Chapter 2: LeFem Delish


The sedan’s interior had become a confessional.
Terri gripped the steering wheel at ten and two, her thumbs tapping against the leather in a rhythm that had nothing to do with the music—some forgettable pop station

Penny had found and immediately talked over. They were three blocks from the Yummy Publications parking garage when the intern started, and she hadn't stopped.

“—so I applied six times before Frank even responded to my email.”

Penny had her knees tucked up on the passenger seat, her skirt riding dangerously high. The pose was careless. Deliberately so, Terri suspected.

The girl's fingers played with the strap of her camera bag, twisting it around her index finger, unwinding it, twisting it again.

“That's persistence,” Terri said, eyes fixed on the road.

“Obsession,” Penny corrected, and she said it with a smile that suggested she knew exactly what the word meant.

“My mom found my stash of Yummy Girl magazines back issues when I was fourteen. She freaked. Thought I needed therapy. I just needed better hiding spots.”

A red light. Terri braked harder than necessary. Penny's body rocked forward, and the camera bag slipped, and for one brief moment the girl's blouse gaped at the neckline to reveal the edge of a pink lace bra.

“Sorry,” Terri muttered.
“Don't be.”
The light stayed red. Terri's blazer felt too tight. The silk blouse underneath had been a mistake—it trapped heat, held it against her skin like a second layer of conscience.

She adjusted the air conditioning vent toward her face.

“What made you—with the magazine, I mean.

What clicked?”
Penny turned. Her oversized glasses had slid down her nose again. She pushed them up with one finger, a gesture so practiced it had become muscle memory.

“There was this one issue. December, three years ago. The cover story was about submission contracts.

These girls who'd signed over complete control to their doms for an entire month.

One of them talked about how her dom would position her like a piece of furniture. A footstool.

Just—put her where he wanted her and use her however he needed.”

The light turned green. Terri accelerated. The sedan hummed forward into the afternoon traffic.

“And that did something for you.”

“It undid me,” Penny said. Her voice had dropped half an octave.

“I read that article six times in one night. The idea of being handled—really handled, like an object, like something someone owns and can arrange however they want—I couldn't breathe.

I mean literally, I couldn't. I had to put the magazine down and walk around my bedroom just to get air back in my lungs.”

Terri's hands tightened on the wheel. She knew that feeling.

The breathlessness. The way certain images lodged in your chest and refused to leave.
She'd felt it at seventeen, walking into her first dungeon, seeing a woman suspended from the ceiling in an intricate web of rope while her dom traced patterns across her skin with a flogger's tail.

“And the restaurant? That's part of the same thing?”

Penny's laugh was a soft exhale.

“Being treated like food is the ultimate objectification, isn't it?

You're not even a person anymore. You're a dish. An ingredient. Something to be prepared and served and consumed.”

She shifted in her seat, and the leather squeaked beneath her. “I've been into bondage since I was old enough to understand what wanting felt like.

But the magazine helped me figure out what I was actually craving. Someone to turn me into their toy.

Their plaything. Just—handle me.”

A turn signal. A merge into the left lane. Terri was trying to focus on the street signs, the flow of traffic, the mundane mechanics of driving that required some portion of her brain to remain functional.

Penny was not helping.
“I have my nipples pierced,” she said, apropos of nothing.
Terri's jaw clenched.

“Okay.”

“Both of them. Small silver rings.” Penny's fingers drifted to her chest, not touching, just hovering.

“It hurt so much I almost passed out. But afterwards—god, the sensitivity.

Every time my bra brushes against them, it's like a little shock. A reminder that I did something permanent to my body just because I wanted to feel more.”

“Penny—” short pause “And my clit.”

The word landed in the small space of the sedan like a grenade with the pin pulled.

Terri's foot eased off the gas. She didn't mean to. It was a reflex, some primitive response to surprise that traveled from her ears to her extremities without consulting her brain.

The car slowed. A taxi behind them honked.

“Your what?”

“Pierced. A tiny gold barbell right through the hood.” Penny was looking at her now, those wide eyes magnified behind the glasses, studying Terri's profile with the same attention she'd given the volunteers in the kitchen yesterday.

“It took four months to heal. I couldn't touch myself the whole time. When I finally could—” She shivered. “I came so hard I saw stars.”

Terri's panties were damp. There was no point pretending otherwise. The heat between her legs had been building since the first mention of submission contracts, and now it was a steady, insistent pulse that throbbed in counterpoint to her heartbeat.

“You need to stop talking,” Terri said.
Penny blinked. “What?”
“I'm trying to drive. You need to stop talking before I pull this car over and do something we'll have to explain to HR.”

