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FICTION — French Restaurant


“Oh, but of course, mademoiselle, we have a table for one, reserved and waiting for you.” Maurice hung up the phone and smiled, gazing around his restaurant; for today was Wednesday, and he would take no other reservations for luncheon.


As the proprietor of a fine dining establishment, Maurice took the utmost pride in presentation, all table cloths were carefully starched and draped, smoothed to hang just so from the round tables, and silverware polished and placed with precision – and the glasses, oh how the crystal sparkled in the soft candlelight.

Maurice was a man with an eye to detail and high expectations of both his staff and his customers. Riff raff would not be tolerated in this establishment; no, not here – luncheon was served between the hours of one and four o’clock daily, with the dinner hour commencing at six sharp. Those hours alone kept out those looking for a casual meal or a quick snack; for Maurice was a man who believed in taking his time in all things – fine dining especially.

Yet, never a man to be idle, Maurice was a man of unsurpassed vigor and energy; small and wiry, and – as they say – well into a certain age. He carried a tray laden with steaming entrees with a quick step and sure muscle, only silvered temples hinted at his years; and the laugh lines that crinkled with merriment when he greeted familiar guests and welcomed new ones – well, those spoke to his solid character and honesty.

Like a fine wine, age had served him well.

His vigor was not to be denied, not was his energy, during the luncheon, it was Maurice himself who frequently acted as both server and maître d’ while the chef and sous chef laboured away in the kitchen. Maurice was a man who favoured a personal touch, greeting his guests warmly, with his light hand to the elbow as he guided guests to their tables – most of the time, such guidance was not needed, as the guests knew their way across his floors as well as he, ordering from the menus and wine lists unseen, but out of memory.

Filet of sole, sautéed in butter and scallions, and garnished with a light cream sauce, tenderness penetrating flaky flesh. Or perhaps one preferred le sauce vin blanc – he would be more than happy to oblige.

As a main, then, could he suggest poulet poele à l’estragon, succulent roasted chicken with tarragon – and then to drink, one could only sip sauvignon blanc. Or, for something heartier, perhaps gigot de pre-sale roti – roast leg of lamb accompanied by sauce special a l’ail pour gigot – no mint jelly here, but a long simmered garlic sauce. Of course, roast pomme de terres – potatoes both crisp and soft at the same time, melting in your mouth in a burst of buttery goodness, and to accompany it, carrotte vichy, and then, as a finale, a crisp salad with tangy greens and pungent vinaigrette.

In the case of the lamb, might he suggest a fine merlot, or; if one preferred a ragoût de boeuf such as the classic boeuf bourguignon or the filet de boeuf stuffed with foie gras and truffles – well, then, only a classic cabernet sauvignon will do.

Dessert would be soufflé au chocolat accompanied by strong café or brandy. Or perhaps tarte aux abricots – with buttery pastry flaking around fresh apricots, or the heady calouti a la liqueur, cherries redolent in fine cognac, or the classic – le marquis – a sponge cake made with the finest chocolat and filled with buttercream glacage.


“Oh, but of course mademoiselle, we have a table for one, reserved and waiting for you.” Maurice hung up the phone and smiled, for the mademoiselle in question was one of his best customers.

She arrived for luncheon on Wednesdays at one sharp. Sometimes, she’d bring a companion – female or male – but most often she dined alone.

It was in these moments, in the quiet lull of a Wednesday afternoon that Maurice was most attentive, and she often found herself still sitting at the table well past four o’clock closing, and it was only the clatter of the kitchen staff preparing dinner that roused her from her reverie – after a second or third glass of wine, or another slice of chocolate cake – on the house, you understand, as Maurice knew how to treat a guest.

