The cruelty of the thought that she wouldn't be allowed to sit on a cushion or even a hard chair but would be relegated to the dirty, crumb-filled, spit-and-drop-contaminated space on the hard wood beneath the table hit her like a sledgehammer.
The humiliation of being the "table dog," the thing that crawls on all fours under everyone's feet while they eat, was absolutely nauseating.
He didn't give her time to protest or plead further. His long fingers clamped down around one of her wrists, the bone feeling so thin and fragile beneath his hard grip, and he began to drag her off the edge of the cum-slicked mattress.
He wasn't gentle, pulling her legs down the side of the rumpled linens, making sure the sticky residue of her own pussy juice and the fresh piss she had just drunk clung to the back of her calves and heels.
