Under The Table

I wondered where she was going to put it. All the obvious targets had been slathered and slimed at least once. There was always the option of dumping it into my thong, forcing out the incumbent gunk, but probably getting the strongest bodily reaction available. Then there were my breasts, not untouched, but with probably the most room left. The spaghetti had only been joined by spillages from the stuff that had been splattered in my face and on my head, so there was plenty of space left in my bra.

It almost felt as if she was reading my mind, the way she held the plate, making me wait. Making me dwell on the thought. Then, slowly, carefully, she put her tiramisu on the floor. I wondered if she wanted me to eat it like that, the way we'd made her eat without her hands that time. Part of me hoped that was the case, because the only alternative I could think of was... oh. It was that.

'Have a seat,' she said, pushing the plate further under the table with her foot.

If moving around under the table had been difficult beforehand, having to lift myself up enough to slide something underneath my bum was almost impossible. I'm no contortionist, so I banged my head several times just trying to get the dessert into position. My movement shifted all the other slop around, of course, and each sudden jolt I made when bashing into the table made it even worse. The beauty of this whole setup was that I was never given much time to adjust to my current circumstance. I was constantly having to move around to collect the next part of my punishment, constantly sloshing the gunk around.

Sitting onto the plate with a soft landing and a quiet squelch, I struggled not to giggle. I was sure that half the restaurant knew something was going on under this table, but I didn't need to draw more attention to it. Still, have you ever felt tiramisu spreading out beneath your buttocks and thighs? No? Believe me, it's difficult to do anything but laugh. The sensation is utterly ridiculous, even compared to what I'd already been through.

I would like to say that I had no ability to control the wriggle I did afterwards. I would like to claim it was an involuntary response to physical stimuli, like the giggling. That would be a lie, though, and I think even you know that by now. I'm sure I could have made it convincing if anyone had seen me, but I absolutely did it on purpose. I wanted to feel the soft, sloppy dessert spreading out underneath me. I want to press it against my skin, and revel in the liberating absurdity of it. So, I did.

I wanted to delve into my bulging, slop-soaked knickers and finger-fuck myself dizzy. God, I wanted something in my mouth. I wanted something long and firm in all my holes, right then and there. The urge was starting to become overwhelming, but even I have limits. It was one thing to quietly, secretly enjoy my supposed punishment. It would be quite another to masturbate in a public place, at the feet of my best friends, all of whom would quickly figure out what was going on. I'm not the quiet type.

I fought down the urge and kept up the charade. As far as they knew I was a normal woman, just playing along with our not-quite-so-normal games. The dares and punishments were silly and weird, but we were all in on that together. None of the girls actively enjoyed it like I do, as far as I know. Huh, now there's a thought.

I had a bit longer for such thoughts now, as everyone was done with dessert, and so, apparently, was I. I wondered if they were letting me stew in my own juices -- there were plenty of them -- or if they were just chatting and waiting for the bill. From my position I could only make out snatches of conversation, but I had not picked up on anyone ordering coffee or anything else.

I wasn't sure how to feel about the ordeal presumably coming to an end. I was a little disappointed, but I knew there was no way I was realistically going to turn the climax into a climax. Then there was relief at the thought that I could home, albeit via a potentially difficult-to-negotiate taxi ride and have that climax after all. That was quickly followed by trepidation at the thought of said taxi ride and at the thought of being seen by the rest of the punters in the restaurant, not to mention the staff. I would never be able to show my face here again. It was quite the rollercoaster of emotions, all wrapped up in less than a minute.

One of the girls, I was too wrapped up in my thoughts to figure out who, called my name. 'Time to go,' she said. It was Lucy, of course, ever the willing tormenter.

Uncomfortably, I wriggled my way out of my hiding hole. More unwelcome movement of various foodstuffs followed, as did more leaking and spillage. I would have felt bad for the restaurant staff if I wasn't too busy feeling sorry for myself. Spaghetti slithered out of my cleavage, ravioli oozed down my thighs and all kinds of mess dribbled onto the floor as I wriggled my way out of my prison. Stretched out on my hands and knees, it still wasn't the most dignified of positions, but being out of that cramped space was an improvement. Now to get up.

It wasn't the simple matter of improving my predicament as it might seem at first glance. Firstly, the movement of getting to my feet was going to shift the gunk around worse than ever. Secondly, there would be no hiding once I was upright. I would visible, in all my slimy glory, to everyone in the restaurant. I would be a spectacle -- a greasy, dirty, disgrace of a spectacle.

Fuck it, I thought, and pulled myself up with as much grace as I could muster. You wanted this, I reminded myself. Let them see you. It wasn't as if I had much choice now anyway.

I glanced around, first at my friends. They were in hysterics, of course -- who could blame them? Then I looked, briefly, around the restaurant. Some customers were pointedly ignoring us, stern looks on their face, and who could blame them either? Others were gawking, either in horror or sheer curiosity. I'm certain a few of the men with partners there were struggling not to look too interested in what I was doing, but I didn't dare let my gaze rest on anyone long enough to make eye contact.

Lastly, I looked down at myself. I was in a truly absurd state. My clothes were matted to me, clinging to my body in quite an appealing way, if I say so myself. The slop might have put some people off, but the way the sodden material clung to my curves was pleasing.

I readjusted my skirt almost without thinking about it, realising that it had ridden up in the act of freeing myself. Even now -- even though I had plenty of other things to be ashamed of -- I was quick to cover my bum. There was nothing I could do for the rest of the outfit, short of stripping off and throwing it in the bin. The idea did appeal, but not enough to override my instinct for social self-preservation. It would come out in the wash, eventually. Probably.

'Come on then,' Lucy said. 'Ladies first.'

She wanted me to lead them out of the restaurant. Of course she did. She wanted to parade me through the place, letting everyone get one last look at the ridiculous figure. It was exactly what I would have done in her shoes.

I turned towards the door, staring directly ahead of myself at all times, and traipsed towards it. I wasn't dripping or oozing quite as much by now, but I'm fairly sure I still left a trail. I didn't stop to check. I knew people were still staring. I could feel their eyes on me and I could hear them muttering. Just like when I'd been under the table, I could only make out the odd word here and there. 'Why' was a common one; 'fuck' was another, as in 'what the.'

One woman didn't even try to keep her disdain quiet. She looked right at me and told me I was a 'disgusting skank.' I kept on walking but noticed the way the guy sat at opposite side of her the woman's table was pointedly looking at anything else but me. Oh, to be a fly on that couple's bedroom wall later tonight.

The words mostly bounced off me. Normally, the reaction of the public, especially jealous girlfriends, was part of the fun. Verbal abuse is one of my favourite turn-ons, whatever the source. Tonight, though, my humiliation had reached saturation point. Nothing anyone said to me, no matter how personal or specific, could surpass the walk of shame from our table to the restaurant door. And, oh my God, I've never been so red.