Under The Table

My friends and I are always making stupid bets with one another, or giving each other juvenile, puerile dares. The stakes vary wildly, from a simple thing like buying someone's dinner to something far less platonic.

One forfeit that always sticks in my mind was the time we made Amelia put most of her meal into her knickers to eat later. I remember watching and giggling when we got home, hoping they didn't notice the slight tinge of jealousy I was feeling as she pulled off her bulging knickers, put them on the coffee table in her front room and eat from them like a horse's nosebag.

I also remember going home that night and masturbating vigorously to that same image. And doing the same thing several times since, sometimes -- but not always -- replacing the image of Amelia with myself. Whose knickers they were often changed in my head, too, as did the contents, but it was always the same basic setup.

This time, though, I lost, and she was in no mood to let me off the hook with a little thing like an expensive bill. I got the impression she had been saving this idea for some time, and the other girls didn't take much convincing that it was a good one. After all, it was usually me that had put them through the worst, messiest dares and forfeits. Like the time I convinced everyone it would be a good idea if Tara, in her tight, white pulling dress, the one that was practically see-through to begin with, should down all of our drinks without swallowing, turning herself into a sort of alcohol fountain, white wine and gin soaking her entire front.

It's a wonder they never caught onto my proclivities, really, but I digress.

This time, I would be made to suffer, they all agreed. As usual, the scenario revolved around us going out for dinner. Instead of a table for five, though, it would be four. I would be sat on the floor underneath the table the whole time. That was the dare. At least, that was the main part of it. I would get scraps, eaten from the other girls' hands if I was lucky, from their feet or from the floor if not, I suppose. I'd soon find out, anyway.

I had pretty mixed feelings about the whole thing, I have to say. Obviously, eating leftovers out of their hands (and that's the best case, least embarrassing scenario, remember) would be pretty degrading. On the other hand, though, the idea of being humiliated like that is a huge turn-on for me. A big part of the reason I had been so cruel and inventive with the other girls' dares and forfeits was so that, when it came to my turn, I would have to suffer. It seemed to have worked.

The pros and cons didn't end there, though. Another problem was the fact that I would struggle to hide my arousal if they did it properly. Yes, I'd been unseen beneath the tablecloth, but they would surely see my flustered face from time to time. And what about when it was all finished and I came back out? Would I be able to supress my excitement? Could I pass it off as giddily going along with the silliness?

Conversely, and perversely, I would enjoy the view up the dresses and skirts of whichever of my friends opted to dress that way. Luckily for me, it was all of them tonight, but that also made the previous issue even worse. What a dilemma.

I tried my best to stay cool as we stepped out of the cool evening air and into warm, subtly-lit waiting area of Alfredo's, but it clearly wasn't working. The girls thought I was just nervous about the dare, noticing how little I was chatting compared to usual. They were sort of right, just not for the right reasons.

The waiter that greeted us looked confused by the fact that Lucy asked for a table for four when there were clearly five of us. Regardless, he led us to a round table in the back of the restaurant, with five seats. I stood awkwardly behind Lucy while the waiter took drink orders -- four drinks, of course. As he left, I was ordered into position.

'Come on,' said Alison. 'Don't you dare try and weasel your way out of this now.'

Of course Alison wasn't going to let me off the hook. None of them were, but Alison was particularly invested in my punishment. She had been victim to one of my better ideas. Or worse, I guess, from her perspective. Well, truth be told, they had all suffered at my hands, but Alison was always the most reluctant, the least willing to join in. She did join in, though. Every single time. She hated it, but clearly didn't want to be the odd one out. That made her the most fun to torment. I know that doesn't reflect well on me, but it's true.

What idea had her so eager to exact her revenge, you ask? Alison had spent an entire night out with the back of her dress pulled up over her waist. She wasn't to know it was mostly so I could ogle her perfectly juicy, round arse in its skimpy white thong all night, but she had been understandably angry about it, nevertheless. It had taken some convincing, even with our history of such silliness, but peer pressure is a hell of a drug.

I flashed her a nervous smile and ducked under the table, checking to make sure nobody else had seen me before I disappeared beneath the tablecloth. At least my humiliation would be relatively private.

