Hidyo. It’s been a loooong while since I’ve had time to work on one of these stories, and I hope it will be enjoyed.

Standard disclaimers apply, comments always welcome.

***

BETTY’S BIRTHDAY

by MessyBoy

***

“Happy birthday!” Betty rolled the words around in her mind once again. What image did those words bring to mind? Presents, friends, family, and birthday cake. Or so it was for most people. But Betty had been raised in a household which didn’t really emphasize birthdays all that much, and certainly her friends at school were too busy to keep track of who was born when. She could understand, of course. And she didn’t really need the presents, or the company. She had friends any day of the year, and money enough. But still…the teenaged beauty looked herself over in the mirror. But still, she would be celebrating.

Betty was wearing the outfit she had been saving, hidden away, for several months. When she had first started dabbling in food-play those many moons ago, she had gone about her adventures dressed in worn-out, forgettable clothes of yesteryear. But from the evening she raided the kitchen to explore her interests in full, she knew that she would someday be getting very messy in a fine outfit fit for the formallest of formal celebrations. And she would, indeed, be wearing it for a very special celebration of sorts. She examined herself carefully. This was her birthday, and she wanted everything to be perfect for her and Cindy. Cindy, her friend and of late lover, easily the most important person in Betty’s life—although she could never let anyone else know about that. For Cindy, she would look nice. And look nice she did. Of course Betty always drew above and beyond the standard level of attention, but tonight—a beautiful dress, purchased months ago specifically for this purpose and hidden away till it was forgotten, black and white, buttoned up tightly around her sleek, sexy form. It was complemented by a pair of high heels which, if not new, certainly still fit and still looked wonderful. Betty sighed and spun around lightly. This would be a very special evening. A very special birthday.

All seemed well enough as she drove up to the lakeside summer home of Cindy’s family. After the first weekend Cindy and Betty had spent there, they agreed to make it their official messy place for all their experiments and escapades. It had been a while since their last, and both of them were growing restless. Betty knew that Cindy had been putting aside most of her messy fund—a large portion of her sizeable allowance—in savings for tonight’s fun. She had managed, with some difficulty, to keep from either swerving off the road due to shaky hands or pulling over to touch herself. Anticipation was all that ran through her head as she walked up to the door and rang the bell. There was a short pause, and for a terrifying moment Betty wondered if something had gone wrong—but then the door opened, and Cindy, dressed in a very flattering and probably very expensive blue formal gown stood in the dimmed lights of the house.

Neither girl spoke a word—their faces did all the talking. Two pairs of twinkling, excited eyes, two loving smiles. Cindy led the way through the house and into the large, tiled kitchen where the electric lights were all turned off in favor of candles, which did a perfect job of illuminating the room but added that special touch of romance and mystique. Betty could only stand wide-eyed as Cindy stepped forward and pulled covers off tall lumps on the floor to reveal one of the tastiest sights she’d ever seen. Three simply enormous cakes, each larger than the largest wedding cake Betty had ever seen, and all heavy with chocolate frosting. The sweet, smooth smell of chocolate filled Betty’s nose as she watched the moist cakes glistening in the candlelight. As she stood there dumbly, considering the size of the cakes, the largest of which was as high as her shoulders, Cindy stood silently and watched her stare open-mouthed at the feast before her. When it looked as if Betty was just about to go mad and jump into the cakes, Cindy spoke at last. “They weren’t easy to get. I had to do the baker a few favors. But it’ll be worth it, I hope. Happy birthday, love.” Betty tore her eyes away from the cakes and gazed at another treat, Cindy. Betty wanted words to explain how happy and grateful she was, but she could only nod, and suddenly look sorry that she couldn’t show her thankfulness any more. Cindy, as usual, was able to guess what was in her head and made her smile even warmer. “It’s all right,” she said. “I understand how you feel. Now, are you ready?”

Betty had never been more ready for anything in her life. She nodded again and waited for Cindy to make the first move, which she did. Stepping around the cakes, Cindy took her friend’s hand and they wordlessly stepped forward into the first cake. Betty felt her first two steps fall on hard, solid, clickety-clack floor. The third sunk leisurely into a soft, warm place. Betty stopped, Cindy along with her, and both looked down to see their first feet planted in the cake. The surface of the chocolate tower was for the most part undisturbed; one place was smooth and flat as ever, and the next had a leg sticking out of it. Slowly Betty pulled her foot out of the cake, losing the shoe, and saw her foot coated thickly with gooey chocolate frosting and moist, heavy chocolate cake. Without a word she knelt down, reached into the cake, and took her shoe. Careful not to spill any of its chocolatey contents, she pulled it back out, completely filled with chocolate frosting and cake, and eased her foot into it. Yes. That was it. As her foot slid into the shoe and the chocolate oozed out of the edges, she stared at the ruined shoe and knew that there was no going back. She was going to destroy good, expensive, beautiful clothing, and it was going to feel good. It already did. The wetness at her crotch, which was becoming more and more pronounced, told her that. She glanced up at Cindy for approval for what she was about to do, and got a smile and a nod. This was -her- day, for the first time ever.

Feeling like a naughty, naughty child, Betty stood up and repeated the whole process for her other foot, again savoring the feel of the cake enveloping her, of her foot entering the mess-filled shoe, of the sight of her ruined footwear. Now she had ruined two shoes…what was next? Impulse hit her and she reached for the top of the cake, grabbed off a full handful of pure frosting, and brought it straight to her crotch, rubbing up and down across the dark fabric, quickly stimulating her close to the point of orgasm. Licking her lips, she again knelt down in front of the cake and did something which in the back of her mind she had always wanted to do. She hugged the enormous cake.

