The Bishounen Diaries

Just another sunny day. I decided to head out to get some French food. I don’t even know what I wanted, I just felt like digesting some refinement. The taxi driver found me a place not 3 blocks down the main street. I could sit outside under an umbrella, sip some cool milk tea and take in the atmosphere.

My waitress came out to me a second time, asking if I was ready to order yet. I hadn’t even looked at the menu, I was just enjoying the air and the mood. She was a bit mature to be busting tables, but she didn’t look like she took any shame from it. Kind of plain, but her smile set her face off, still a 4.5 at best. I picked up the menu as I dropped my sunglasses on the table.

“No, thank you, I haven’t even looked at the menu yet. My apologies.” I added a laugh to lighten the lack of tact.

“Wait, aren’t you Gen Boshi?”

“On TV, yes, but you can call me Yori.”

“Ahh well, I think I might have a treat for you. Let me bring it out while you decide what’s for dinner.”

“That is awfully nice of you, I’ll have to make sure to tip well.”

She dashed inside with more happiness than a middle-aged woman should have. Her spirit might just bump her up to a 5, that light hearted charisma breathes fresh air into the surrounding people.

The menu was written in French. Only pictures of the breads, and I had no clue how to even ask for what I didn’t know I was getting. The woman’s appetizer would have to do while I waited to make an educated guess at something refined.

She bustled out with a small wavy glass dish with a cream substance in it.

“There you are, I have another table to attend to I’ll be back shortly.”

“Excuse me, but might I ask what it is?”

“Oh, it’s a Gelato, pistachio to be specific.”

“Wonderful” I didn’t know if she heard me she turned so fast. Diligent, too. It was good to see she didn’t give an actor too much preference over her more faithful customers.

I give up, I’ll have to ask her what she recommends, I have no hope of understanding this menu. The Gelato was delicious though, even if at the end of it I seemed to taste Aspirin. It had to be the flavor of the dish.

She came back to me soon enough, and gave an expectant look with pencil and paper-pad in hand. I thought I’d get her reaction from the honest humility of someone in the fame.

“I’m sorry I don’t know French and I have no idea what I would be ordering, what do you recommend?”

“Oh! Well, I suppose there aren’t many images of the food, why don’t you come inside and I’ll give you a look at some of the things we have to offer.”

“How kind.” And unorthodox, she really took her job seriously. Being hospitable like this, she must be a good mother.

Inside she began to wave me around other table-busters, pointing out and naming a dish here and there, then she brought me right into the kitchen.

“If you’ll come right over here, I can show you what dish you want based on the meat in it.”

I felt faint at the knees. Everything went dark.

I came to and I was leaning up against some firm bag. Flour or something. Across from me hung a few racks of meat and cheese. It was a storage cellar. I wasn’t alone either. Across from me sat a red haired girl who looked strikingly like the waitress. Where was she?

“Oh, you’re awake.” The girl said. She grabbed a bell and rang it in her hand. I felt a bit weak, and I was just sitting there on the floor, propped up. Something warm on my lap.

The door opened and the waitress came in and set down two goblets and poured some wine. There was a table over my lower half and it had a platter on it. It was all very weird and out of place. I was hungry though.

“Now, I’m sure the both of you will mind your manners.” The waitress said before lifting the lid from the platter. It was a mound of spaghetti and meatballs. She set out some chopsticks on either side of the table and then headed out of the room.

“Make sure to treat her well Yori, she was looking after you all through her lunch break.”

“How long was I out?” I asked the girl.
“That’s not proper dinner conversation, you’re okay now, so let’s enjoy.”

I was still fading into reality, but more and more seemed to be out of place. I reached for my chopsticks. Maybe not the wine, but the food would bring me back a bit faster. It did smell delicious, and it was so warm in my lap. The table didn’t cover the girl’s lap, which didn’t make sense.

My arms were bound. They wouldn’t move. They were behind my back. Maybe they just fell asleep. Conversation then to buy time while they woke up. I shifted my weight around a bit to see if that would help, but all it did was jostle the table. The girl gave me a look of warning.

“Sorry, just getting comfortable.” I replied. “Don’t you traditionally use a fork for spaghetti and meatballs? Makes them easier to pick up?”

“Yeah, if you want to poke them and be uncivilized. Pinching them gently seems much more sophisticated.” She paused as she pushed into the pile with her chopsticks in illustration. I felt a sharp tug. “Don’t you agree?”

I couldn’t help but fight an uncomfortable look on my face as she pulled her face towards her chopsticks. It looked like there was more of a dumpling between them than a meatball, and it wasn’t coming loose from the pile either.