For quite a while, the worst thing about my predicament was boredom and a lack of space. It was cramped under a table, surrounded by four sets of legs. I did enjoy the view, I must admit, but having to sit in a cramped space, unable to join in the conversation was dull as dishwater. I could hear every word but was forbidden from joining in -- I was their pet, Amelia had decreed, and pets don't talk. Besides, a disembodied voice coming from the floor would have drawn unwanted attention.

Eventually I heard the waiter return, followed by a chinking of plates being placed on the table. I found myself trying to remember what had been ordered. What was I going to be eating leftovers off? What would I be putting in my underwear or all over my face? I couldn't remember. Plenty of pasta, I assumed, being that we were in an Italian restraint.

I heard the footsteps of the waiter leaving, and it wasn't long until I heard my name being called.

'Katie, good girl, come here.'

It was Lucy. Her fingers tapped on the underside of the table, beckoning me, in case I didn't recognise her legs somehow. The notion was ridiculous, I would know those shapely thighs -- plainly visible to me now, as was her delightfully tacky leopard print thong -- anywhere.

I shifted uncomfortably and put my head on one of those delicious thighs, looking up at her. Any excuse, I thought to myself, only mildly ashamed of myself. Any excuse to touch them, to get my face so close to her precious little cunt.

No, this is only going to make things worse if I start thinking like that so soon. Calm down.

Lucy was my favourite, you see. She was always the most willing to join in with the daftness. She wasn't the best looking -- that honour went to Alison, probably -- but that wasn't the point. Her willingness to try and match my creativity was what drew me to her. The brain is the sexiest body part, after all.

As she moved her other hand towards me, filled with ravioli of some kind, I found myself trying to decide what the worst thing she had endured during our games was. She never backed down, rarely even complained. She rarely complained with any real feeling, anyway, just the odd half-hearted, unconvincing "oh no" every now and then. That was what made her so fun to play with. She was like the opposite of Alison, who was also very fun to play with for the exact opposite reason.

There were only two things I could remember Lucy properly protesting about. There was the time she had been dared to piss in her knickers and leave them on for the whole night. Fair enough -- I'd complain about that, too. Several of the other girls did, too, having to put up with the smell all night. The other was when we tied her hands behind her back for a meal. That was more about the expensive dress she had soaked in noodle broth and hoisin sauce than the act itself, though.

Anyway, speaking of food, here was my first bite. I opened my mouth and bunted her fingers with my nose. She couldn't see me, so she had to feel her way to my mouth, spilling pasta sauce all over my chin. It was messy, but it would be a miracle if that was the worst it got tonight. Her fingers found my mouth soon enough and she deposited the pasta parcels inside, but not before I had sucked her fingers clean of sauce. Presumably she thought nothing of it, or else she assumed it was an accident, but I could have sucked those slippery fingers all night if she would have let me.

She didn't, of course. They were gone as soon as the sauce had. She even wiped her fingers through the front of my long blonde hair for good measure, matting several strands together with pasta sauce and saliva. Properly degrading someone is all in the details, I've always thought, and so has Lucy, apparently.

I didn't have to wait long for another morsel. Amelia's hand appeared under the tablecloth, her index finger beckoning me in a motion I would have very much liked to feel up close and personal.

She said nothing and I was forbidden from speaking, so I put my head in her lap. Ostensibly, this was to let her know I had recognised the signal, but by now you can figure out the real reason I did it.

She grinned down at me playfully, but instead of feeding me pasta, she lifted a soup spoon, blew on it theatrically, and turned it over so its contents -- minestrone, I believe -- splattered all over the side of my face.

That was it. As the soup ran down my chin and down the back of my neck, she continued eating, leaving me to my own sloppy devices. I wasn't allowed to wipe myself clean in any way, so I returned to sitting quietly under the table, enjoying the view, trying not to focus on the feeling of thick soup running down the inside of my dress.

Fortunately, I suppose, sort of, it wasn't long until I had another distraction. Not wanting to be left out of the fun, Alison rapped her fingers on the underside of the table. I shuffled over to her and assumed the position of a hungry pet dog once more.