Her arms sank easily into the frosting and then met resistance. Moving them up and down the sensation of moving her arms through a thick layer of frosting continued to turn her on. She leaned closer and brought the front of her dress to the cake. So much for the white parts of that outfit. Pressing herself tightly into the pastry embrace, she felt the frosting press against her ample chest and hard nipples. Again the pleasure built. Finally she brought her cheek up to the cake and gently nuzzled her new friend’s body. The sensation of the chocolate against her, as well as the constant idea that she was being, well, bad, were too much, and she broke through pleasure and sank full into the cake.

But Cindy pulled her out. Though she did want her friend to have the best possible time, Cindy wanted a little fun too. And she got it, simply by looking up and down at her. She was, to put it plainly, a mess. Chocolate frosting completely covered her arms and face, and the front of her dress especially was smeared and slathered with chocolate which filled every wrinkle in the fabric. Betty’s stony nipples stuck out through the whole mess as well and served well to complete the image of a wealthy and well-to-do woman getting down and dirty. Betty sighed in pleasure as she looked down and saw much the same thing herself. This was fun.

Careful not to trip, Cindy led her around to the second cake, slightly taller than the first and without any of the damage Betty had caused. Licking her lips excitedly, Cindy told Betty to straddle herself over the cake, which she did, one foot planted on either side. Betty’s eyes widened as she guessed correctly what she was about to do. Cindy told her to take a seat, which she did with great emotion.

Simple text descriptions cannot truly describe what it is to see a beautiful girl, well-dressed, smeared in chocolate, and heavily turned on, sit down in an enormous chocolatey cake. Words like gooey, oozy, and such come immediately to mind, but the truth is that Betty simply sank into the cake. She was surrounded by its soft mass up to her shoulders and she moved her arms, hips, and legs slowly about in the chocolate to receive all the pleasure she could. This was suddenly augmented by a trickle, then a pouring of a thick, heavy, goo onto her head. She didn’t even have to guess at this—it was warm chocolate sauce being poured on her by Betty. She looked and felt a total mess—in a good way. After she hit orgasm again she decided to pull herself out and have a good look at herself.

With a good deal of effort she did so, pulling herself out of the weighty cake and examining her clothing. It was now near impossible to tell exactly where the dress ended and her skin began, as both were very liberally layered with chocolate frosting and spongy cake. She felt suddenly a bit dizzy and might have fallen over had Cindy not caught her (getting herself rather messy in the process). “Thanks,” Betty whispered, but the response came in the form of an eager hand reaching from behind to happily smear the chocolate up and down Betty’s legs, crotch, and chest. A moan came from Betty’s lips, and suddenly Cindy was in front of her and brought her own lips into the scenario. A kiss—between a clean face and a chocolate one. Their lips opened into each other and Betty’s mouth was filled with the chocolate sauce Cindy had been carrying in hers. Two tongues slid around each other in the goo for a time until Cindy pulled hers out and began enthusiastically licking Betty’s face clean. Soon enough that task was done, and Cindy, outfit now ruined as well, led Betty over to the third and largest cake, which the girls could just barely see over. This had of course been the most expensive, but it would be worth it.

Silently Cindy peeled off Betty’s sticky, heavy clothing, letting fall to the floor in a sticky mess what had once been a dear, pricey little instrument of beauty. Cindy’s clothes, thoroughly ruined by her embraces with Betty, also went. The two girls stood naked, both trembling, and then collapsed, squirming, into the enormous cake. Surprise! Betty had noticed that the third cake looked a little oddly shaped, and she discovered why—it was, by some feat of the bakery business, made entirely of frosting! Blindly she crawled through the chocolate pile, completely and totally covered in every place by thick frosting. Her mind flashed on cartoons where characters had been trapped in food-based prisons and had considered eating their way out. At this point it wouldn’t have looked like such an unenticing prospect, had Betty wanted to leave. Then she felt Cindy’s arms, also within the chocolate pile, grope at her slowly. Their movements hindered by the thickness of the chocolate, they eventually found their way to Betty’s breasts and massaged them through the goo. After an all-too-short moment of this, the hands quickly found Betty’s hips. A few quick rubs were all that was needed to bring Betty into the ultimate orgasm. Here she was, naked, encased in a mountain of chocolate—god, Cindy had to have been saving forever—with the skillful hands of her lover caressing her love box. She burst from the chocolate pile with a scream of delight. Then it fell to a simple yet fantastically fun pleasure trip as Cindy pulled her down to the floor, which due to their efforts was now simply one enormous pile of frosting and cake, and brought her into a wrestling session the likes of which will never be seen from the WWF.

Clump after clump of gooey chocolate plastered into Betty’s face, ass, crotch, chest, arms, feet, whatever, and she gave as good as she got. Her arms slithered around Cindy’s slippery body and her fingers tickled at whatever spot they found. Finally she knew the grand finale was approaching. Cindy brought up her two hands, heaped to the brim with frosting, and rubbed the pile straight at Betty’s crotch. The cheerleader gasped, then again as she felt Cindy’s tongue through the chocolate, eating away at the pile, then licking around her sex carefully, then finally around her clit and love tunnel, with fingers oddly lending helping hands. As Betty sank backwards and felt a big pile of chocolate squeeze up into her ass, she orgasmed once again, and finally sank backwards, lying down in the chocolate in exhaustion. Eyes closed, or maybe open and covered with chocolate, she heard Cindy say, “Here, make a wish,” and could tell there was a candle in front of her face. Blowing it out, she made her wish.

“What did you wish for?” asked Cindy’s voice, now closer.

“For you to do this again next year,” Betty answered with a final sigh before she drifted off into the best sleep she’d ever had.

THE END

***

—MessyBoy

Mon, 14 Mar 2005 18:00:00 +0000 Messy

Betty’s Kitchen Raid by MessyBoy

***

Betty sighed. It had been quite some time—at least a couple weeks—since her first experience with foodplay, and she wanted some more. Not peanut butter, although she liked it. It was just that she wanted to try out a variety of things, and besides the peanut butter had been a pain to clean out of the bathtub. No, this time she was going to try a lot of different things. And this time she was locking the door. She didn’t want to exclue her friend Cindy from normal messy activities, but this was more of an experiment for herself, to determine what sort of thing she would do in the future.

