The Count of Monte CristoChapter 58 M Noirtier de Villefort
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Time For Dinner free porn video
The new diner was an old Rout-Master, its sign:
Savor the Meal: Where Time Holds Still
“Mike, I haven’t seen this dinner before. Catchy name, what do ya think,” said Jamie.
“It’s got to be dedicated to that TV show. The windows look like call boxes. Let’s have a seat and I’ll buy us coke floats,” Mike replied.
The waiter, wearing an apricot scarf and a leisure suit, handed a menu to each of them.
“You’re two fine looking young lads, hope you’re having a good day. Read’m over and let me know when you’re ready.”
“Thanks sir,” Mike replied.
“Names Warren and Carly is the cook, call when you’re ready.”
The menus they were given had three sections: Past, Present, and Chary.
“What the heck does that mean,” said Jamie.
Mike signaled the waiter. “Warren, there is no food on the menu, just the names of people.”
“The names are the meal. It has to do with how the food is prepared. For the Past, the food is made like it was back then. Same ingredients and cooking methods. The Present is using today’s ingredients and methods,” Warren told them.
“I’m Jamie and my friend here is Mike. What does chary mean,” Jamie said.
“Those meals could be disagreeable, depending on your palate. You eat the same food as Past but experience more of the essence that was involved in its…creation. It could be said it’s a more spicy and hot meal. Are you ready to order?”
“You order, Jamie, I'm still deciding.”
“Okay, Warren, does the meal include drinks?”
“The meal includes everything except dessert. When you’re ready to eat, ring this bell, when you want a dessert, ring it again.”
“So, Chary is the spicier meal?”
“You bet.”
“I'll have the Alphonse Francois, Chary.”
“An excellent choice. Mike, are you ready to order?”
“Yea, I'll get the Margarita Cansino, also Chary.”
“It's so rewarding to see young men with great taste.”
The two looked at each other, rang their bells and disappeared.
Jamie’s Meal
I appeared in a room. Three young women, possibly teenagers, nude, save for an eye mask. Each bound to a large ottoman, their legs splayed open, crying. There were an older man and a lady, also naked, having sexual relations with the girls. Is this a porno set?
The man turned to me, spoke French, but I understood him.
“Constance, your friend is awake. Please this middle one is for you. Select your pleasure.” He gestured at a table, where I saw whips, a lone large feather and various sanguine knives.
“Alphonse made the chocolate glazed partridge himself and it's excellent,” Constance said.
Where the hell am I?
I’m wearing only a silk shirt. The chocolate sauce looks palatable, though my stomach is in flux. I force down a mouthful, followed by some wine. Their pubescent caterwauling wins. My stomach’s spoiled contents empty onto the floor.
“Wash it out and come, she awaits your pleasure,” says Alphonse
I take the feather.
“She is but a girl.”
“She’s bled and is a woman,” said Constance.
Alphonse and Constance are impatient with me.
I run the feather, slowly, up one side of her body across her neck and down the other side.
She quivers and gasps.
I shiver as I realize…that was enjoyable!
I run the quill end of the feather up the inside of her legs and across her pubic hair, above her pussy. Again, she quivers...in pleasure.
“Constance, he’s a natural, is it that I might learn from him?”
The unreasoning of my actions is abhorrent. Yet they feel sown to my soul.
Alphonse and Constance pleasure themselves with their objects. Mine speaks.
“Upon the ramparts of your eyes I see your good nature. Allow me to pleasure you as is natural for a woman to pleasure a man. I could use my mouth if you so choose good sir.”
There’s a loud noise of something breaking. The servants yell, “The Committee. Robespierre!”
A squad of armed soldiers entered led by a well-dressed man.
“The Marquis de Sade’, Alphonse. You’re under arrest. Who’s this young fellow with you?”
He frees each girl, mine whispers to him.
“Take the Marquis and Constance to the Bastille, you good sir, may have dessert.”
I ring my bell.
“Well done, young man, you ate like it was the eve of the battle of Hastings,” Warren says.
“I did, I guess.”
“You emptied your plate. You had chocolate glazed Partridge. Then White chocolate and garlic covered Brussels sprouts and brown sugar glazed sweet potatoes. The speed at which you ate, dwarfed most.”
“I ate all that?”
“Sure, did and I heard your bell, ready for dessert? It’s Chocolate Trifle.”
“Sure.”
“Coming right up.”
A few minutes later a large feather is dropped in front of me.
“I believe you dropped this.”
“You were in my dream. But how…”
“Rather ostentatious, dreaming of me, before we’re properly introduced. I’m Anne Prospere and we have plans.”
Mike’s Meal
I’m in a suite with at least forty people. All are richly dressed. One of the best-looking women I’d ever seen is shaking my arm.
“Dear, come with me. I’ll introduce you.”
She’s wearing a partial see-through dress, sequins splayed throughout. This lady is very familiar. She brings me to a separate table.
“Aly, this is the man who named that drink for my lonesome self. Dear, this is my fiancé, Prince Aly Khan. This lady, who’s even now undressing you, is Pamela Harriman.”
“Please, call me Pamela. Would you name a drink after me?”
My thoughts are confused, what should I say? What should I do?
“Pamela, I’ve just met you. I need to spend some time with you first.”
“Prince Aly, Rita’s friend and I are going for a walk on the beach, to enjoy the moon.”
She grabs a champagne bottle, entwines her arm in mine, as we walk out of the room and head for the beach. We see a rowboat on its side, and she leads me to it. In a few minutes, we’re naked and she’s giving me a blow job. This rich lovely lady spoiled me for an hour, with the best sex I ‘d ever had. We returned to the party and I make her that drink.
“Your drink Pamela is called Sex on the Beach.”
They all clapped and wanted one.
We danced, drank, walked and talked. Then we visited the gardens and a bedroom. The servers brought us foods whose names I couldn’t pronounce. I was Charles Brandon and Pamela, my Mary Tudor, standing on the castle’s ramparts after our wedding.
“Tell me my dearest, who are you? When we toasted the king, you said ‘long may she reign,” Pamela said.
“A slip of the tongue, brought on by excessive Champagne.”
“Your tongue never slipped earlier, dearest.”
“Nor yours or your attentions,” I hand her a bell.
“The unreasoning of my leaving. Please dearest, ring my bell, one last time.”
She did, I left.
“So, what did you think of the food,” Warren asked.
“Uh? Oh, I guess I was pretty good, what did I eat?”
“Your dinner was Shrimp & Lobster Bisque. Mince Meat Pie with Escargot and Tomato, Cucumber and Scallion salad.”
“I must have dreamed it or gone to the restroom.”
“You never left your seat. Your dessert will be brought right away.”
For a few minutes, I relived what had happened. Was it real or a dream?
“Here’s your Champagne Syllabub, and your ostentatious silver bell.”
I look up at the familiar voice.
“Pamela! How?”
“I was eating at the other counter. You left very quickly. Tonight is Whit Monday’s Eve and you’ve still a bell you’ve yet to ring.”
Epilogue
As the two couples left,
“Warren, you did fine, they’re in love.”
“Carly, you loved me more than I loved you.”
“Dear, love has no scale, pecuniary or balance. You either are or aren’t.”
“Love’s jargon says differently; Gold Digger, Cougar, May-December, oh and Sugar Daddy, all done by scale.”
“Wrong Warren, it’s a total eclipse of the sun, like clouds in your coffee, a heartbeat is a love beat.”
“Whatever. What’s our next stop?”
“Upstate New York, a guy wants to become a writer.”
“You’ll have him write a love song for you and me.”
“With tenderness and feeling.”
Alma
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