Le Reve

By AgainstMyWill
published August 9, 2012
3635 words

Ernesto takes his dad Augusto to a famous restaurant for a meal they’ll never forget.

“Welcome to Le Reve, gentlemen. May I ask your name?”

The impeccably-coiffed young man who greeted Mr. Morales and his son didn’t bother to ask if they had a reservation because it would have been gauche. Everybody knew Le Reve, and nobody would have been so foolish as to show up without a reservation. The restaurant opened its books 4 months ahead to the day and you were lucky to even get someone on the phone when they opened, let alone to secure a table when you did.

Ernesto Morales had graduated from college just a month ago, and even before that had lined up a job at a prestigious consulting firm, a rare honor given the economic climate. His dad, Augusto, had been struggling to find work for a few years, but had always managed to scrape enough together to help his son through college, and so when Ernesto landed the job, he decided to celebrate. He and his dad had grown up cooking together and Augusto had taught his son everything he knew. When Ernesto presented him with the reservation to Le Reve, the older man’s breath had caught in his throat.

“Ernesto… how - how did you - I can’t believe it!”

“The firm helped out, Dad, they do this sort of thing for their employees. So I called in a favor. It’s the least I can do, dad. Thanks for everything. I wouldn’t be here without you.”

The two of them had their nicest suits dry cleaned and best shoes shined. Augusto’s wife joked that he looked better heading to the restaurant than he had for their wedding! Augusto said in response, “If I look good it’s because I am beaming with pride in my son.” And Ernesto beamed, too, at the words.

“Your room is ready, gentlemen, if you’d follow me.”

Ernesto followed the young man, noting how perfect every last detail of the restaurant was. Their host was wearing a perfectly-tailored suit that hung off his husky frame in the most flattering way imaginable. The interior of the restaurant was like one non-stop procession of rare wood inlays, fine marble, crystal, and ornate glasswork. The young man opened a solid wood door and gestured inside.

“We get our own room?” Augusto raised an eyebrow.

“Chef likes to have every meal stand on its own. Le Reve is not about the social experience of dining surrounded by strangers. It is about the intimate experience of dining with your party, enjoying the meal.”

The two of them walked into the room, cozy even for two people but not confining. The high ceilings and large table made it feel larger than its small footprint. Two large, comfortable chairs welcomed them, and the host took their suit jackets as they settled in.

“At Le Reve, the meal experience is tailored to your party, gentlemen. Am I correct in understanding that you are father and son? And you are celebrating?”

“That’s right,” Augusto beamed, “My kid here finished college and got a great job.”

“And I brought my dad here as a thank you for everything he did, because I wouldn’t have done it without him.”

Their host smiled. “Wonderful, gentlemen. Welcome to Le Reve, we’re thrilled to host your celebration. Let me explain how the meal will work. Chef is renowned as a master of all cuisines, but in particular he is a skilled herbologist, and understands how to use spices and herbs to provoke physiological responses so that the meal is more than mere food: it is a journey, a carefully-paced adventure for the mind and body. I’ll start by asking, do either of you have any food allergies or aversions we should be aware of?”

Both men shrugged. “No, anything’s fine,” Ernesto said.

“Wonderful.” The young man smiled. “Then let us begin.”

Instantly, the door swung open and two more young men entered, each carrying a plate. They each set theirs down in front of one of the men and then made their silent exit.

“Our first course is foraged root vegetables, roasted with a variety of herbs that Chef cultivated personally. You wouldn’t recognize them; they’re his creations. Enjoy.”

Ernesto took a bite first. “Whoa, this is… wow, this is really intense.”

Augusto wrinkled his brow at his son’s exclamation, then took a bite himself.

The taste was pungent, earthy but simultaneously piquant. It burnt his nostrils but also filled his mouth like chocolate. And then, when that first onslaught of flavor died down, there was a muskiness. Both men noticed it.

“It tastes, it tastes… like old socks?”

Their host laughed. “Not the description we’d like to see published, but I think I know what you mean.”

“Yeah, it’s like… an attic. It tastes like… old laundry. Damp… damp…”

Augusto trailed off. Ernesto looked at him. “Dad?”

Augusto snapped back. “Yes? What?”

