Disclaimer: Any similarities between the characters in
this purely fictitious late night meandering through my
insomnia stricken mind as I contemplate the attraction
(besides the obvious) of  the bizarre world of
Gentleman's clubs and the curious lunch time crowd and
the corporate moguls who patronize such establishments
are purely coincidental.  I swear.


Businessman's Lunch
by Virago Blue



     "I'll have the caesar salad, fresh fruit and a
Heineken on red, no fiber."  Mr. Marcus's order is
always the same every Tuesday at noon.  The only
deviation in his regular routine is the choice of
serving platter.  

     "Right away, sir.  By the way, the buff-et special
runs until 3:00 p.m.  All you can eat for
795.00."  Charles twiddled his thumbs awaiting Mr.
Marcus's reply.

     "Maybe next time Charles.  For now I'll have the
usual."  Mr. Marcus settled back in his usual chair,
fiddling with the tie he wears every Tuesday.

     Charles backed away from the table and made his
way through the double doors into the kitchen.  With a
staccato clapping of hands, he drew the attention of
the staff. "Chantal, order up!  Sergio--vegetarian's
special sans the coat.  Quickly, please."

     Chantal, a healthy looking redhead with terrific
tits strutted from the ladies lounge, still wiping the
remains of shaving cream from between her thighs.

     Smirking salaciously, and with the slightest hint
of a baudy tease, Chantal laid herself upon the dining
table on wheels, dutifully spreading her lavishly long
legs and arranging her hair in an artful fashion over
the crisp white linen.  

     "Don't make me laugh this time, Sergio.  Remember
what happened last Thursday?  Yeah, right.  I inhaled a
raisin.  Damn near thought I was gonna suffocate."
Chantal winked up at the nervous chef hovering over her
face.  

     "Achh-no Meez Chuntell, I no schpeek a vert . . .
" Sergio replied, sucking in his lip.

     Sergio began to spray Chantal's bare skin with a
light coat of Pam.  Pam's juices were always the talk
of the club and since she produced a lot of it, they
decided to bottle it with a little olive oil and a dash
of lemon. 

     Chantal's freckled skin began to take on a glossy
sheen as Pam stuck to her body.  Chantal wiggled a
little on the table in an attempt to alleviate a slight
itch at the base of her spine.  

     "So, Serge, who's my grazer today?  Not Vinnie, I
hope?  He has this annoying habit of sucking his teeth
between courses.  Gives me the squirms.  O'course he
tips well."  Chantal considered this briefly before
continuing her idle chatter with the foreign chef while
studying the light fixtures amid the nude mural on the
ceiling.  Why anyone would want to install a
flourescent light rod where Adonis's hard dick was
supposed to be, she'll never understand.  That's art
for ya'.  Just when you think you've got it figured
out, she thought drolly.

     Charles fretted by, catching Chantal's question.
"It's Mr. Marcus, m'dear.  Be nice to him, he seems to
like this place and I really want to push the buff-et. 
His curriculum vitae just came through on the fax. 
Very impressive."  Charles waved the pages in front of
Chantal's uninterested expression.  Charles continued
gushing over Mr. Marcus's portfolio and other pertinent
financial details.  "Oooo....it says here Emmanuel
Marcus is the CEO of Binders Designs.  My, my . . .
that is something.  You know what Binders Designs are,
don't you?"

     "I don't have a clue.  Hey, Serge, watch it, I
told you I was allergic to arugula."  Chantal fixed her
lusty blue gaze back on Charles.  "Tell me, what is a
Binder Design."

     "Binders Designs just happens to be the new
fashion house of this continent."  Charles all but
squealed as he informed Chantal of this coup.  "And the
President and CEO is sitting right out there waiting
for his lunch!"  

     Sergio looked up from his artful presentation of
fruit compote, shaking his head in derision.  "Hee
always haf same tie.  I do nyet understand why
is--moanee can buy many, many nice tie.  Sheet . . .
heez offees girl maybe make bettah one."  

     "Now Sergio, it is not our place to question the
eccentrics of the world."  Charles turned with a huff
off to procure another model from the dressing rooms.

     Chantal shrugged, not really caring about the
man's clothing, only about the tip she could earn with
this lunch time guest.  "Oooo Serge, if I didn't know
better I would say you enjoyed smearing cream cheese on
my tits."  Sergio blushed at the insinuation that he
got off on his job. That would almost be sexual
harassment.  He was an artist of gastronomical
proportions, not a burger-flipper with a hard-on.  Now
if Lance, the hard-body blue plate special was spread
out before him, then he may have to hide his admiration
with a larger apron.

     "Ah, there Meez Chantal . . . anuther
masterbates!"  Serge cried triumphantly, backing
away from the elaborate and colorful display.