To that end, she decided not to go full-body with anything. Still, she was aware that things might get out-of-control (either accidentally or deliberately), so she decided to dress appropriately. She stood naked in her bedroom, breathing heavily and becoming aroused just thinking about what she was about to do. Last time she had begun the peanut butter massage as part of what she thought was a beauty treatment, but now she was doing something messy purely for the pleasure it gave her. It made her feel naughty—this was not the way a normal teenage girl from a wealthy, upstanding family was supposed to act—and that, in turn, made her even more aroused. She studied the outfit she had worn for the peanut butter episode. She knew her way around a washing machine, and the t-shirt, jeans, and panties merely looked as if they had gotten some spaghetti spilled on them and then gone through several long washes. For the sake of the dollar, she decided to use this same outfit—perhaps for future, full-scale experiments she would wear something different. Maybe even something expensive. That put a rush through her. The thought of getting messy in a fancy new outfit from a top fashion store really made her feel naughty. Finally she got dressed, putting on the faded pink panties, the faded blue jeans, and the faded t-shirt. She studied herself in the mirror, smiled at her sexy teenage figure, and turned for the stairs to head for the kitchen. Once there, she pondered how she would start. Small, of course.

Her parents were again out to one of their long dinner parties, and since they had left a good half hour ago, Betty knew that they had not forgotten anything and would not be back for a couple of hours. That gave her plenty of time. She opened the fridge and scanned its contents. The first thing she pulled out was a bottle of Hershey’s syrup. She hesitated, then thought, “Now or never,” and pulled off the little plastic cap, held her hand over the sink, and squeezed the bottle. Nothing happened. Feeling like an idiot, she withdrew the bottle and her hand and pulled up the stopper so the syrup would flow. And flow it did. She had forgotten to stop squeezing the bottle, and instantly a small fountain of chocolate syrup flew out of the top of the bottle, splattering her face, some of the kitchen counter, and a lot of the top of the bottle with the syrup. She set the bottle down and began rubbing the syrup off her face. Of course, that wasn’t terribly bright either—or was it—as it only turned the right side of her face into a big, sticky chocolate smear. She happened to glance over at the microwave and saw her reflection in its door. She giggled. The right side of her face looked just as it felt–stick, with a very thin layer of chocolate just barely obscuring her skin. “Oh well,” she said, out loud. She then went back to the hand. Turning the bottle upside down and holding it several inches from her hand, she squeezed. A thin drizzle came out, forming a tiny pool of syrup on her hand. She squeezed harder and the drizzle increased slightly. Growing slightly frustrated, she squeezed the bottle with all her might and suddenly the entire cup of her left hand was filled with the syrup. She set the bottle down and pondered her hand. She didn’t feel anything, really. It was as if the syrup was simply resting on her hand, instead of coating it. “Aha!” she thought, “I need to rub it around!” And so she did, moving her left hand up to her right arm and rubbing it up and down. Her arm turned dark, much like her face, and as she rubbed its entire surface she began to feel twinges of pleasure. That was the way to go about it. She switched hands, almost causing the bottle to slip out of her hands, which somehow managed to be sticky and slippery at the same time, and filled her right hand the same way. Soon her left arm was covered as well, and she felt her crotch growing damp. Not thinking, she brought a hand down to soothe it, and suddenly found the crotch of her jeans lightly smeared with chocolate syrup. That was no good.

Suddenly she heard a car door slam and panicked. How could she have missed hearing a car pull up? She spun about the kitchen wildly, trying to think of what to do. The kitchen did not attach directly to the garage, but her parents were sure to come in there to check the answering machine. She did the only thing she could do—toss the syrup into the fridge, wash out the little bits that were in the sink, and hope for the best.

Hope for the best? That was crazy! She had only a few seconds until her parents would reach the kitchen, and when they did, she would be doomed. The embarassment of facing her parents with her face, hands, and jeans inexplicably chocolate-covered would be too much. Knowing she didn’t have time to get far enough away from the kitchen to reach the bathroom without seeming suspicious, she grabbed the only thing in sight—oven mitts—and slipped them on. With their help, she was able to wipe off most of the chocolate on her face—maybe missing a few bits around the chin. She hoped that in the dim lights they wouldn’t notice.

Suddenly she realized that something was wrong. Surely they would have been in the house by now. Walking to the window, she poked up the venetian blinds and saw the lights on outside the house across the street. So that was it. She sighed with relief. It hadn’t been her parents after all. Just to be sure, she peeked through the garage window, and saw an empty garage. She sighed again. It was all right. Still…she would have to be careful. As she walked back to the sink she became aware that she was even more aroused than she had been before. She noticed that the sensation of the slightly chocolated hands moving about within the mitts was quite interesting, and attributed it to that. It certainly couldn’t be the fear of being discovered—could it?

Time to look into that clothed sensation she was getting from the mitts. She pulled those off and decided to retire to a safer location. First, she would load up on the things she was planning to experiment with. She set the bottle of chocolate syrup aside after capping it (no need to have any spills on the way) and decided to see what else was around. She found a few cans of spray-style whipped cream, and took one. Then a six-pack of little pudding cups, way back in the fridge. She took three. Digging around even further, she took a stick of butter, which might turn out to be interesting, and then closed the fridge, turning to the pantry. The first thing she saw was several large jugs of maple syrup. Now that would be interesting. She took one. Also, some instant Chef Boyardee. She had thought of spaghetti earlier—why not? She didn’t want to burn herself and also there was no reason to waste time, so she took it cold. At last, with chocolate, maple syrup, butter, pasta, and whipped cream, she was ready to go.

