All You Can Eat

by Cal Y. Pygia

 

I admit that I enjoy fine dining.

I want my table set with silver silverware, linen napkins, and long-stemmed roses. I like to eat off china and drink from crystal. I like champagne, caviar, lobster, shrimp, and filet mignon. I demand prompt, attentive service. After all, as far as anyone knows, we go around only once in life; we may as well live for the moment. We may as well enjoy the best, including expensive meals in superb restaurants.

What's wrong with that?

Nothing, unless you happen, as I did, to forget your purse.

Of course, I was more than a little embarrassed, when it came time to pay the check, to discover that I had neither cash nor a credit card on me. I had left my purse on the table in the entrance hall to my forty-room mansion. Since Malcolm, my chauffeur, drives me everywhere I go, whether to a restaurant, the set, the plastic surgeon's office, or a business appointment, I have no need of keys to the limousine. Consequently, it was only after Malcolm had dropped me off at La Petite Mademoiselle and I had finished my excellent repast that I realized that I'd forgotten my purse. I would have called Malcolm at once, of course, had my cellular telephone not been in my purse, along with the several thousand dollars that I always carry in cash and my platinum American Express card that, alas, I had left home without.

Others might have asked to use the house telephone, but, of course, others do not suffer my predicament. It is quite inconvenient, at times, to be rich and famous. One such nuisance is that everyone watches me and hangs upon my every word. To make a telephone call on the house telephone would have drawn attention, and busybodies would have eavesdropped, even if doing so meant that they had to leave their tables and pretend to visit the powder room or to attend to some other immediate and pressing business. With my cell, I could have found a private spot, but the house telephone is hopelessly public.

Fortunately, I hit upon an idea, during dessert--a superb chocolate mousse. I would simply ask to see the manager. Louis knew me well. I'd been coming to his restaurant for over five years now. We'd never been intimate, although, he's made it clear to me--repeatedly--over the years, that he'd like nothing better than to make love to me, frequently and passionately. It isn't that I find him unattractive. He's married, and I've never been a home wrecker. I've always found inoffensive ways to sidestep both his flirtatious invitations and his more salacious proposals. Nevertheless, we have become close friends--close enough, indeed, for me to have confided my little secret to him, a secret such as I've shared with only few others, male or female. Louis knows that I'm a transsexual, or a shemale--"a chick with a dick," as it is sometimes crudely, but plainly put.

Upon finishing my dessert, I asked to speak to Louis.

"Is anything the matter, Mademoiselle?" the waiter asked, clearly concerned that he had, in some minute way, failed me.

"Not at all," I assured him. "The food was excellent, as always, and your service was impeccable. You deserve to be rewarded handsomely, as you shall be."

He smiled, reassured. "If you will allow me to escort you to the manager's office, I know that Monsieur Strother will be delighted, as always, to see you, Mademoiselle." He held my chair for me as I rose. Then, he offered me his arm, I accepted, and he escorted me to Louis' office, where he knocked at the door.

Upon learning the identity of his visitor, Louis dropped everything, rose from his high-backed, well-upholstered, leather executive's chair, and rounded his rosewood desk, hand extended, to greet me.

I shook his hand, and he nodded to the waiter. "Thank you, Charles," he said, "you may return to your duties now. Please close the door behind you."

"Yes, sir." The waiter did as he had been bidden.

Louis smiled more broadly as his eyes took in my full, firm, high breasts, my narrow waist, and my long, shapely legs. "You're looking lovelier than ever," he complimented me. "To what do I owe this delightful pleasure?"

I blushed, feeling stupid. However, I knew that, if for no other reason, Louis would be understanding and compassionate concerning my embarrassing situation, for he liked me well enough; we were good, even close, if not intimate, friends. Besides, he was well aware of my financial station. As a porno actress, I commanded a good deal more per year in earnings than he or most other businessmen did. In fact, at one time, I had believed Louis to be envious of my fortune, although he had sworn numerous times since that he was not at all resentful; he was pleased with my success. I explained my lapse of memory in having forgotten my purse. "You know I am good for it," I added, "and will send you a check as soon as I return home."

His smile faltered. "We don't take checks," he said.

I thought he was joking, of course, but, then, I noticed, he wasn't smiling. "I'll send Malcolm with cash, then," I promised.

"We don't extend credit, either," Louis declared.

"You aren't serious."

"Oh, but I am. We accept credit cards, of course, but the meal must be paid for at the time of its consumption."

I felt a twinge of irritation. Louis was carrying his jest a little too far. "Surely, you are prepared to make an exception for me," I said.

"I wish I could, Amanda."

"You can," I insisted.

"Alas, it is not my decision. It is a matter already determined by the policy of--"

"Don't give me that! You are the manager of this establishment."