Her table manners were lost when she opened her mouth and put it over the dumpling, still on the plate. Then things got warmer. Ugh, it’s all so strange. She didn’t even eat the meatball, she pushed it back out of her mouth and sat up to wipe her face off.

“Now wouldn’t a fork just be rude?” She commented. I started to feel a bit cooler down there as I looked at the spaghetti and the dumpling. The mound seemed to move. I could almost feel it. I could feel it.

A mesh of noodles shifted themselves to the side as I saw my self exposed and erect in the middle of the plate of spaghetti. It wasn’t a meatball it was one of my balls!

“What the fuck-”I was cut off by a swift slap from across the table.

“Manners, don’t talk dirty at the table or I’ll wash your mouth out.”

My hands were definitely bound I could feel them now. The girl took another mouthful of spaghetti looking at me for reaction. I’m sure I looked shocked. Out of it all I felt a sick need to ease the tension.

“A fork is uncivilized.” I agreed. Silence was probably my best option as a hostage.

She looked up at me and then moved to the main course. She coiled the spaghetti around me and dove in on top of it. She swallowed the long strands dragging them across my length as she worked me over with her tongue.

The sickness that would make this appeal to man or woman escaped me, but the fire in her eye told me she’d planned this out for some time. Maybe not with me but with some victim.

I shivered as she continued and let out a gasp of discomfort. Then, as if she had no trouble clearing her mouth of obstruction she stopped and looked up at me.

“It seems someone knows how to sit up straight at the dinner table, why don’t you give it a try?”

She worked predominantly with her hands now, saving her mouth for the dumplings. I’m sure if there weren’t a plate of pasta in my lap what she had could pass for skill. I was orange from the tomato sauce, adding to the alien feel of what was happening.

She took up her task with vigor, so I figured if I tried to wiggle my self around she might not notice. I couldn’t budge much at all. And now I could tell that my ankles had some sort of restraint on them. They were tied, individually, not to anything, but tight at the tendon. I couldn’t move them without sharp pain. Reality.

She then spoke directly into my microphone between her hands. “You are the pinnacle of etiquette, your father could learn from you.”

I’m sure I rendered her a puzzled look.

“You stay relatively quiet and you know how to enjoy a meal, your father just seems confused.” She was speaking to my microphone.

A few more firm tugs and I began to understand what she was talking about. No matter how bizarre this was, I was performing like she wanted. Well, my “son” was. Another uncomfortable gasp let her know she was hitting just the right spot.

“So, for the main course, we’ll have another dinner guest joining us.”

I could only assume she was talking about the waitress that brought me in here and served me up on a platter. I looked towards the door. I guess I’d get to find out if my guess at a 5 was right. Strange how sick humor eases an ailing situation along.

“No, no, no, my little girl won’t be using that door.” The girl sat up to her knees and lifted her work skirt. She was pantiless and her girl was there for the world to see. “ I suppose introductions are in order.”

She stood up and tied her skirt up across her midsection, keeping it out of the way. She meant to actually rape me now. I never imagined, a girl raping a man.

“Boy meet girl. Girl Meet boy.” And then she squatted down and spread her lips open briefly. Somehow it seemed like a curtsey of a gesture. “What a wonderful dinner pair you two will make.”

She pressed herself on to me and it felt like I was in the spaghetti again, only with a lot more pressure. The girl began to take large gulps at the table then, sending a spike of awkward happiness through my spine intermittently.

This couldn’t be sanitary. This girl grinding on me with a plate of half-eaten spaghetti between us. I’m sure she wasn’t much for being clean though, especially in the head. I looked up from the crimson melee in my lap to find she was still rather calm and composed, staring at me with unblinking eyes. I could see youth in them. Exactly what age was this girl? How do I explain this to the authorities? I would ask her, but I know it wouldn’t be proper table etiquette to ask a ladies age. It’s never proper anytime.

Ahh! I can’t believe I’m playing her game, she’s in my head!

Another tug began to pull my focus out from the future to the present. My son had eaten too much and was about to give back to the table. I let out an inhuman groaning noise. I guess that’s what happens when you have no concentration at climax. I can only imagine what my face looked like, thank god she didn’t have glasses. I wouldn’t ever have to know.
I would have nightmares. I’ll still have nightmares.

“That’s the buzzer, desert’s done.” And she popped right off of me as the first wave of Gelato was sent up the line. She dropped back and grasped me with one hand, and held her hair back with the other.

The shot hit it’s mark with her mouth open at a modest breadth. It and each of the following shots found their way to the roof of her mouth, which she cleaned off and swallowed.

“Mmm, pistachio, but it tastes out of season.”