She entered the bathroom and locked the door. She saw herself in the mirror and sighed. All that lovely chocolate was indeed gone from her face. Well, that would be remedied—soon enough. She stepped into the bathtub, and still standing up, she wondered what to try first. The first thing her eyes fell on was the stick of butter. “May as well start there,” she said, setting everything else on the floor outside the tub. She began to work on the wrapper on the butter, which was always a daunting task, but finally managed to peel it off. Examining the stick, she suddenly wondered what she would do with it. She rolled it around in her hands, pondering and noticing a slimy feeling, a lot like oil. It was a sticky feeling, but a different kind of sticky.

“I know!” she thought. Blushing to no one, she reached around her back, pulled the back of her jeans and panties away from her, and dropped the stick down against her ass. She released the panties and jeans and found herself standing with a stick of butter halfway stuck in the crack of her ass. “Now I just have to wait for it to melt,” she thought. After a minute of drumming her fingers, she gave up on that and decided to speed things up—by sitting down. She lowered herself to the floor and sat down. She then leaned back, putting all her weight on the butter, which began to smoosh around and melt a bit inside her. She slid back and forth on the floor of the tub, and with each slide the butter loosened up a bit more. Finally she decided she’d gotten things going and that it would be best to move on. Even as she stood up, though, she felt the big, slimy stick of butter in her ass and trembled in animal lust. Lust? For the mess? She thought about that, but the feeling of the oily butter oozing around her ass and dripping down into her panties made it hard to think, so she decided to go the next step. Examining her “stuff,” she picked up the chocolate syrup bottle and decided to finish it off. Just how she realized immediately.

She pulled off the plastic stopper and then, after a moment’s hesitation, unscrewed the cap, her heart pounding. She brought the bottle up close to her nose and saw the chocolate, so very close to her now. She even smelled it, a sweet, smooth, loving taste. Finally she could stand it no more. With her other hand she pulled out the front of her jeans and panties now—in the process bringing the butter even further into her asscrack—and turned the bottle upside down inside her panties. In a few seconds she felt her undergarments filled with the thick, oh-so-thick syrup. It swirled around her sex, tickling it, playing with it, and as the bottle emptied, her panties filled. She withdrew the bottle and let her clothes return to place. Now chocolate was spilling out of her panties and onto her legs, sliding slowly down within her jeans. She moved back and forth, rocking her hips, feeling the chocolate more or less trapped with as it played with her sex and mixed slightly with the butter. The rocking motion took over her, and she became a slave to the pleasure the chocolate was bringing her as it smoothly slid around her body—and, gradually, into it. She shook with delight. This was so wrong—and yet, so good.

Now she found herself in a state of near-desperation. Even as she approached orgasm, the pleasure the chocolate brought her decreased every second as the sensations became more familiar. She needed something else, and as she looked down to see the whipped cream, she knew what it was. She had always had a sort of wish to be hit with a pie, and while she didn’t have a pie tin, she could make do. She brought the can of whipped cream up in front of her face, gulped, and pushed down on the stopper. Suddenly her vision was gone in a creamy blur. All she had seen was a spray of goo coming at her, for an instant, and then nothing. She wiped some of the gunk out of her eyes, and thought, “This is not gonna do it for me.” She had a thought, and decided to let the whipped cream join the chocolate below. Again pulling the front of her clothes away from her, she emptied the bottle down into the chocolately mass, and after tossing the bottle onto the bathmat, she set both hands to work rubbing. The chocolate began to mix with the cream, producing new sensations, along with the new sensation of touching herself while messy. She felt herself rising towards the ultimate wave of pleasure, and as it came, she screamed—screamed, out loud—-in raw delight, sinking to the floor as it ended, her blue-jean knees resting in a small puddle of chocolate syrup drippings.

After a minute she sighed. That had been wonderful. She surveyed the remainder of her supplies. The maple syrup. After a moment, she thought, “To hell with my hair,” and upended the bottle over her beautiful golden locks, which flattened out as if hit by a ton of water as the slimy goo slowly spread over them. As it began to drip down onto her face, she realized that unlike the other things she had been using, and contrary to what she had expected, the syrup was indeed slimy, not stick, and she found that it was a sensation she enojoyed. She rubbed it into her skin—“To hell with my skin”—and then decided to ruin her shirt. She brought the bottle down, placed it just above her rapidly hardening nipples, and squeezed. Her shirt turned instantly transparent, revealing her impressive chest, and she began to again rock in pleasure as the slime travelled along. She continued to pour directly at her breasts, moving the bottle back and forth to get them both, and they took the drizzle of syrup like the hands of a lover—happily, greedily, and excitedly. Now her hand joined the syrup, rubbing them through her shirt. Finally, with half the syrup gone, she gave up with the shirt, pulling it off and applying the syrup directly to her skin, a whole new set of sensations.

Her logical brain was definitely losing control to the more convincing arguments of her sex. Her thoughts were blasts of orders. “Pants. Off. Panties. Off.” She obeyed, releasing most of the remaining syrup to the bathtub floor, leaving a good bit still coating her sex. The butter was practically melted but still a good chunk fell to the floor. She laid on her back, with her chocolately panties serving as a sort of pillow, and emptied what was left of the maple syrup directly onto her clit from more than a foot above, the greatest sensation yet. With a scream much like the last she orgasmed again, and sank back, drained.

But not for long. There was still the pasta, but as she looked out she realized that in her rush to get started, she hadn’t opened the can. No matter. She stood up, took it, and headed for the door. All manner of goo was covering her, head to well below knee. Much of it was slowly dripping off. Her hair was slicked back in slime. And she didn’t care. She opened the door, smearing it with goo like she had last time, and walked out into the hallway. She felt completley uncovered—the peanut butter last time had been almost thick enough to feel like clothing—and it felt good, like everything else tonight. As she walked downstairs she played with the idea of her parents walking in and seeing her like this, and knew that the idea was making her even more aroused, while the actual event itself would probably make her drop dead of embarassment. Proceeding like that, becoming more and more hot, she came to the kitchen, where she activated the can opener. After a few infinitely long seconds the can was freed. She dumped it out into a bowl—no need to play with sharp edges, and for a moment pondered what to do. She didn’t wonder long. Her body again took control of her, and it said, “Here. Now.” She fell to the floor, dumping the sauce, noodles, and meatballs onto her stomach, and writhed around in her filthy state, the pasta adding to the already significant mess, to the point where it took only a single finger coming close to her crotch to make her orgasm, for the third and final time that night.