The threat should have scared her. Instead, Penny smiled—a small, private smile, like she'd just been handed a gift she'd been hoping for.

“What if I don't want you to stop?”

“Penny.”

“Fine. Fine.” She held up her hands in mock surrender. But the smile stayed.

“I'll behave. Mostly.”

The rest of the drive passed in a blur of city streets and too-long silences. Terri's blouse was sticking to her lower back. The air conditioning had done nothing.

At every red light, she could feel Penny's gaze on her, a warm weight she didn't dare acknowledge.

The restaurant appeared on their left.

It was unassuming from the outside—a converted industrial space with dark-tinted windows and a brushed steel door.

The overhead fascia was backlit, elegant white script against a dark background: LeFem Delish.

Terri pulled into the parking lot and killed the engine. The silence rushed in. She could hear her own breathing, too fast, too shallow.

Could hear Penny's too.

“LeFem Delish,” Terri read aloud, forcing her voice into something resembling professional detachment.

“Female Delicious. Clever.”
She climbed out of the car, straightened her skirt suit, smoothed the lines of her blazer.

Every movement was deliberate, an attempt to reassemble herself into the sharp reporter who'd walked into the conference room this morning.

The charcoal wool settled around her shoulders like armor.

Penny appeared at her elbow.
“How do I look?”
Terri turned.

The intern was adjusting her cardigan, trying unsuccessfully to make it cover more of her shoulder.

Her cheeks were still flushed. The pink camisole strap gleamed.

“Beautiful,” Penny said.
It wasn't what Terri had expected.
The word landed somewhere below her sternum.

“Okay.” She cleared her throat. “Let me do the talking.”

“Okay. No talking.”

“You can talk. Just—be ready to take pictures.”

“Got it.” Penny bounced on her heels.

“You should introduce me to him.”
Yes ma’am!

“What's his name? And don't call me ma'am, I'm not that old.”

Penny grinned. “Yes, Mistress.
I don't remember his name.”

Mistress. The word curved through the air between them. Terri studied the intern's face—the pink cheeks, the eager eyes, the lips slightly parted—and for one wild moment she imagined bending her over the hood of the sedan, flipping up that too-short skirt, and teaching her exactly what happened to girls who called her Mistress in public.

“Enough.” Her voice came out rougher than intended. “This is serious journalism. Save that for the bedroom.”

“Yes, Mistress. As you wish.”
Terri shook her head. Incorrigible.

They approached the door. Before Terri's hand could reach the handle, it swung outward with theatrical timing.

“Welcome, ladies. And nice to see you again, Miss Penny. It's always a pleasure when a girl returns for seconds.”

The man in the doorway was tall and lean, dressed in a black chef's coat with the sleeves rolled to his elbows.

His forearms were corded with muscle. His smile was warm, practiced, and completely unreadable.

Terri nudged Penny in the small of her back.
“Hello, Mr.—um—Mr.—”

“Mr. Philip. Pronounced Phil-leap.” He drew the second syllable out, giving it an exotic lilt.

Terri stepped forward, extending her hand. “I'm Terri Tart, Yummy Girls Publications. We do a monthly magazine covering S&M clubs and other kinks.”

“I see.” He took her hand. His palm was dry and warm. His eyes traveled from her face to Penny and back again. The smile didn't waver.

“Penny here—” Terri touched the intern's shoulder, she felt the heat of her skin through the cardigan “—showed our entire editorial team the photos she took yesterday.
They're exceptional. My editor is interested in doing a full spread for our next issue. If you're interested.”

The silence stretched. Philip's gaze held hers. Then his smile widened.

“It would be a pleasure. Would you like a tour? It's early yet. Not much happening until tonight.”

“That's fine. I can interview you while we walk.”
He stepped aside, sweeping an arm toward the lobby. They crossed the threshold.

The interior was nothing like Terri had expected. The lobby was elegant—dark hardwood floors, soft amber lighting, velvet drapes framing the entrance to the dining room.

A chandelier of black iron and crystal hung overhead. Classical music played somewhere, something string-heavy and melancholy.

It looked like a Michelin-starred restaurant.

“This is beautiful,” she said, and meant it.

“We take our craft seriously.” Philip led them through the dining room—empty tables set with white linen, silverware catching the light—and pushed open a swinging door into the kitchen.

The temperature changed immediately. Warm. Humid. The faint scent of herbs and garlic and something else, something metallic, like the air before a thunderstorm.

The kitchen was vast. Stainless steel stretched in every direction—counters, sinks, industrial ovens, hanging racks of copper pots. Along one wall, a series of spits extended from a motorized rotisserie system. One of them was large enough to hold a person.

