Lunch Under the Table

The ottoman has become your temporary prison.

You stay exactly as she left you: chest down, ass up, knees spread wide, skirt flipped, inverted cage dangling like a sad pink ornament. The beaded catheter keeps up its relentless work—every shallow breath, every tiny clench of your core, forces another clear bead to well up and fall in slow, humiliating drops onto the velvet below. The puddle beneath you has grown to the size of a small coin; it gleams in the sunlight streaming through the windows.

Dorothy returns after what feels like forever (though the clock on the wall says only forty minutes have passed). She’s changed into something lighter for lunch: a flowing white linen sundress that clings to her curves in all the right places, no bra, pearls still resting between her breasts, and delicate gold sandals. Her thick cock is tucked away for now, but the outline is visible when she moves—soft but heavy, promising.

She doesn’t speak at first.

She simply unclips the leash from the collar, gives it a gentle tug to make you lift your head, then points toward the dining room.

“Crawl. Lunch is ready.”

You follow on hands and knees—leash dragging behind you like a forgotten tail—across the hardwood, leaving a faint trail of drips. The beads shift with every motion; the flared opening ensures nothing is held back. By the time you reach the dining room table, your inner thighs are slick and shining.

The table is set for one.

A single place setting: linen napkin, crystal water glass, silverware, a plate of grilled salmon with lemon herb sauce, a fresh green salad, crusty bread, and a chilled glass of white wine.

Dorothy sits.

Crosses her legs.

Snaps her fingers under the table.

“Under.”

You crawl beneath—dark wood ceiling above you, her sandaled feet and calves framing your view. The skirt rides up completely as you settle on your knees between her thighs; your face is inches from where the sundress drapes over her lap. The scent of her—gardenia, vanilla, faint musk—mixes with the food smells drifting down.

She begins eating.

Slow, deliberate bites.

Every few minutes she reaches under with a fork or her fingers, offering scraps:

A flake of salmon—salty, warm, lemon-bright.

A torn piece of bread soaked in sauce.

A forkful of crisp greens, dripping vinaigrette.

You open your mouth each time.

She feeds you like a pet—sometimes dropping food directly onto your tongue, sometimes making you lean forward to take it from her fingers. You chew and swallow gratefully; real food after the morning’s “breakfast” feels like mercy.

When her plate is nearly clean she pauses.

Sets the fork down.

Parts her thighs wider.

The sundress lifts; no panties underneath.

Her cock—semi-hard from watching you eat beneath her—rests heavy against her thigh, already thickening again.

“Time for dessert, puppy.”

She guides your head forward with one hand in your hair.

“Open wide. Mommy’s going to feed you the rest directly.”

You part your lips.

She shifts her hips slightly.

A soft, wet sound.

Then the first warm, soft log pushes past your lips—bitter, earthy, thick. She feeds it slowly, inch by inch, letting you take it at her pace. You swallow around it—throat working, eyes watering—while she sighs in contentment above you.

“Good girl… take it all. Every bite Mommy gives you.”

She continues until she’s empty—pushing out the last soft pieces with gentle pressure, making sure nothing is wasted.

When she’s finished she doesn’t pull away.

“Clean me.”

Your tongue works—lapping, circling, probing—until she’s spotless, glistening only with your spit. She moans softly once, hips rocking forward to let you take the head into your mouth for a final, gentle suck.

She pats your head.

“Good puppy. You didn’t spill a drop.”

She pushes her chair back.

Stands.

Looks down at you under the table—face smeared, chin dripping, cage still leaking steadily onto the floorboards.

“Stay.”

She clears her plate, rinses it in the sink, then returns with the now-empty plate.

She sets it on the floor beside you.

“Finish whatever’s left on this. Tongue only. Then you can come out.”

You lower your head to the plate—licking the remnants of salmon sauce, vinaigrette, bread crumbs—while she watches from above, sipping the last of her wine.

When the plate shines clean she clips the leash back on.

Tugs you out from under the table.

You emerge on your knees—face filthy, stomach full in the most degrading way possible, cage dripping faster than ever from the constant humiliation.

She cups your chin, tilts your face up.

“Such a good little toilet at lunch,” she murmurs. “Mommy’s proud.”

She wipes your mouth with the linen napkin—almost tenderly—then tosses it aside.

“Now… afternoon nap time. You’ll sleep in your new spot.”

She leads you by the leash to a corner of the living room.

There, tucked beside the couch, is a large, plush pet bed—pink, round, embroidered with tiny white hearts.

“Down.”

You curl onto it—exhausted, aching, leaking.

She kneels beside you.

Attaches the leash to a sturdy hook on the wall.

“Nap. No touching. No humping. Just leak and think about dinner.”

She kisses your forehead.

“Mommy will wake you when it’s time to prepare for tonight’s service. You’ll be serving straight from the source again… and maybe Mommy will let you earn a ruined orgasm if you’re very, very good.”

She stands.

Turns off the main lights, leaving only soft afternoon sun.

Walks away.

You lie there—collared, caged, full of her, dripping endlessly—while the house grows quiet.

The afternoon stretches.

Dinner waits.

And your body keeps betraying you—one slow, pathetic drip at a time.

What happens when she wakes you, leaking puppy?

Does dinner come with more training?

Or does Mommy decide it’s finally time to test how much you can take in your ass while you’re still tasting lunch?