"Yes, but I am bound by--"

"You are bound by nothing! Now, I am losing patience."

"I would like to help you, Mademoiselle."

I was as shocked, almost, at his use of the informal title as I was by his increasingly rude refusal to accommodate me. "'Mademoiselle'?" I repeated. "It is I to whom you are speaking, Louis--Amanda Dee! We've been friends for over five years, and now you act as if you've never met me. I must say, I find your little joke tiring in the extreme. Now, can we--"

At last, Louis smiled as he offered a slight shrug. In a soft, conspiratorial voice, he said, "Perhaps we can reach some sort of accord," he ventured.

I rolled my eyes in exasperation. "Finally!"

"The door is locked," he said. "It is designed to lock upon being closed."

I waited, offering him my most annoyed look.

When he next proposed his solution to my predicament, I slapped him so hard across the face that his flesh reddened and his eyes filled with tears. "How dare you!" I screamed at him.

His eyes narrowed. "Very well," he said coldly, "you leave me no choice, Mademoiselle, but to telephone the police."

"The police? Over a hundred and fifty dollar luncheon?"

He rubbed his cheek. "That, yes, and the battery that you have just now committed against my person."

"Battery?" I shrieked. "You insult me with your vile--"

"I offered you a polite way out of your dilemma," he declared, "and you responded with a violent and unwarranted attack upon me."

"That's your story?"

"That is the truth."

I laughed. "With one huge exception," I objected.

"That, Mademoiselle, is your version of the story."

I spun on my heel, almost charging toward the door.

"The publicity will be terrible," Louis predicted.

I froze.

"The paparazzi will descend upon you like flies."

I thought, He's wrong. My fans wouldn't care if I were charged with not paying a luncheon tab because I'd forgotten my purse. Without turning to face Louis, I said as much.

"I will tell them that you attacked me, trying to kill me," Louis said, his voice calm and soft.

I still hadn't turned toward him. "You'd be lying," I challenged.

"But of course," he admitted, "but it would be your word against mine, and, already, my cheek is beginning to bruise where you struck me."

"Why would I try to kill you over a hundred and fifty dollar luncheon bill?"

"We had words with one another, Amanda, and I insulted you, calling you a wanna-be woman. I questioned your sanity for wanting to be, as I phrased it, sexually mutilated. You became hysterical. You began to beat me. Then, you lunged at me, with this."

I turned. Louis had stepped behind his desk again. He held a silver letter opener in a tissue he'd yanked from the box he kept on his desktop.

Recognizing the instrument, I took a step toward him, demanding, "Where'd you get that?"

He grinned as he held it aloft. "It's yours, all right. You left it here during your last meal with us. Your waiter brought it to me, and I told him I'd see to it that it was returned to you. Instead, I kept it."

"Why?"

"It reminded me of you. Besides, I thought it might come in handy somehow, someday, and, today, it has. It has your fingerprints on it," Louis reminded me, "but not mine."

"You bastard!"

"You left it behind, after trying to stab me."

My shoulders sagged. I let out my breath in a long, slow sigh, Without looking at him, I said, "All right, you win. I'll do as you suggested."

"You will?"

I nodded.

He locked the letter opener back inside the top drawer of his desk. "I don't have all day," he declared.

In my mind, I lunged at him, burying the silver letter opener deep in his black heart. In reality, I took off my clothes and reclined in his oversize executive's chair, my legs spread wide, while he knelt before me.

He kneaded my breasts in his hands, squeezing them and flicking their nipples, before bowing his head over my lap. He kissed my flaccid penis, caressing my balls through the loose, wrinkled pouch of my scrotum.

BASTARD! I thought, wishing the silver letter opener were in my fist, rather than inside the locked desk drawer.

He paused, looking up at me, a sloppy grin on his hated face. "By the way," he told me, "the terms I offered you earlier, which you rejected, have gone up--considerably. For me to overlook your little debt to La Petite Mademoiselle, I won't be satisfied with just one free meal, at your expense." He gave my cock a hard squeeze. "It's going to cost you all I can eat."

Bastard! I thought again, but I said nothing, having no choice but to acquiesce to his demands.

He kissed my balls while he squeezed my penis rapidly in his fist. Like a disobedient traitor, my cock began to stiffen and swell, standing upright. He licked the ripened, purple glans. "Delicious!" he said, salivating, "Absolutely scrumptious!"

  

  

  

*********************************************
© 2004 by Cal Y. Pygia. All Rights Reserved. These documents (including, without limitation, all articles, text, images, logos, and compilation design) may be printed for personal use only. No portion of these documents may be stored electronically, distributed electronically, or otherwise made available without the express written consent of StorySite and the copyright holder.