Penny's camera clicked. The sound was crisp in the quiet room.

Terri pulled out her notepad. “Why add a cooking children to your establishment?” Terri went right to the point.

“I see a need and I fulfill it.” Philip leaned against a counter, folding his arms. “Some children want to be eaten. Actually wanting to experience being cooked alive. They're starving to explore those needs, and we provide the means and the table, serving up their delicious meat for all to enjoy.”

“So they all volunteer. To be treated like—meat.”

“I don't discriminate. I facilitate.” His tone was smooth, practiced, the same answer he'd given a hundred times before.

“They enjoy the sensation of slowly roasting. The heat of the ovens, the warmth of the soup baths—it nourishes like any other meat-girl would provide. Quite healthy food, actually.”

“And they willingly do this? With no strings attached.”

“They sign waivers. For insurance purposes. We're above board, Miss Tart.”

He smiled again, and something shifted in his expression.

“Come back tonight. Bring your tasty—your intern.

You can interview the chefs and staff. We'll have several young volunteers preparing for the evening dinner. You can speak with them before we put them on to cook.”

Terri's pen paused. “I'll have to check with my editor. But I believe I can manage that.”

“Penny?”

The intern wasn't listening. She stood near the rotisserie wall, her palm resting flat against one of the spits, her eyes distant. The rings of her nipple piercings made small indentations in her blouse.

“What? Oh—I'm game.” Her voice was breathy.

“Then it's settled.” Philip straightened.

“Best to come by five o'clock. The chefs and volunteers get busy preparing for dinner, which you're welcome to stay for.”

“That will be fine.” She said it yet the thought of eating children didn’t settle right.
Could she? She would have to wait and see.

—-

The drive back was worse.
Penny didn't bother with pretense now. She'd kicked off her shoes.

Her feet were tucked beneath her, skirt bunched around her thighs, one hand resting casually on her lower belly. The other was pressed against her mouth as she talked.

“The spit. Oh my, Terri. The spit. Can you imagine? Just—strapped down, trussed up, someone rotating you over the grill while they baste your skin with warm oil. Every inch of you on display.

Completely owned.”

Terri's knuckles were white on the steering wheel.

“I kept thinking about what it would feel like.

That big metal rod. Like—like a cock, really. Cold at first, but it would warm up. And you'd just have to take it.
Submit to it.
Let it hold you there while the chef decides when to turn you, when to glaze you, when you're done.”

Penny's hand had drifted lower. The hem of her skirt was rucked up enough that Terri could see the edge of her underwear—pink, matching the camisole strap.

“Penny.”
“You can't tell me you didn't feel something in there.
That kitchen.
The way he looked at us.”

“I'm driving.”

“I know.” Penny's voice was thick now, syrup-slow.

“I'm just—I want to try it. The spit. The oven. Even the soup pot. Any of it. All of it.

Just let someone turn me into something delicious.”
Her fingers were moving. Small circles. Visible through the thin cotton of her skirt.

Terri's thighs pressed together. The ache between them had sharpened into something almost painful.

Her panties were ruined. She'd known that since the first mention of piercings.

These young interns share too much, she thought.

But she could see it.

Penny suspended over a hot grill, skin glistening, eyes glazed with the same faraway expression as the woman in the photograph.

Surrendered. Complete.

The image seared itself into Terri's mind with the precision of a branding iron.

The promotion. She thought about the promotion. Bob's hand on her shoulder. Frank's knowing smile. The byline. The cover. The subscribers doubling, tripling.

Terri Tart's name on everyone's lips.
The story was big enough. It would secure everything.

But right now, what she really wanted—
She wanted to take the intern home. Strip off that ridiculous cardigan. Bend her over the arm of the couch and spank her until those pale cheeks blazed pink, really spank her, open-palmed and relentless, for every single word she'd said in this car.

For the nipple rings. For the clit barbell. For Mistress and the quiet wet sounds her fingers were still making against her skirt.

Her pussy clenched. Hard.
She wanted to spread Penny's legs and see that gold barbell for herself.

Wanted to know if the girl tasted as sweet as she looked. Wanted to make her say Mistress again, louder this time, wanted to make her scream it.

The sedan rolled to a stop outside Yummy Girl Publications.

Terri killed the engine. The silence was deafening.
“We're back,” she said.

Penny's hand stilled. She looked over, eyes hazy behind her glasses. Her lips were swollen from biting.

“What time should I be ready tonight?”

Terri reached for her satchel. The photographs were still inside, their edges sharp against her fingers.

“Four-thirty. Don't be late.”

She climbed out of the car before she could change her mind about that spanking.