Chef Anthony Named the Price and Something Happened Inside the Cage

Tyler Rock

The Greedy Room

Chef Anthony published the menu last night and I read it three times before I was willing to admit what it was doing to me inside the cage. One hundred and eighty-four thousand dollars for the first course. Linguine. That number sat in my chest like a fist and then slowly dropped lower than my chest, which is the part of this I am not going to pretend did not happen. I have spent a hundred and eighty-four thousand dollars in a single afternoon before. I have spent it on things that sat in a garage and depreciated. I have spent it on things I forgot I bought within a week. I have never spent it on something that made the cage press the way it pressed when I read what was in that first course. Mistress Lynne's blood in the pasta. One hundred and eighty-four thousand dollars. The specific obscenity of that number attached to that ingredient is the most expensive thing I have ever wanted. I did not even finish reading the menu before the cage reminded me, in its most emphatic way, that I do not get to finish anything in this house without her permission.

The main course is a man on all fours serving as a living platter while Mistress Lynne fists his ass and we eat around him. I want to be the platter. I want to be the platter so badly that I am embarrassed to write it and I am going to write it anyway because the cage has stripped me of whatever used to prevent this kind of honesty. I want to be face-down on an aubergine tablecloth in that dining room with her elbow deep inside me while nine men eat tenderloin off my spine and I cannot move and I cannot make a sound and the bill for the evening is somewhere between three hundred and fifty thousand dollars and four hundred thousand dollars depending on whether dessert runs long. I want to pay the bill from that position. I want to authorize the transfer while she is still inside me. That is my personal fantasy. I have spent forty years acquiring things and none of them ever put me on that table. Chef Anthony named the thing that money was always trying to buy and now I understand every dollar I ever wasted.

Dessert is the part that keeps me awake. Nine men eating off two tray-bearers with their tongues while the other three fuck the men holding the trays. Orgasm denied if the tray falls. I have a cage and a pre-paid arrangement that I negotiated before I arrived at this mansion, a sum I was certain at the time was the highest-value investment I had ever made. I am no longer certain I am getting what I paid for, and I mean that as a compliment, because what I paid for turns out to be significantly less than what is on offer. The dessert tray discipline alone is worth more than my third property. I keep running the numbers. The whole dinner at Chef Anthony's published price is roughly five hundred and sixty thousand dollars per man depending on seating. I keep running the numbers not because I am concerned about the amount. I keep running the numbers because every time I get to the total, the cage gets tighter and my body tells me in plain language that this is what more was always supposed to mean. Not the third car. This. Five hundred and sixty thousand dollars for one dinner in the purple dark, with her at the head of the table and nothing I paid for before this moment having mattered at all.