Cake Tasting

Two days before the wedding, Dorothy took you to one of the most exclusive patisseries in Dominara for the final wedding cake tasting.

The elegant salon was private, reserved only for high-society futanari and their spouses. Soft classical music played in the background as you crawled behind Dorothy on your leash, still wearing the sheer white babydoll dress from the fitting. Your new thin pink collar, steel cage, and all your brands were clearly visible.

The head pastry chef — a refined futa in a crisp uniform — greeted Dorothy warmly, then looked down at you with mild surprise.

“Shall we set a chair for your… bride?” she asked politely.

“No need,” Dorothy replied with a smile. “Slutcunt will taste from the floor.”

They brought out an array of luxurious wedding cakes — miniature versions of different flavors for tasting.

Vanilla bean with champagne buttercream.

Dark chocolate with raspberry.

Lemon lavender.

Red velvet with cream cheese.

Exotic passionfruit and coconut.

Each cake was presented on fine porcelain plates.

Dorothy sat elegantly in a velvet chair and began tasting them with a silver fork, humming in approval at the flavors.

You, however, received “special service.”

The chef placed a large silver platter on the floor in front of you. On it were the leftover scraps, smashed pieces, and the chef’s “special blend” — a mixture of all the cakes combined with:

Dorothy’s fresh piss

Thick globs of cum (from the kitchen staff)

A warm swirl of soft shit from one of the junior chefs

Dorothy looked down at you lovingly.

“Open wide, darling. You need to approve the cake too.”

You lowered your face to the platter and began lapping at the disgusting, sweet-sour-bitter mixture. The rich cake flavors clashed horribly with the piss and waste, turning every bite into pure humiliation. The little bell on your tongue ring jingled softly as you ate like an animal.

Every time you hesitated, Dorothy gently pressed her heel on the back of your head, pushing your face deeper into the mess.

“Be a good wife and clean the plate, Slutcunt.”

The chef and her assistants watched in silence as you licked the platter clean, your face covered in cake, piss, and filth.

Dorothy finally chose the flavor — a luxurious vanilla champagne cake with layers of strawberry compote.

“Excellent choice,” the chef said. “We’ll have the full five-tier cake ready for the ceremony.”

As they packed up, Dorothy wiped your messy face with a silk napkin, then fed you the last clean piece of vanilla cake from her fingers.

“You tasted it well, baby,” she cooed. “Our guests will enjoy the cake… while they watch you eat from a dog bowl under the head table at the reception.”

She leaned down and kissed your messy lips, tasting the filth on them.

“Two more days until you become my wife.”