She rewarded me, if you can call it that, with a handful of Spaghetti Carbonara. Not satisfied with smothering my face as the others had done, though, she reached further down and deposited the slimy strands of pasta into my cleavage. They slithered down like stringy little worms into my bra, creamy sauce soaking my breasts and dribbling down my tummy.

Satisfied with her handiwork, she left me to wallow just like the other two had done. Things were escalating quickly now. Even as I moved back into the middle of my cramped space, I could feel the wriggling mass of slippery spaghetti shifting with me.

I didn't even have time to get comfortable, if such a thing was even possible in the circumstances, before Tara decided she wouldn't be the only one not adding to my debasement.

I shuffled to her side of the table, spaghetti shuffling around with me, and put the cleaner left side of my face in her lap, presenting her the soup-soaked right side. But instead of immediately adding to my woes, she nudged me away, leaving me puzzled for just a moment. I say just a moment, because as soon as I gave her an inch of room, she kicked off her shoes and smeared her nylon-clad feet with some sort of tomato-based sauce. I didn't know what it was exactly, but I did know I was going to find out.

I had to wriggle around awkwardly -- jiggling the spaghetti in my cleavage yet again -- to get proper access to her feet, but I knew what I had to do. I start to lap at her slimy feet, noting a slight kick of spice to the sauce. It was quite tasty, but that was hardly the point. The point was to make me feel pathetic by having to lick my friend's feet. It worked, and oh my goodness it got me excited. I was finally getting my comeuppance and it felt incredible.

By the time she pulled her feet away I could hear the unmistakable sound of Tara giggling. I was sad to see her pretty little feet -- now clean of sauce, but damp with saliva -- retreating, but the jig would have been up if I'd tried to hang onto them and carry on licking and sucking her toes. Instead, I let her think I was just doing what I had to.

Tara might have had enough for now, but Lucy decided I needed to suffer further. I wriggled my way over to her but she put a hand on my forehead and stopped me from putting my face in her lap. Instead, she pointed to the ground and made a little circle with her finger, ordering me to turn back around. Uh-oh.

I did as I was ordered, of course, turning my arse towards her, feeling very vulnerable all of a sudden. For the first time that night, I felt genuinely uncomfortable. I might enjoy being humiliated and degraded, but I'm very shy about my arse. I'll wear a low-cut top, no problem. I was wearing a very short skirt that very night, so you know I have no issue with flashing my legs. But my arse, well, it's sort of big. I know a lot of guys like that, and it's not as if it's huge or anything, but I'm very self-conscious about it.

Given the type of friends we are, it's probably not a surprise that Lucy knew about my weakness. So, as she lifted the flap of my skirt -- which barely covered my cheeks in the first place -- I knew that she knew how anxious I was feeling. A skimpy thong was all that was protecting my fleshy, round cheeks from whatever she was going to do. Even that was practically disappearing, my bent-over position pushing the elastic to its extremes.

She managed to pull it away from my arse anyway, despite the tightness, giving me a painful wedgie at the same time. I'll never know whether that was on purpose, but the way the fabric rubbed against my pussy lips was both agonising and incredibly arousing. I think I might have even let out a little grunt of pleasure, but it must have gone unheard in the din because somebody definitely would have commented if they had heard it.

The wedgie was just a taster, though. An appetiser. Seconds later, I felt her other hand slide down the inside of my thong. When it left there was a heavy, slimy little mass of what I had to assume was more ravioli. My thong snapped back into place, squelching the sauce-soaked pasta against my bum, and forcing out some of its contents. As if that wasn't enough, Lucy finished up by giving the whole thing -- arse, thong and pasta mess -- a firm slap. The yelp that elicited definitely was heard, because it was met with raucous laughter from the girls.

Now I was starting to feel properly humiliated. I was still aroused -- I can't help myself -- but the shame was real, especially as I felt my fleshy buttocks jiggling from Lucy's slap. I could feel my other cheeks burning red with shame, and I was somewhat glad to move back to the centre of the table, even if it did mean the ravioli shifting and squelching in my thong like the spaghetti in my bra. At least it also meant my skirt fell back into place, which helped to calm me a little. It was silly, I knew; nobody could see me under here anyway. But I felt better with my rear end covered.