She laid on the floor, feeling the mess dry and drip, for a long, long time. Finally, she glanced up at the clock, saw that she had only a short time until she expected her parents to return, and she set about cleaning the kitchen floor and disposing of the containers from the mess. With that done, she went through the halls, cleaning up where she had dripped and stepped, and then it was upstairs, to finish up with the bathtub and deal with the messy clothes.

The phone rang as she was getting dressed in cleaner things. It was Cindy. “Uh…hi…Cindy.” Cindy guessed that something was up, and Betty, honest as she was, admitted that she had been experimenting on her own. “Is there anything I can do to make it up to you?” she asked.

“Well…maybe.”

CONTINUED IN CINDY’S CHOCOLATE TAN, COMING SOON!

—MessyBoy

Path: news.infi.net!news.infi.net!solaris.cc.vt.edu!news-out.internetmci.com!newsfeed.internetmci.com!169.132.11.200!news.idt.net!ix.netcom.com!news From: Loon Newsgroups: alt.sex.fetish.wet-and-messy Subject: WAM: New Story – Addicted to WAM, Part 1 (1 of 2) Date: Fri, 31 Oct 1997 15:40:50 -0500 Organization: Netcom Lines: 434 Message-ID: <345A4252.26FC@spam.please> NNTP-Posting-Host: syr-ny1-17.ix.netcom.com Mime-Version: 1.0 Content-Type: text/plain; charset=us-ascii Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit X-NETCOM-Date: Fri Oct 31 2:42:34 PM CST 1997 X-Mailer: Mozilla 3.01Gold (Win95; I) Xref: news.infi.net alt.sex.fetish.wet-and-messy:110048

Addicted to WAM by Loon

M/F, wet, story

This is the first in an intended series of stories about a couple and their WAM adventures. This first section contains a good amount of setting material, so the WAM and sex action is pretty limited. This is a story of fiction.

Part I The Beginning

Though this is not really a story about me, I guess I had better begin by introducing myself. My name is Bill, and I work as a systems engineer for a software company – I won’t say which one, but you are probably using one of our operating systems to read this right now. Anyways, I live out near the coast, and the money I make lends itself to a pretty nice lifestyle. I’m not rich, but I have money in the bank, a budding stock collection, and enough left over to enjoy things. I mean, what the hell? I’m single, right? That’s what being young is for.

Anyways, this story is about my neighbor, Julie. She and I have the top floor apartments in a two story garden apartment. Julie is about two years younger than I (so, not quite thirty, nosy), and is just a babe; knockout hardbody on a 5’6\” frame, wavy brownish-blonde hair down to her shoulder blades, just a perfectly sculpted face, and these bubbling blue-grey eyes. As it turns out, Julie also works for my company, but in a different division, so we see each other at work only occasionally. A nice person, college educated, a career-minded young woman on her way up.

Well, so this isn’t a story about what a humanitarian she is. I got to know Julie soon after she moved in. Neither of us knew many people in the area, she was a long ways away from home, and her boyfriend was having problems adapting to a long-distance relationship. You know how it is. She and I actually met during a fire alarm; one of our downstairs neighbors burned his toast, and his kitchen drapes. I had noticed Julie when she moved in, but I hadn’t had a chance to actually talk to her, so I sidled up as we watched the fire department scurry around.

“Kind of exciting for your first week here, huh?” I asked.

“Really!” She looked at me kind of sideways. “Don’t you live there?” she asked, pointing to my living room window.

I nodded, sticking out my hand. “Bill.”

She took it, finally turning to face me. “Julie.” Here we were in the middle of the night, me in some old sweats and a pair of raggy shoes, her in cut-off shorts and a stupid “GUESS!” t-shirt, hair mussed, no makeup, looking none-the-less perfect. Her breasts stood high, and she clearly was not wearing a bra. I tore myself from the view to catch her watching me watch her, and blushed.

We stood there watching the fire crew for about fifteen minutes before they agreed, almost reluctantly, that the whole building was not about to burst into flames, and we could return to our apartments. We went upstairs, and neither of us was ready to go to sleep, so we sat in her dining room, drinking beer, as we watched the firefighters pack up their equipment, and a dumb-ass local TV crew show up to do a report. We learned that we worked at the same place, but that car-pooling couldn’t be a regular thing, as she was in sales, and traveled around alot. Well, that suited me fine. I have enough senority to kick out early when the work load is light, and waiting around work for an hour or so just because I was supposed to drive someone home, even Julie, was uninteresting to me.

Look, I know how these stories are supposed to go. We get a little drunk, we start making out, we hit the sack. Sorry. It was getting late, the beers made us both sleepy, and I went home. We agreed that neither of us had good plans for Friday night, so we might as well do nothing together, and that was it.

In fact, it was the start of a really good friendship. How many of us secretly wish that we had friends like on Sienfeld or Friends, where we leave the doors open, so they can come in and out as they please? I know I did (and so did she, because we talked about it once). Well, that’s what happened. I am not saying we are funny like those people (even if they were real), or that there is anything really significant about it, but it is very nice. Julie became my drinking buddy, a few months passed, and we were regulars at the corner bar. (Is there anything better in the world than a bar you can walk to? I haven’t found it.) We had seperation, we were not dating (the boyfriend even made it up, once), but we were close, and relaxed with each other. It was a hoot.