“You were saying something, Dad.”

“Oh. I… I don’t remember what.”

“Then it’s time for the next course, gentlemen!” The host swept his arm to the door, which opened once again and the two young men brought another plate with a single bite on it.

“This is a rare fish found only in a small lake that Chef discovered during his treks in South America. It has no English name, but we fly a single fish here every day at great expense because of its unique character. We serve it raw because it is the only way Chef believes he can do justice to its character.”

This time, Augusto took the first bite. “Oh, man. Oh, man.”

It was Ernesto’s turn to look quizzically at his father as he then ate the fish. “Oh man, dad, yeah, it’s… wow. It tastes…” Ernesto paused, mid-sentence. He sat, mouth hanging open, eyes half-lidded, and slowly rocked back and forth for a moment.

Their host smiled. “How does it taste, sir?”

Ernesto’s eyes remained defocused but he managed to open and close his mouth a few times in a halfhearted attempt to keep chewing.

"Fish… tastes… "

“Yes? What does it taste like, sir?”

“Fuuuuuuccckkkk.” Ernesto’s head rolled back and he smiled and panted a few times. “Oh, fuck, it tastes like… raunchy, this shit is like raunchy, right dad?”

Augusto, who also looked half-asleep, started guffawing, his whole body shaking up and down with his laughter. “Yeah, son, tastes like armpit!”

Both of them were laughing, now, loud dumb guffaws, and the host just smiled.

“Well, gentlemen, it looks like you’re all ready for the real food, now.”

The two young men reentered the room, and each set the next plate in front of the two heavily disoriented men. Ernesto and Augusto struggled and finally managed to bring their gaze back to the host.

“Those first courses were small bites just to get you in the… right frame of mind, shall we say. But Chef doesn’t believe a great meal is made of a series of tiny little bites. A great meal is about indulgence. A gourmand is a glutton, gentlemen! And at Le Reve we celebrate the gluttony. In fact, we do more than celebrate. We worship it. We kneel at its altar and beg for it!”

The host was getting red in the face as he worked himself into a sweat. Ernesto and Augusto were staring, mouths open, drool openly running down both their chins.

“So dig in, gentlemen. This next course is a giant helping of lasagna with a little special something.”

Ernesto and Augusto looked down, and couldn’t even see their plates. It was just a mass of lasagna overflowing onto the table.

“I… I don’t have… there’s no fork?” Ernesto looked up, confused.

Their host leaned in with a grin. “So use your hands. Use your face.” He sneered at them. It was all the encouragement they needed.

Augusto grabbed a fistful of the lasagna and stuffed it in his mouth. “Mmmmfff”, he grunted, and then swallowed the whole mass, “Oh God, it tastes horrible, but it’s so…” He looked up in a kind of horrified stupor but then his eyes glazed back over. His neck went slack. Augusto’s face landed square in the jiggling mass of lasagna.

Ernesto took a whiff of it before eating. “Oh, God! What IS that?” He wrinkled his nose.

The host smiled. “Why, it’s the concentrated essence of week-old gym socks and jock straps.”


“Plus a giant dose of aphrodisiac.”

“What?? You can’t be… what’s going on?”

“Eat it, Ernesto.”

Ernesto felt his strength fail him. “Why am I… what’s happening?”

“Those last two courses opened your mind to me. Now you’re going to do what I say. Le Reve is the journey, Ernesto, and you’re well on your way. Now take a bite of the lasagna.”

Ernesto looked back down at the lasagna. It was disgusting. It smelled like a locker room. It was a horrible, gelatinous mass. “No,” he said out loud, as he watched his hand open of its own accord, “No, no, no… no!” Ernesto’s hand closed on a giant blob of lasagna and raised it back up to his mouth. He held his lips shut tight right until his hand pressed the lasagna up to his face, and then his lips softly opened, and his hand forced the gooey mess of raunchy lasagna down his throat.

Ernesto gagged just once before his eyes glazed over, too. And then he grabbed the plate with both hands and dove in face-first like his dad.

“Yeah,” the host grinned to himself, “Eat, you fucking animals.”

