I got carried away writing this scene for a dirty pen pals prompt. But I haven't heard back from her :(

Maybe you pervs will like it.

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We arrive at Rude Food only three minutes late. Which is really a fantastic showing for us. I'm already livestreaming as we enter the dark little restaurant. I can feel your annoyance as I point my phone at the friendly hostess who takes our reservation and ushers us to the establishment's sole table. I know my streaming annoys people, but what you never seem to understand is that these people are temporary. After our meal, they'll be gone from our lives. But the views. The views are forever.

The maître d' is a tall skinny man in a neat black suite and a bowtie. With a bright red napkin over his arm he ushers us to our seats. Opposite each other across a small table I peek out from behind my phone to smile at you. You show me your teeth and I roll my eyes at how nervous you are. I'm about to tease you for bein such a baby when the maître d' clears his throat.

"Will madams be enjoying one or two tastings this evening?" he asks. His accent is aggressively French and overplayed to the point where I'm positive he has never so much as set foot in France.

I swivel my phone to take him in. "This is our first time here. What do you recommend?"

"Madams may find that sharing a single tasting allows them to best digest the experience." He says and slides a thin tasting menu in front of me.

I don't recognize any of the dishes on offer. And I figure it won't make much difference for the content. So I just sort of check off a random box for each course.

"That's a lot of courses!" you whisper across the table.

"That's how you know it's fancy." I tell you.

As soon as I finish the maître d' whisks away the menu and disappears through some saloon doors. To tell the chef I presume.

"Yeah this place is apparently wild." I continue chattering, half to you and half to my phone, I had to sign a waver to get a booking.

"Really?" you ask. "What kind of stuff was on it?"

"Oh I didn't read it. It was really long."

"That's how you know it's important!" you hiss at me. But you fall silent as the maître d' enters the room accompanied by a shorter broader man who I assume is the chef. I assume he is the chef because he's wearing all white, including a silly white cylinder hat. I make sure my stream gets a good shot of him.

The maître d' sets a small silver serving tray in the center of our otherwise empty table. "For ze appetizer. Oysters fa diablos." He lifts the lid with a flourish. My phone is perfectly positioned to take in the amazing food. But through my screen all I see a gravy boat of vibrant orange sauce. Beside it sit two loops of what look like rough help rope. I look at you and see you're just as confused as me.

"So the oysters are in there?" I ask, pointing at the gravy boat.

The maître d' and the chef say noting. Instead they move swiftly and in unison so grab the loops of rope. And before you or I can process what's happening the maître d' is behind me and the chef is behind you. And they are looping their rope around our respective necks!

"God damn it Amy. This is one of those sex rest-" you yell before the rope is pulled tight, pinning you back against the chair. Your eyes are wild as you grab at the rope. Not that I can judge, I'm doing the same.

I manage to get my hands under the rope. And though the maître d' might as well be a million times stronger than me, I'm able to apply just enough counter pressure that I can still breath. Even if it's difficult.

"Miss Jezebel, we will require your assistance for this course." The maître d' says calmly.

"Of course sir." the hostess answers. She saunters over to us, pausing briefly to pick up my phone. Carefully she sets it on the table, checking the screen a few times to make sure it can a good view of my predicament. At least my followers will know how I died. In fact, snuff films always go viral. So there's a silver lining. "Which madam is enjoying the first course?"

It takes you and I a few moments to realize the question is directed at us. We make eye contact and you do your best to shake your head. We don't know what the first course is, but suddenly it's seeming like something neither of us want. I summon a quick burst of strength and pull the rope away from my throat just a little her. "Her." I manage to croak.

The chef choking you is doing a great job. And I'm not able to make out any distinct syllables. But you seem pretty mad.

The hostess kneels down and, dodging your flailing legs, she grips your skirt by the waistband and pulls. I'm shocked to see your panties come down too! It takes you a moment to notice you're now exposed from the waste down and the maître 'd and I are treated to a full view of your spread pussy as you keep kicking. Once you realize your situation though, you immediately clamp your legs together. Now, instead of flailing, you're sitting as still as you possibly can. Like prey hoping the predator will just find something better to do and move along.

The pretty host girl tries to spread your knees, but you're having absolutely none of it. Until, that is, the chef whispers something in your ear. Your eyes go wide and suddenly, the hostess is able to spread your legs apart. The chef, in some sort of sick trade deal, seems to loosen the garotte.

It seems you're too busy gratefully sucking in air to notice as the hostess between your legs reaches up to pluck the gravy boat off the table. But I watch in horrified fascination as she dips a little brush into the boat and then, carefully, begins to paint your pussy with the thick orange liquid.

"Hot sauce. Made in house of course." The maître 'd intones.

You snap back to reality and the maître 'd and I watch in real time as you face first flushes red as you realize that the pretty hostess girl is nestled between your legs, before it drains of color as your realize what she's just done to you. You start to struggle again but the chef puts a quick stop to it with his rope. All you can do is cringe as the hostess casually paints your sensitive skin with hot sauce.

It's not long after the hostess is finished that the hot sauce starts to work on you. First you squirm, then you sniffle, but soon you're full on begging the men for relief. "Get it off. Please please just get it off. I can't take it anymore. Please please please..." you whimper.

The men ignore you. And the hostess, seemingly without any remorse for her actions, picks up my phone and starts to film your discomfort. I watch the little screen, interested despite myself, as she gets a nice shot of your straining clenched thighs. Soon enough you give up begging and just sort of sit there and sniffle. I try to catch your eye, but you're deliberately avoiding looking at me.

The idea that at least some of this might be a tiny little bit my fault pokes at me. "I think she's had enough." I try cautiously. I brace for the tightening cord around my neck but it doesn't come.

"Does madam wish to offer her friend relief?" the maître d' asks.

"Yes! Yes I would." I answer quickly.

And just as quickly the maître d' is pulling me by my short noose forward off the chair. I follow the noose, so as not to be choked, and wind up on all fours in front of you. I eye your clenched and shaking knees, unsure of how me being on all fours is supposed to be any sort of relief to you.

"Madam should open her legs to receive the relief." The maître d' intones in the same bored voice.

Oh. I understand now.

You look down at me, but then immediately away. "Amy," you say, "I'm going to do it. I'm sorry. It just hurts too much." And you open your legs for me.

I know what's coming now and I let the maître d' guide me in. As much as we might have teased boys into thinking otherwise, you and I had never had any sort of sexual relationship. But here I am, not an inch from your pussy, cautiously reaching out my tongue to start cleaning you.

Your wine of anguished shame as my tongue first touches you startles me into stopping. But you immediately beg me to continue. "Please get it all off." are the words you use.

As I do my work the hot sauce works on me too. My own eyes get teary and my nose starts to dribble. I can't image how awful it must be for you. But in a few minutes I've made good progress. From under its coat of orange goo your pussy emerges.

"Oh my god. Don't look!" you squeal at me.

"But I have to see where the sauce is." I apologize.

You hide your face in your hands. The nooses around our necks are slack now. But it never occurs to us to run.

When my cleaning is complete we're sat back in our seats. I look at you, snotty running nose, tear streaked makeup, and sweaty brow. You don't look much like the girl who came in here twenty minutes ago. I don't imagine I look much better.

"Ze next course please my good chef." the maître d' orders...