Karen – Re-Think: The Restaurant

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“This tastes awful” said the woman, looking at her partly eaten meal. “That spicing isn’t right. It’s much too salty.” she said, leaning back, looking stern, her tight leather jacket creaking, her leather gloved  hands clasped as frustrated fists, waiting for the waitress to pick up the plate.

The waitress did, mumbling what sounded like an apology, and walked back to the kitchen, her high heels clicking on the hardwood floor of the fancy restaurant, walking back directly to the cooking chef.

Karen startled when she saw her with the filled food tray.

Again.

“What is it this time?”

The waitress pointed at a box on the counter.

“Sugar? She wants more sugar on her pie?”

The waitress nodded no, and tried to gesture to the box and the pie, then taking her fingers to her mouth and trying to look disgusted, nodding no, then pointed to another similar box, and doing a thumbs up gesture..

Well, not easy communicating taste problems when your mouth is filled to the breaking point with a gag, its flap covering your entire lower face, hiding half your expressions, and preventing you from making the slightest sound.

“I don’t get it. She wants salt on her pie?”

The waitress let out a sight, put down the tray with the plates and took the box in her hand, approaching it very close to the cook fogged-up lenses of her gasmask, then pointed at the label, her wrists, with leather cuffs linked with a short chain, making the whole process difficult.

“This is… oh darn. I mixed up the salt and the sugar!” she said, eyes wide opened.

The waitress put the box back down, her shiny smoked catsuit reflecting the harsh light of the kitchen, her black latex french maid uniform doing a nice contrast.

Well, cooking involves smelling what’s cooking, tasting it and also making sure the right ingredients were used.

Perhaps wearing a gasmask hadn’t been the smartest decision, but onions made her cry, so she figured it would be a good solution.

The steak that was on the frying pan, sputtered out some hot butter on Karen’s cooking attire. She took a rag and wiped her black shiny latex catsuit back to a perfect shine, wiping her tight crushing corset in the process.

She would have loved to go see the guests and apologize personally, but she was chained to the stove, and she would be released only until all the guests had left, satisfied, as they had to each press a button upon leaving.

And she couldn’t take off the gas mask, since it was built-in on the suit, itself locked on her body by the corset, itself locked through a chastity belt, not counting her locked collar and cuffs.

And it was just the opening night!

Karen had that idea of making a fetish/bondage themed restaurant.

She let out a long shigh.

Maybe, just maybe, she would have to rethink the concept.

© Pete / monsterp63, July 3, 2020

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