     "Serge, the english class isn't working out the
way you hoped, is it?"  Chantal held back the giggle,
not wanting to jiggle the jello mold stuffed up her
twat and artfully arranged to look like a humongous
dick, a monstrous Greek olive masquerading as the head
and pushed between her legs.  The caesar salad sat upon
her pubic mound imitating the look of a glorious green
bush, with crusty croutons sprinkled on top. A glaze of
cream cheese was smeared on her voluptuous tits, fresh
fruit sticking to the white paste.   Truly a wonder to
look at and many stared in appreciation as Chantal was
rolled into the dining room.  Many 'ooohs' and 'aaahs'
could be heard among the intimate crowd, although
whether in admiration over the crowning touch of a
spear of asparagus standing proud from her naval and
topped with a bright red cherry, or the blissful
utterances of ecstacy coming from the dessert table,
she was unsure. .  

     Mr. Marcus looked over his order, making sure all
was as it should be.  Pulling his chair closer to
Chantal, he dismissed Charles with a pert nod.  "Where
to begin, where to begin?  I'm famished, I don't mind
telling you Miss--ah--"

     "Chantal" She smiled prettily up at him.  "Why
don't you start at the top and work your way down, you
know, like, save the best for last?"  Chantal winked
suggestively at Mr. Markus, licking away some of the
raspberry syrup painted on her lips.

     "Excellent decision, Miss Chantal."  Mr. Markus
bent over Chantal and began licking at the sweet cream
cheese mixture stuck to the sides of her jiggling
globes of flesh, snatching a grape between his teeth. 
He chewed with vigor, waggling his eyebrows at her
before digging back in.  That's when Chantal noticed
the tie.

     It appeared to be of a fine grade of silk, at
least she assumed so.  It was difficult to see past the
technicolor splashes of paint which marred the fabric. 
Must be a fashion thing I haven't read about yet in
Harpie's Bizarre, Chantal thought.  Chantal dismissed
the idea with not much more of a glance at the strange
accessory.  Mr. Marcus had worked his way up under a
breast, nipping at a slippery kiwi slice.  She had to
concentrate in order not to break out in a fit of
giggles as he teased one of her tickle spots with his
moustache.

     Mr. Marcus continued munching Chantal and the
spread set before him.  He nipped the cherry from the
top of the asparagus stalk, plucking it from her naval
afterwards.  He continued nibbling downwards, working
her skin with his mouth, licking up every morsel he
passed over.  Sort of like a basset hound snorting up
crumbs under a table, she thought, his tie being one of
the ears.  She flinched slightly as the tie grazed a
particularly sensitive spot near her waist.  The tie
didn't feel very soft and pliable.  Maybe it was the
dried paint.

     Chantal's skin began to feel warm, but in a
peculiar way.  She took a few deep breaths to help
control any wriggling movements which may cause Mr.
Marcus to lose his grip and fall face first into his
salad.  He was now between her legs, carefully picking
the greens from her pubic area.  She caught a glimpse
of him crunching on a particularly large piece of
arugula, looking a bit like a jack rabbit. 
 
     Chantal then realized why her skin was feeling
warm and itchy.  Her throat began to itch. Her eyes
began to water as she put two and two together.  Damn
that Sergio and his language interpretation!  She told
him she was allergic to arugula!

     Mr. Marcus was near to finishing off the salad,
leaving a wake of crouton crumbs and specks of fruit
dotting her quickly reddening skin.  He leaned in
between her legs and tickled her twat with the
asparagus spear.  She squirmed.  He took it as an
invitation and dove between her legs and began licking
at the Greek olive peeking out from her labia.  She
twitched, pulling the olive in deeper.  (She was very
religious when it came to her Kegel exercises.)  

     Further agitated by her allergies, she clenched
her teeth in agony as she felt the sneeze building
behind her nose.  Mr. Marcus was sucking up the purple
jello leading into her cunt,edging ever closer to the
olive.

     Chantal couldn't hold it back any longer.  She
sneezed.

     Mr. Marcus fell backward, the olive lodged in the
back of his throat. His hands wrapped around his neck
as he silently suffered a choking fit.

     Charles ran from his perch at the condom-ment
buff-et, shrieking in terror.  Fortunately, he
successfully performed the Heimlich maneuver on Mr.
Marcus.  

     Mr. Marcus sat dazed and jello-splattered against
the wall, staring at the most powerful source of
splatter-painting he had ever seen.  He was perched at
the top of the fashion industry, any whisper from him
produced a glutton for his designs and textiles.  His
line of splatter-painted ties were already all the rage
from Miami to Monaco.  Thanks to Miss Chantal, he just
discovered a new item.  He could charge an ungodly
amount to deliver personal made-to-order tie-dyed ties
to his customers.  And he was wearing the prototype. 
Of course he would have to work a deal with the major
gelatin corporation, unless . . . his lab could develop
a type of paint capsule Miss Chantal could shoot . . .
Mr. Marcus's gears began to spin as he studied his
purple-splashed tie.
    
     Chantal lay there on the linen tablecloth trying
to get up enough nerve to peer over her sticky breasts
at the man she nearly killed.  Tentatively she lifted
her head to meet the excited stare and disheveled hair
of Mr. Marcus and his technicolor tie.  The name Yoda
came to mind.

     "Miss Chantal, I have a business proposition for
you . . . "