But, there was some tension. I mean, I couldn’t likely forget about her looks, which kept haunting me late at night. I felt all sick to my stomach the weekend Rick (ugh) was up to see her, and I didn’t know why for the longest time. I mean, I have lusted after friends before (haven’t we all), but I know the difference between sexy friends and sex with friends. Julie has a killer body, and it would make for a few fun filled days to go up one side and down the other, but it wouldn’t be worth the possibility of losing her as a friend to make a proposition that she would not like. And, it was my assumption that she wouldn’t like my proposition.

But worse than that was the direction our talk had taken us. After the first few times out, it became clear that there would be no holds barred in our conversations. We talked about relationships, about sex, and about seduction. We took turns scoping the bar for each other, pointing out choice morsels for the other’s attentions. I learned alot about her; her sexual past (pretty active), her preferences (tall, muscular men – not me), what she hates (moustaches, hair on the back, bad breath). But there was stuff she left out – I mean obviously left out. But I couldn’t figure out what.

At the same time, I was editing my own contributions. I have not been too sexually active; career, insecurity, whatever. I don’t think I am bad looking; 5’8″, not fat though no muscle man, blonde hair/blue eyes, outdoorsy. But, I am not the greatest catch either, at least in looks. At any rate, my fantasy life had always been more active than my real life, and I was not about to let on that I had a fetish. Yep: WAM, all my life. I was into it long before I read the name on the web, or saw the videos. And now, I am in to it deep (pun intended). I don’t think of it as dirty, necessarily, and I don’t think of it as taboo, just something I don’t want to shout out in a crowded room. I wasn’t sure how Julie (or anyone) would take it, and I wasn’t prepared to gamble on the outcome. So I just left it alone. But it was eating at me.

So, one night we are in the bar, and on the TV there is one of those rediculous made-for-TV movies, starring the bimbo of the week, and named something like “Another Time Around the Block: The True-Life Story of Sarah Jane Betty, Child Prostitute to the Stars,” where the first thing you see is a screen telling you that the events, while based on a true-life story, was fictionalized for dramatic purposes. Crap. So, we were not-really watching, on our fourth or fifth beer, and Julie, who had figured out there was a major part of my sexual makeup missing from my stories, was once again trying to brow-beat it out of me.

“What is it, bondage?” I shook my head, and ordered another beer. “Animals?” I cringed. “Incest?” I looked horrified.

“I don’t have any sisters, and if you even are beginning to imply my mom .. . . ech!” I pretended to throw up at her feet. She grinned. “So, maybe it’s your brothers.” She smiled sweetly.

“I’m not even going to dignify that with a response,” I sat up haughtily and looked at the screen. Sarah Jane whatever was talking with some frizzed out reject who was supposed to be her boyfriend, standing near to a pool. As any true WAMmer knows, directors do not shoot scenes by pools unless they have a reason to have a pool there, or they are directing Melrose Place. I covertly turned my full attention to the television, wishing I was home with my VCR. I even wondered if there was someway I could duck out for a minute, and go home to tape this, but if something were to happen, I would never get there in time.

Julie was not to be ignored, or put off. She grabbed my shoulder, and tugged me to face her direction. “So what?” She thought for a second, then cringed. “Someone showed me these sick pictures of some guy peeing on a girl. That’s not it, right?”

“Blech!” I said, twisting back towards the TV. “Never in a million years! Look, it doesn’t matter, ok?” I took a pull of beer, and looked back up. The two people on TV were now sort of pushing and slapping each other to suggest they were being playful and carefree. Another great sign. I was getting pretty excited, just at the thought of sitting in a bar, next to someone who I thought very highly of, possibly watching a wet scene on TV.

But Julie was still persistent. “So, I think I have guessed enough. Tell me now, or I am going to start telling everyone you like to get dressed as a baby.” She looked pretty pleased with herself. The man on TV was starting to back up the woman towards the pool, a devilish look in his eye.

There was no way I was going to miss this, so I glanced at Julie, and without thinking, I said, “Listen, leave me alone for a minute, this is getting good.” I gestured towards the TV, and she looked at it for the first time. As I looked back, the guy went to give Sarah Jane the final push that would send her in, but she danced aside, and the guy went in headfirst instead, wearing jeans and a t-shirt. “Arrgh!” I thought. Another WAM cop-out by the television networks! The female was in a tight light-green party dress, cut to show a certain swelling in the bosom, and an ample amout of leg. It was not an “appropriate” outfit for the water, by the network’s standards (women who are thrown into the water can only be in oversized sweatshirts and baggy jeans – men can go in anything), which was one of the things that had captured my attention.

“I can’t believe it!” I exclaimed. Julie looked over at me quizzically, but patted my arm.

“Keep watching.” she advised. The guy on TV swam to the edge of the pool, where the woman was standing and laughing. She bent down as the guy rose up, and gave him a kiss. But then he grabbed her by the head and yanked her in. The scene went on to show them splashing around for a few seconds, and there was even a shot of her coming out of the water to sit on the side. The green fabric glisened in the lights, and her breasts and nipples poked out of the front of the dress. Her beautifully styled hair plastered to her head. It was one of the best wetlook shots I have seen on network TV, and believe me, I try to make it my business to see them all (cliptape trading is a wonderful thing). By the time they went to commercial, I was rock hard, and almost visibly panting.

Then I came back to reality. It had happened! I was at the bar, with my sexy close friend, and we had watched a WAM scene. I was almost in shock. I carefully looked over at Julie, expecting her to be glaring over at me by now, or else looking like the cat who swallowed the canary. Instead, her eyes were glued to the set! She was gripping the bar with one hand, holding very tight by the look of it, while the other hovered over the neckline of her dress, lightly touching the skin underneath her neck. And, she was breathing heavier than me.

This time, when she looked back, it was her turn to blush. She attempted to regain her composure by turning the tables on me.

