once again disappears under the table, this time of her own volition, and I am treated to equal simultaneous delights, both gastronomical and sexual. The food is succulent, a masterclass in contrasting textures and balanced flavors, a comforting, upscale twist on classic American comfort food. The meat is the centerpiece, having spent hours slow-roasting in the oven. The interior meat is exceptionally tender, juicy, and falls apart at the touch of my fork, while the outside boasts a deep mahogany, shatteringly crisp bark seasoned with cracked black pepper, seat salt, and caramelized garlic. The meat is complimented by the garlic mashed potatoes, serving as a rich, velvety bed. The potatoes have been whipped almost as much as the girl now in the oven, glassy smooth and heavy with cream and melted butter. They are infused with slow-roasted garlic and offer a sweet-savory depth rather than a sharp bite. 

And while I love the Broccoli Rabe, sautéed quickly in olive oil with slivers of toasted garlic and red pepper flakes so that it cuts beautifully through the richness of the meat, it is the maple bourbon cream sauce, drizzled generously over the meat and pooling slightly into the mashed potatoes, that binds the entire plate together. It leads with the oaky, smoky punch of bourbon, mellows into the warm sweetness of pure maple syrup, and finishes with a velvety, rich cream base that tempers the alcohol.

I am rock hard. And very full. I put down my napkin with a sigh of satisfaction and instead of pushing the waitress away, I press the button on the controller. I realize only belatedly that tapping red with my cock in her mouth is probably not the wisest choice, but evidently she is trained properly and I survive the experience with my genitalia intact. She emerges, shaking from the shocks, sees my empty plate, and takes it away. I watch her cute little ass sway back and forth and know exactly what I want for dessert. 

She returns with a square of chocolate heaven. It towers three inches tall and is formed of multiple layers, starting with a biscotti crumble at the bottom. From there comes a rich, fudgy ganache, a toffee layer, a chocolate mouse, some sort of thin chocolate cake, a light chocolate cream, and then another ganache mousette topped with a toasted almond. Before she can turn away, I press the green button and the waitress trembles. I slide my chair outward and pull her into my lap. The head of my cock brushes against her slit and it is nothing to guide her into position. Her warmth engulfs me and I press the button again, this time feeling the intense vibrations of the clitoral clamp against my loin. My member jerks inside her as she trembles. 

I reach up, remove one of the clamps from her breast, and replace it with a huge smear of chocolate delight. My mouth comes down on her nipple, sucking and licking, the flavor of her skin mixing with the sweetness of the dessert, and I press the green button over and over. She is quivering and shaking, gasping and moaning as I have my dessert. I try to time my climax to finishing the sweet delight in front of me, but fail and as I turn to granite, throbbing at the pinnacle of climax, I once more press the button to feel her tightness lock down upon me, finger tapping over and over the crimson circle.

She screams as I cum inside her and I hold my finger down on the button until I am done, locked tight in my embrace. 

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