I was left alone for a while then. On the one hand, it meant no more humiliation for a while but on the other, it meant I had to wallow in what had already happened. I so badly wanted to play with the mess, to play with myself, but I knew I couldn't. Not here.

I sighed with frustration but, over the din of conversation, I heard my friends ordering dessert. I wouldn't be alone with my libido for long. The thought of Amelia's freezing cold ice-cream against my skin didn't sound particularly enticing, but I knew it wasn't just the thought of its chill making me shiver.

When I heard Lucy ordering Tiramisu, I knew they were deliberately trying to find messy things just for me. She doesn't even like coffee. That was also when I started to realise the dessert course was going to be even messier than the mains: I would be getting the entirety of Lucy's pudding, and that was just one of the four. Amelia might want her ice-cream, but I couldn't even hear what the other two asked for. A pleasant surprise awaited, no doubt.

I would have to wait a while longer to find out, because, once dessert arrived, Amelia was the first to signal me. She held out a scooped ball of gelato in her hand, but when I went to eat it, she spread her fingers and smothered my face with the soft, cold cream, giggling as she ruined my makeup and made my face stickier than ever. I once again managed to lick some of it from her fingers, but the damage was done.

There was no waiting around now, though. Alison was quick to beckon me when she saw Amelia had finished.

'Seems like a waste, but I can't resist,' she told me as she lifted an entire panna cotta from the table. It did look tasty, but I had a feeling I wouldn't be eating much of it. Still, I half-heartedly moved to take a bite out of it, as if encouraging her to go easy on me.

It didn't work. 'Sit down,' she said plainly.

I did so, my legs spread out on the tiles in front of me. She handed the whole plate to me and spoke again: 'I can't get down there to help, so I want you to dump that in your own knickers, there's a good girl.'

They just kept finding new ways to make this more degrading. Now I had to administer my own punishment? Great. What choice did I have, though? Don't get me wrong, a very large part of me wanted to put it in there. I just didn't want to give them the satisfaction of doing as I was told. On the other hand, the act of pretending to be disgusted by it was all part of the fun for me. I really was disgusted by it, of course, but that's also part of the fun. It's complicated.

Never mind what a therapist might have said about it, I stuffed the pudding into my already bulging, sagging knickers. Fistful by fistful, in it went, without a moment's hesitation. Oh god it felt strange, but oh so good. Clammy, gelatinous, and cold. It shifted and squelched around just like the spaghetti, but thicker, heavier. It's hard to put into words exactly what it felt like, but I highly recommend finding out for yourself.

I don't know if I could have fit much more into those overflowing knickers, so it was lucky for me that this place seemed to pride itself on presentation and quality over quantity. Some of the gunk that had already been there was long gone, but I managed to get all of Alison's jellylike dessert in there, stuffed tight against my gooey, sticky cunt.

Tara was next. She couldn't have known I had finished, but her timing was impeccable. She summoned me before I could even mentally adjust to the new, unfamiliar feeling in my knickers. Before I could properly enjoy it.

Never the most adventurous of the group when it came to eating out, her hand came down to my eye-line holding a wedge of lemon cheesecake. This was not the stodgy, baked stuff you find in the supermarket. It was fresh, creamy-looking, and smelled deliciously citrusy. I found myself hoping she would want me to eat it out of her hands, or that she would at least have me suck her fingers clean.

No such luck, though. She splatted it unceremoniously on top of my head, then rubbed it in, smearing it through my hair and all over my scalp like shampoo. That made me cringe like I hadn't cringed all night. No matter what kind of messy antics you get up to, there's just something singularly horrid about having slim rubbed into your hair and scalp. My whole body shivered as I recoiled in horror at the greasy sensation on top of my head.

At least it was over relatively quickly, which just left Lucy and her tiramisu. Well, I hoped so. I've been mean to the girls in the past, but I assumed being scalded with coffee was out of the question.

I didn't have a long wait for Lucy and, unsurprisingly, her dessert was untouched. She really had chosen it just for me. The surface was untouched, undamaged by any spoon. Even the cocoa dusting on top was pristine.