Augusto and Ernesto were still eating when the two men reopened the door, but this time they rolled in a single cart. On top of the cart was a long, deep rectangular trough, which they lifted together with effort and set down on the table in front of the two men, who now sat, heads lolled back, faces smeared in the raunchy remains of the lasagna.

“This next course, not that you can hear me anymore, is a real TREAT,” the host sneered at them, licking his lips. He walked up to Ernesto and grabbed a handful of his hair so he could stare him in his blank, dazed eyes. “You see, Chef discovered an indigenous tribe in some of his trekking whose pheromone levels are off the charts. And so now,” and here the host unceremoniously dropped Ernesto’s head, which fell to rest, chin on chest, and the host walked to Augusto and took his face by squeezing a cheek in each hand and addressing him instead, “we import those pheromones. Specifically, we pay all the men of the tribe to wrap their loins, their feet, and their armpits in cloth and stand out in the scorching sun until the clothes are drenched with sweat, and we wring them out and then bottle that sweat and send it back here. It’s the concentrated sweat off their balls, their uncircumcised cocks, their feet and their hairy armpits. Oh, they never shower, the tribe. That’s part of the deal.”

The host gestured at the trough. “And we make this whole trough of authentic pig slop using only that sweat as the cooking liquid. Only the finest ingredients for you raunchy fucking pigs. Now dive in.”

Ernesto and Augusto, father and son, managed in their stupors to stand up enough to lean over the trough. The aphrodisiacs in the lasagna were in full effect, the host noted with a smile, as both men’s suit pants were tented out and dark with seeping precum. As the men - really, now just pigs - fell face-first into the trough, their tented pants pressed against the side of the table and they both involuntarily groaned.

Even in his heavily drugged state Ernesto recoiled at the fumes coming off of the slop. It was intense, mind-blowingly intense. It smelled rank, raunchy, but far beyond any of the previous courses. It was so thick that even the vapors felt like syrup oozing up into his nostrils and dripping down the back of his throat.

Ernesto pulled his lips back and flared his nostrils, his urges now in control. He dove in.

The host watched as the father and son together began furiously slurping, smacking, and sucking at the vile slop. There was a lot of it, but he knew they’d make it through. They couldn’t stop, after all. The host reached down and idly groped his own crotch, already dark with leaking precum. Then he reached over to the two young servers and undid their belts.

The host was certainly larger than either of them, but both of the servers were husky, too, each sporting a second chin and a gut visible even in the top-dollar suits. The host unzipped their pants and both pairs fell to the ground. Each of the servers was wearing just a jockstrap underneath. The host reached one hand between each of their ass-clefts and toyed a bit with the black rubber plug sticking barely out of each young man’s hole. They winced and grimaced as he smiled and twisted them inside their holes.

In the meantime all three of them watched Ernesto and Augusto turning into big, fat, dirty pigs. Ernesto at this point had one knee up on the table and was humping the side of it while he ate the slop with abandon. Augusto had both feet on the ground but was vigorously thrusting his pelvis against the table as he shoveled slop down his throat with both hands, diving face-first into the slop when that wasn’t fast enough.

As both men were leaning strongly forward to get into the trough, the host and both servers could watch their guts expanding, hanging down off of them as they bloated themselves with the foul gruel.

And bloat they did. By the time they emptied the trough, Ernesto and Augusto both looked like they’d smuggled a beach ball into the prestigious restaurant under their button-down shirts, both of which were straining hard at the seams.

Both men collapsed back into their seats in unison and when they did, both their shirts lost most of their buttons with a series of “pops”.

“Good, gentlemen, you’re ready for the next course.” The host ignored Ernesto and Augusto’s moans of pain and just smiled. “This one’s always a treat. Chef likes to work with new and unusual presentation methods, and so your next course was pumped up inside the assholes of your servers earlier today where it’s been keeping warm and raunchy waiting for your hungry piggy mouths to eat it out.”

As the host spoke the two servers took off their shirts and jackets, now naked but for the jockstraps and butt plugs, and walked over to the table. Pushing the trough out of the way, they climbed up onto the table, on all fours, each facing ahead so his ass cheeks were spread and plugged asshole pointing right back at the father and son.