“So,” she said, “you have something you’d like to share with me?”

I looked at her, stunned. “Huh?” was all I could manage.

“You said that if I left you alone for that,” she gestured towards the screen, “you would tell me what it was that you were in to.” She folded her hands, and waited expectantly. Damn her, she had regained her composure faster than me.

That wasn’t how I remembered the convesation going, but it was no use. I tried squirming out of it, but she wasn’t going to have any of that. She had locked her sights on, and was just waiting to fire. Finally, I had no choice, so I blurted it out.

“Fine, I like what was on TV there.” I pointed up. The movie was on, but of course, they had not returned to the pool.

“What exactly did you like?” she asked, still looking very innocent.

“The water stuff. You know, getting wet, like a wet t-shirt contest?” I just wanted this to be over, but Julie was really dragging it out.

“Hmm. Are you telling me that you are interested in, no, excited by seeing women get their clothes wet?” She looked at me curiously, like she was some kind of shrink discovering a new psychosis. I decided to just go for it, figuring that if she was really opposed to the whole thing, the damage was done.

“Yes,” I said, rapidly regaining my composure now that I had made a choice. “Although, sometimes it is fun to see people in whipped cream, or mud, or something else gooey and sticky.” I leaned on the bar like we were talking about who at work was getting a promotion. “And sometimes, I like it when women are wearing jeans, and sometimes when they are wearing business suits.” I fingered the sleeve of her dress, just to be obnoxious, and grinned.

“And do you ever do this yourself, or is it just a voyeurism thing?” Her right hand was still playing with her neckline, and I was starting to get fascinated by how it moved up and down. There is such a thing as too much beer, and I could tell this had spun completely out of control, and I should be worried about what Julie would think of me from now on, but all I was really paying attention to now was her hand, and her cleavage. Which was bad, because I was answering her questions like I had been hypnotised.

“Yeah, I’ve done it some times.”

“Like what?”

“I’ve taken showers with my clothes on, or swimming around in a pond, and rolling in the mud. I even took an oil bath one time.”

“And what do you think of when you are doing that?”

She really had me going now. “I think of someone being there with me, and enjoying it as much as I do.” Does the floor always move like this?

“Who do you think of doing that with you?” Her eyes bore in for the kill.

“Different people.” I suddenly got very reckless. “You.”

Julie let out this little sigh, and closed her eyes for a minute. I was sure I was dead. She opened her eyes, leaned in towards me, and murmured, “I think we had better go now, Bill.”

We paid up, and headed out of the bar without saying a word. We walked towards our apartments, up the walk, and up the stairs without saying a word. I would like to think that neither of us wanted to break the mood that we had set, but the truth was I was scared to death that she had already written me off.

At the top of the stairs, she turned to face me, her back against her door.

“Well,” she said, “you could just go on to bed . . .” Her expression said she obviously had another alternative.

“Or . . .” I prompted.

“Meet me over here in ten minutes, and wear something . . . old.” She turned around and entered into her own apartment.

Well, I am not a rocket scientist, but Mama didn’t raise any dummies, and I could see where this was heading, if not why. I scurried into my apartment, into the bedroom, and shucked off my work clothes, putting on a pair of jeans, an old long-sleeve shirt, and my mucking shoes, an old pair of sneakers, with socks. I grabbed my keys, but left my wallet, and everything else that would be damaged by water behind, and made it out the door in time to see Julie emerge from her own apartment.

Do you know any women who have different looks at different times, all of which are attractive in their own way? Julie is that type of woman. At work, she appears professional, competent, and lovely. At a company formal we went to, she was elegant and sophisticated, a completely different person than I was used to, achingly beautiful in a straight black gown with soft curls in her hair. We have gone for groceries in her around-the-house getup, a loose shirt and sweats that tug in all the right places, and played football, where she was the darling of my friends in a tight t-shirt and jeans. But, I had never seen her before like that night; tight sweater and pleated skirt, bobby socks and saddle shoes, hair in a pony tail. The complete cheerleader.

She must have seen my jaw hit the floor, and grinned triumphantly. “Not bad, huh?” she asked as she whirled around, letting me see a fair expanse of thigh. There was a button-down oxford under her sweater (which, by the way, wasn’t a real cheerleader sweater, but rather one of those pull-over knit things, in yellow), and she even had time to throw on a little makeup, not that she needs it. I leaned in close, and took a breath. Yep, she had freshened her perfume as well – Tommy Boy, and boy does it smell good on her.

“It . . . ah, looks good,” I stammered out, then halted. How do you describe a sunrise, a rainbow, or a star in the sky? Julie was all those things and more, and I had it so bad for her at that moment that I could hardly stand up straight.

“So . . .” I said.

“So.” she agreed. She grabbed my hand and pulled me down the stairs. “Come on.”

We walked out of the building, and she led me around back. Behind our apartments is a partking lot, and beyond that is a border of trees, with a little path down it. We had both gone down there before, and I knew it led to a golf course on the left, and a small inlet off of the river that runs near our community, to the right. I thought I knew where we were heading (towards the inlet), but I was wrong, as Julie set off across the golf course, still towing me behind her.

As we were walking, I decided to end some of the mystery. “So, what do you think?” I asked.

“About you?” I grunted. What else? “Well, it’s what I always thought.”

“Huh?” Now I was back to being shocked. “What do you mean?”

She giggled (very sexy). “Well, there was always certain things that you didn’t talk about, but were eager to have me talk about to you. After a while, it just became obvious.”

“Huh?” My vocabulary was not improving.

“Well, remember how I told you about babysitting, and what happened?”

