Greg was hungry. He'd slept late and skipped breakfast, so even though it was only 11:00 he was ready for lunch. Some of the women around his office had been talking up a new place called Priscilla's Parlor. It was supposed to be good -- Southern cooking like Mom used to make. Not Greg's mother, of course. The Hefferdale matrons never handled things like butter and flour; servants did that sort of thing. Greg had been raised with similar values, that was why he was management. He didn't really want to try some new place, especially since it was only the secretaries who seemed most thrilled with it, but his hunger left him without the desire to look for something farther away.
The restaurant was definitely female oriented, from the knick-knacks and lacy curtains to the almost suffocating shades of pink and rose everywhere. Greg was seated by a rather buxom hostess and told that his waitress Susan would be with him momentarily. He looked over the menu, and was pleasantly surprised – while there were many salad bar items, there were plenty of choices for dishes he was willing to eat and the prices were better than at the cafeterias in town. His waitress arrived, a petite woman in rather impractical high heeled sandals. She took his order pleasantly and quietly, and while he waited he took the opportunity to look around the place.
Most of the customers and all of the waitstaff were women. Many of the customers were dressed expensively enough that he was puzzled why they would eat here. About half of the waitstaff looked like anonymous waitress types, but the other half! They looked like slumming society women, and their outfits were much more tight and clinging. Several of them kept glancing back toward the kitchen nervously, as if this was their first job. Greg shrugged and decided to read the rest of the menu and look around some more; the problems of a bunch of waitresses weren't exactly any of his concern. He did notice there was only one other customer who wasn't a woman, a man two tables over from Greg who was blonde and blue-eyed, maybe 5 foot 8, the kind of guy the women at the office would be twittering over.
Susan brought his lunch and he dug in with relish. The food was indeed quite tasty. The other guy passed Greg's table on the way to the restroom about the same time that Greg decided he'd ask his waitress for dessert. They had cheesecake on the menu, a favorite of his. It took longer than he thought necessary for the dessert to show up, but it was as good as the rest of his lunch. Greg was so pleased that when he paid his bill he added a whole ten percent tip to it. He noticed as he passed the other guy's table that the food was still there but the guy hadn't come back. That seemed odd, but maybe he had a sensitive stomach.
It was a few weeks later that Greg's schedule and appetite combined to suggest the Parlor to him for lunch. There wasn't anything terribly pressing at the office, so it wouldn't matter if their waitresses were a little on the slow side. Nothing had changed when he got there, not the décor, not the hostess with the great rack; he even had the same waitress – what was her name, oh yeah, Susan.
He ordered and looked around while he waited for his meal. A young blonde woman entered and was seated at the table next to him. She was quite a looker, about five foot nine and stacked, in an expensive-looking outfit that if anything accentuated her breasts. The woman seemed very nervous; he watched her stutter as she looked up to her waitress and gave her order. Strange, that. There was something familiar about her blandly pretty face, but nothing he could put his finger on. She certainly wasn't one of the secretaries from his office.
His meal arrived and he made short shrift of it. He was hungrier than he had thought and was halfway through his second glass of tea when he cleaned the last of his plate. His stomach grumbled at him, and he decided he'd better hit the restroom or he wouldn't have room for dessert. He headed for the back, his stomach complaining with more emphasis at each step, and passed his waitress on the way. When she smiled and asked how he enjoyed his meal he told her brusquely that it was fine and he needed cheesecake.
As Greg stepped through the door to the john he took one look and stepped back out. He checked the door; it said "Men" on it. But this was like no men's room he had ever been in. The walls were blue, not pink, but the mirrors had gold gilt frames and the light fixtures were mini-chandeliers. The floor was lushly carpeted, which seemed wildly useless to him. All of the stalls had doors and there wasn't a standalone urinal to be seen. A cramp inside reminded him that he didn't care about urinals anyway, and he rushed to the farthest stall and entered, locking the swinging door behind him.
Something must have really disagreed with him, because his body blew out a loud and messy expulsion not once but twice, leaving Greg shaky and shivering. It took three flushes before he felt clean and steady enough to get back on his feet. When he got his pants pulled up and zipped, he went to open the door but it wouldn't move. The bolt slid back, but the door wouldn't swing open. He couldn't decide whether he should call for help, which would have been terribly embarrassing, or try climbing under the bottom of the door which didn't look like a lot of room. He heard the bathroom door open, but the carpet muffled any footsteps. He only knew the other person was there from the sound of the soap dispenser and running water in the sink. By the time Greg decided to go ahead and call for help, the other person had gone.
This was really stupid, he thought. Angrily he slapped the door, and to his surprise it swung open as if nothing had ever been a problem. Well, at least he could pay his bill and get out of here now. He walked out of the stall, glancing down to check his zipper, and stopped at the realization that he wasn't alone. His view pointed downward, he saw a pair of nyloned feet in very high-heeled ankle-strap sandals. As he lifted his eyes higher, he saw stockinged legs, skirt hem, blouse, full breasts, broad shoulders, and a very stern female face. He mumbled something about this being the men's room and took a step backward, only to be grabbed from behind and his upper arms held painfully by someone with a very strong grip. The woman in front of him pulled out a cloth and held it over his nose and mouth, and Greg was surrounded with an overpowering sweet smell before everything went black.
Greg woke fuzzily, the sweet smell still in his nose. His lips felt parched, and there was a bad taste in the back of his throat. He reflexively licked his lips as he opened his eyes.
FLASH A strong light made him blink, and when he could see again he started to take stock of where he was. Naked on his back, for one thing. He yelped and tried to get up but his arms and ankles were fastened down. Worse, when he moved he felt some kind of stiff lump lodged in his bottom. He squirmed and tried squeezing his muscles, but it wouldn't come out. Worse yet, he could feel that he was sporting a very large erection that pulsed with every muscle clench.
"Oh good, we're awake now!" The voice came from a woman entering the room to one side. He strained to turn his head enough to see her. It was his nondescript waitress, but she wasn't nondescript any more. Her uniform was gone, and she was wearing only the high heeled sandals, a pair of almost-translucent panties that outlined the slice of her sex, and a pair of matching jeweled dangles bobbing from her dusky thick nipples. The dangles twinkled with her breathing, and they made it hard for Greg to move his attention from her breasts to her face. She looked pointedly at Greg's crotch, and he felt himself blush all over as his cock throbbed.
"I'm glad to see you're enjoying your little friend," she commented with a wicked grin. Greg was confused, then as his groin throbbed and he felt the presence of the thing in his ass he understood what she meant. Susan continued, "That's good, Pearl, it will make things so much easier for you."
He protested weakly, "What is this? And my name's Greg, not Pearl!"
"No, dear," she corrected him, stroking his balls teasingly and dangling her breasts in his face. "You're our sweet Pearl now." Her teasing made him squirm all the more, the plug an insistent presence in his bottom. Susan cupped her hand over his cockhead and smeared his precum over the knob, drawing a moan from him. Greg fought to keep from exploding then and there. "What's this all about anyway? You can't do this!" Naked and bound or not, his confidence was coming back to him. These people didn't know who they were dealing with.
That confidence didn't survive the three photographs that Susan showed him.