For one giddy moment, Poppy wonders what would happen if she bent down to lick it off her foot, tasting the salty flavour on her tongue. The woman rot...tes her foot, as if to show off her trophy. “Oh crikey,” thinks Poppy, “she’s doing this on purpose.” To her shame, she feels a little tremor run through her body, a tremor not of shame, but of excitement. Down there, under the table, staring at the woman’s semen-coated toes, she almost feels herself come. Not quite an orgasm, but an unmistakable. Her tits and belly were all sticky now with dried and drying wine. Some of the wine had even run down into her cunt-bush. She was beginning to smell like a wine bottle, but she didn't care. She imagined herself a whore-slave, a tramp. How disgusting she must look! She giggled. If the rich boys could only see Miss Lynn Smith now, she thought. Would they kiss her ass now, or would they piss on her? Who cares? She might enjoy that for once - getting pissed on."Lynn, you're the whore of the earth,". More

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