“This is your dessert, gentlemen. It’s a warm custard made with the ejaculate of the tribe’s young men as they reach adulthood. Each of them produces an unusual volume of sperm with each ejaculation, which is the only way they’re able to each provide the gallon a week we need to make all this custard. And now it’s yours to enjoy, you fucking shit-for-brains pigs!”

With that, the host yanked the plugs out of the two servers’ butts simultaneously. The servers each winced, but made not a sound, and Ernesto and Augusto stared ahead at the quivering brown assholes in front of them. After just a couple seconds the servers couldn’t hold it and a trickle of white custard began to flow out of each of their holes.

“Don’t let any of that custard go to waste, gentlemen. Eat it,” The host ordered, firmly.

Ernesto and Augusto’s slop-covered faces broke into wide, dumb grins as they leaned forward in their seats. Each of them instinctively grabbed his server’s ass-cheeks in his hands and then pressed his face in between them.

Ernesto felt the dense, matted, sticky hair of his server’s ass pressing against his face and smelled the raunchy stink of the server’s butt, then stuck his tongue out and dragged it up from where the custard had dripped down up to the server’s asshole where it was leaking. As the young man felt the tip of Ernesto’s tongue prodding his hole, he opened it a bit and farted, pumping a thick load of the disgusting custard out all over Ernesto’s face. He grinned with delight and made a noise that sounded, to everyone else in the room, unmistakably like the snort of a rutting pig. And then he dove in.

The host watched, pleased, as Augusto and Ernesto dug their tongues in deep up their servers’ rectums to pull out the filthy, sloppy dessert. Each of the servers grunted and groaned as he bore down, pushing his bowels to expel the custard he’d been carrying all day. Occasionally a large bubble of it would spray out all at once with a loud, wet farting noise, spraying thick, hot off-white cream all over one of the two men’s faces, who would just convulse with pleasure. Augusto was the first to cum, and when he did he nearly fell over. Holding onto his server’s ass was the only thing that kept him upright as his cock unloaded right into his now-filthy suit pants.

After that, Augusto and Ernesto Morales were bona fide pigs, wallowing in raunch and gluttony and filthy and loving it. The servers fed them the rest of the custard from their assholes and then the two men looked up to the host.

“That was your dessert course, gentlemen, but as I said before, Le Reve is about the journey, and your journey has only just begun! Next up is a little father-son bonding. I don’t think you need any help here.”

Augusto and Ernesto turned towards each other.

“You want to really thank me, son?” The older man reached out and grabbed his son and pulled him in. Their giant guts rubbed against each other and both came in their pants yet again.

“Fuck, dad, yeah, I owe you everything!”

“Then why don’t you get a taste of the cock that made you, boy?”

Ernesto didn’t need any more encouragement than that. He yanked his dad’s pants off and locked his lips around his throbbing cock. His dad pushed his son’s head with both hands, wedging it in underneath his swollen gut, and started pumping away furiously.

“Fuck yeah, boy, fuck… YEAH!”

Ernesto came back up even more disheveled, a dirty grin across his face.

“My turn, Dad!” He grabbed his father and spun him around, pinning him against the table so Augusto’s giant gut was resting against the edge. Ernesto yanked off his own pants and shoved his cum-slick cock right between his father’s ass-cheeks.

“Yeah, son, fuck my big, fat, pig ass!”

The host and servers stood by and smiled as Augusto and Ernesto fucked and sucked each other dry. The customers always especially liked that part of the video. But then it was time for the next stage.

“Time to continue on your journey, gentlemen. Chef is pleased you enjoyed his meal so much that you’ve really embraced the spirit of gluttony here at Le Reve. And now it’s time for you fithy pigs to learn how to be useful.”

The two men looked up, quizzically.

“Down on your knees, you fat fucking pigs,” the host said. He dropped his pants, revealing just a jockstrap of his own. He walked up to Augusto first, the filthy grotesquely swollen naked man kneeling before him. The host turned around, his ass staring Augusto square in the face. He reached back and spread his cheeks apart and then backed up, his ass now engulfing the man’s face.

“After all,” the host began, “If a big fat raunchy fucking pig is going to be of any use to his owner, he has to know how to provide some basic services.”

The host smiled and then bore down.

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