And what a guest she was – a woman who obviously enjoyed the finer things in life, and abandoned herself to seeking what pleasures may come her way. She was, by most standards, a large woman, her hips rolled seductively as she strolled down the avenue, pausing at the local cafes for a latte or café l’espress, her breasts jutting forward like the prow of a ship over her ample belly, the sheer mass and force of her presence parting the crowds, all of it quivering ever so slightly beneath fine linens and soft silks; oh, she was a woman who clearly gave herself over to the luxuries of life.

And Maurice loved her for it. From afar, of course, nothing too bold or indiscreet, but he soon found himself telling callers that the restaurant was full on Wednesday afternoons, might they join him for dinner that evening or perhaps luncheon on Thursdays instead?

Dining alone, in the empty restaurant, Maurice was most attentive indeed. He bent over her, offering morsels of succulent lamb, or tender beef stuffed with foie gras and truffles – or, on rare occasions, he managed to procure wild game, and sadly did not have enough to serve to the public, but would mademoiselle enjoy roast pheasant or perhaps even the bold taste of wild boar?

It would, of course be his pleasure to serve her.

His fingers often lingered on her chair as he helped her seat herself at the table, and he took great pleasure in unfolding the cloth napkin and placing upon her lap, adjusting it just so, and trailing his fingers over the softness of her belly.

She didn’t seem to notice.

Maurice often stood nearby, watching her eat, at the excuse of pouring a little more wine or freshening her glass of ice water. But still he watched her plump hand raise a fork to her mouth, her lips parting and then closing her eyes as she savoured the pungent taste of wild meat.

It was in one of these quiet afternoons where mademoiselle found herself licking buttercream from her fingers long after the restaurant had closed that Maurice found himself drawn to her, strangely attracted to her soft mouth sucking at her polished fingertips, imagining the dark undertones of chocolate rolling across her tongue, that he approached her.

That day she was wearing a simply cut dress, in spring florals and short heels with plump toes peeking out. Red nail polish, of course. The weather was unseasonably warm for that time of year, and she went without stockings.

But it was the sight of those toes, plumpness protruding from fine leather that finally did Maurice in.

“Pardon, mademoiselle,” he uttered, as he bent down, lifting the table cloth; and being the little man as he was, he scurried beneath it.

She sat momentarily startled, and then she felt his hands neatly fold the hem of her dress upward, resting well above her thighs.

His arms wrapped her legs in an embrace, and then one shoe fell away, followed by another. Softness was soon sucking at her toes, nibbling the arch of each foot, and then trailing upward, warm hands and wetness savouring her full calves, pushing toward her generous thighs.

Maurice was nowhere to be seen, but his mouth was all over her.

She knew she must look odd, sitting alone in a restaurant, the blinds half drawn, and the door now locked. Dimly, she heard the familiar rattle in the kitchen as the staff prepared the dinner service. The table shook slightly, white tablecloth and cutlery shifting as Maurice moved below.

As with all things, she gave herself up to pleasure.

Curious fingers glided along her thighs, pushing them apart, and then tugged at her silk panties, shifting them aside. She closed her eyes to the warmth now covering the mound below, wetness soon drenching the chair beneath her, she heard Maurice inhale sharply, and then push on.

His soft tongue rolling over her, followed by a quick nibble and grazing teeth, and then soft sucking turned to frenzied eating; his gulps were audible, and her groans soon blended with his.

Enormous thighs trembling, she felt herself slipping into golden waves; as the orgasm struck — la petite mort as it were; her eyes closed, she clenched the white table cloth, tugging it toward herself, and launched empty plates and dirty cutlery onto the floor.

Sitting gasping with the tablecloth pooled across her lap, she slowly became aware of her exposed thighs and wetness now staining her dress.

Her eyes still closed, she heard Maurice crawl out from beneath the table, and the clink of cutlery and china as he picked up the dishes. His voice was close to her ear. “Pardon, mademoiselle — ça va bien?”

“Oui, je suis très bien.”


Carly Zee is a lover of fine dining and finer erotica, and sometimes the two come together in unusual ways. You can find Carly all over, including around Twisted Sister and over at


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