Lunch Indoors – The Feeding Bowl

The sun is high and merciless when Dorothy finally returns to the garden.

She’s dressed casually now—high-waisted cream linen shorts that hug her hips, a loose white crop top that leaves the underside of her heavy breasts bare, pearls still draped between them like a collar of her own. Barefoot, hair in a loose chignon secured with antique pearl pins, she carries a large stainless-steel dog bowl in one hand and a thin leather crop in the other.

The kennel gate clicks open.

“Out, Slutcunt.”

You crawl forward—paw boots slapping awkwardly against the concrete, heavy pink muzzle-harness keeping your mouth **** into that permanent chrome-ringed “O”, tongue lolling helplessly over the lower edge, drool pouring in thick, unbroken strands that soak the front of your sheer baby-doll and drip onto the grass. The inverted cage swings with every movement, catheter leaking steadily, leaving a glistening trail behind you.

She clips the pink leash to your collar.

Tugs once—sharp.

“Inside. Lunchtime.”

You follow her through the sliding doors, knees hobbled in the paw-shaped boots, **** to crawl on all fours across the cool hardwood of the house. Drool trails behind you like a silver leash; pre-cum drips from the catheter in rhythmic patters. The muzzle makes every breath wet and audible—soft, constant slurping as saliva pools and spills.

She leads you to the kitchen.

Sets the bowl on the tile floor near the island.

Inside: a thick, lumpy porridge of leftover dog food from breakfast—kibble softened with more of her morning piss, chunks of yesterday’s steak fat floating on top, and a fresh swirl of her diarrhea stirred in while you were locked outside. The smell is immediate—sour piss, meaty kibble, acrid liquid shit—rising in a warm, nauseating cloud.

Dorothy sits on a high stool at the island.

Crosses her legs.

Picks up her own lunch—a light salad of grilled chicken, avocado, fresh tomatoes, drizzled with olive oil and lemon.

She eats slowly, fork moving with elegant precision.

Every few bites she reaches down with the crop—light taps against your drooling muzzle.

“Eat, Slutcunt. No hands. Tongue and lips only. Clean the bowl like a good bitch.”

You lower your head—muzzle dipping into the bowl, ring gag forcing your mouth wide open. Your tongue pushes forward instinctively, lapping at the disgusting slurry. The piss-soaked kibble crunches between your teeth; warm diarrhea coats your tongue in thick, bitter layers; fatty steak bits slide down your throat in slimy gulps. Drool pours from the ring gag in endless streams, mixing with the food, making everything even messier—dripping off your chin, soaking the tile beneath you.

The crop taps your ass when you slow.

“Faster. Mommy doesn’t like messy eaters.”

You lap harder—tongue working frantically, slurping, swallowing, gagging softly around the ring but unable to close your mouth or spit anything out. The cage drips faster from the humiliation; pre-cum patters onto the floor in time with your **** lapping.

Dorothy watches from above—sipping iced tea now, one foot dangling, toes brushing your drool-soaked cheek every so often.

When the bowl is nearly empty she reaches down—scoops the last thick sludge with her fingers—and smears it across your lolling tongue.

“Hold it,” she orders.

You freeze—mouth **** open, tongue extended, the foul mixture pooling in the back of your throat.

She leans forward.

Spits once—long, deliberate—into the center of the mess on your tongue.

“Now swallow.”

You do—gulping hard, throat working visibly around the ring gag, drool and spit and diarrhea running down your chin in fresh rivulets.

She pats your muzzled cheek.

“Good Slutcunt.”

She stands.

Walks to the sink.

Rinses her plate.

Then returns with a small remote in her hand.

You notice for the first time: the pink jewel on your plug (still inside from earlier, though she removed it briefly last night) has a tiny black button embedded in it.

She presses.

A low, steady vibration starts inside you—deep, pulsing against that sensitive spot.

Your body jerks; the cage leaks harder, drool pours faster from the ring gag.

She smiles.

“That’s your new toy’s feature. Vibrates on command. Keeps you edged and **** while you wait for dinner.”

She sets the remote on the island.

“Stay right here. Kneel. Drool. Leak. Vibrate. Mommy’s going to take a nap upstairs. When I come down for dinner prep, I expect the floor spotless—tongue only.”

She turns.

Walks away—hips swaying, bare feet silent on the hardwood.

You’re left kneeling in the kitchen—muzzled, hobbled, plugged and vibrating, cage dripping endlessly, drool pooling beneath your chin in a growing puddle.

The vibration hums low and relentless.

Lunch is over.

Afternoon stretches ahead.

And Slutcunt waits—drooling, leaking, edged—until Mommy decides it’s time for the next meal.

What happens when she returns for dinner prep, vibrating bitch?

Does she make you “earn” your evening feeding by cleaning the dogs again?

Or does she decide Slutcunt needs a new accessory—a tail that matches the paw boots, wagging while you’re knotted?