Did I? Before she graduated high school, she had sitted a couple of kids for a wealthy doctor on a weekly basis. The family had a pool, and when she would show up, the kids would usually be swimming. So, one day, according to Julie, the boy told her that they couldn’t go swimming because their mother had put their swimsuits in the wash. Juile asked him why he didn’t go swimming in his shorts, and the boy replied that people couldn’t swim in their clothes. So, on a bet, Julie had dived in to the pool in her school clothes; jeans and an Izod shirt. She said the kids had been amazed. I was too; I made her go through a complete description of what she had on, and what had happened. Yes, she had left her tennis shoes on. No, she wasn’t worried about what the shirt would look like, because it was only a couple of kids. Yes, she was wearing a bra, but it wasn’t very heavy and her nipples had stuck out pretty clearly. Yes, she got out of the pool several times, and then dived back in when the kids asked for more. I must have grilled her for about twenty minutes before I was sure I had a complete mental image of the event stored away for later reference.

“Oh yeah.” I said, reluctant now to admit my interest.

“Well that was pretty obvious. And, there were other things too.”

Julie had been in a sorority at school, and the sorority had a charity car wash every year. Well, someone there had a camera, took some pictures of the event, and put together a sorority scrapbook. She had shown it to me. I had almost burst. There were Julie and eight or ten of her sorority friends, standing in a line wearing sopping t-shirts and shorts, whooping and holloring at the camera, while a group of guys looked on. Mostly, there were bathing suits and bikinis on under the wet clothes, but a couple people, Julie included, aparently had not planned on getting wet and were wearing skimpy bras, or nothing at all under the shirts (Julie had on a lace bra, and you could see all the details in the picture). There were a couple other shots from the carwash, all of which showed plenty of sorority skin, and wet outfits. I had told her that the scrapbook was wet-dream heaven, and that if she was worried about someone stealing it, I would gladly keep it under my protection, in my apartment.

So, I hadn’t been quite as discreet as I had thought. Big deal. In some ways that was better, because it meant that she had some time to get used to the idea. But, despite the fact that we were almost certainly on our way to some sort of wet or messy adventure, I still fealt a need to make her come right out an admit that she was not disturbed by my preferences. (Look, guys don’t always think rationally, ok?) Caught red-handed (or whatever), I could only grunt in acknowledgment. But she still hadn’t answered the basic question.

“OK, it makes sense. But still, what do you think?”

“You don’t know?” she asked, then made a noise as she recognized something on the golf course that she was looking for, and we headed off in a different direction.

“Well, let’s just say I want to be absolutely sure.” As we came closer (it’s dark out, remember?), I was now able to place a sight with a noise that I had begun hearing a minute ago. There, next to one of the greens, was a sprinkler set, throwing water over the grass. It was one of those automated things with two long arms holding three or four sprinkler heads each, moving along its hose slowly. The arms threw water to each side, covering an area about 20′ distant from the sprinkler. They were pretty common in the summer on this course, and we had just walked along the fairways until Julie heard the noise of this one. We stopped near the radius of the water, and she dropped my hand for the first time since taking it at the apartment building.

“I have been waiting for you to fess up about it for a while now,” she said, answering my question. She was standing near to me, and I could look in to her eyes. The half-moon gave our eyes plenty of light now that we were adjusted to it. “I don’t have any problem with it. In fact, just the opposite.” She was now running a finger along my chest, raising goosebumps whereever she touched.

“And that is what this is about?” I asked, nodding towards the sprinkler, then plucking at her clothing.

“Watch!” she whispered, and backed off from me.

She walked a few feet, and stood still, legs slightly apart, hands by her sides. The sprinkler cycled through, water hitting her calves and spraying her socks (not that I could see very well, but I knew exactly what was going on). She gave a little yip, and shivered. The sprinkler cycled again, and she gasped as the water hit her a second time.

Julie put out her hand, and beckoned me to join her. I timed it so that I could walk out when the sprinkler was somewhere else, and took her hand as I joined her. She gave me this playful look and asked, “Aren’t you going to get your jeans wet?” grinning all the while.

I grinned back at her. “Not if you keep blocking the spray.” I grabbed both of her arms so she would stay where she was. “I’ll bet I can make it all the way to the sprinkler without getting really wet.”

“Really?” she asked. “And what about me?”

“I’m afraid one of us will have to suffer.” I pushed her lightly, and she stepped a couple steps back, just as the sprinkler came through again. Despite my predictions, some of the spray was hitting me, and I could feel it now well above my knee, to the point that on her, it should just about be hitting the bottom of her skirt.

“This is a very nice outfit you have on,” I shifted topics. “Where did it come from?”

“Well, I was a cheerleader in high school,” she answered, “and we wore outfits that were similar to this. But really, I got it to tease the guys at the sorority picnics, the skirt and the saddle shoes, anyways. It got me alot of attention . . . uhgh!” she exclaimed. “The water is hitting me on my butt!”

Julie was definitely starting to breathe faster now, and I was reaching the limit of my endurance. It was one thing to think about getting her in exactly this situation, it was something totally different to actually be here. I could hear my heart pounding, I could feel the blood rushing through my ears, and I could feel every detail of the clothing I was wearing, where I was touching her, and the cool air around us, all at the same instant. Hyper-sensitive, but still wanting much much more.

Almost panting, I brought her closer to me. “Is your skirt getting wet?” I breathed, ignoring that she had just told me so.

“Yes.” she gasped, clearly as excited as I was.

“Turn around and let me see it.” I practically forced her around myself. I steadied us both, then dropped to one knee. Her exquisite ass was right in front of my face. I had actually massaged it a few times for her, and knew exactly how firm and well-defined it was. But, for the first time, I was seeing it exactly as I had in all my fantasies. The skirt on her was visibly wet, and one side clinged to her right thigh, curving to the shape of her ass cheek. The other side was still dripping water, and the point where the spray stopped was clearly visible on the dark blue fabric. I couldn’t resist running my hand down the skirt, feeling it getting wetter and wetter, until I reached her bare leg, then slid up underneath the fabric. The water had soaked through to her panties, and they clung to her skin.

I was now gasping for breath, as I dealt with the visual and tactile images before me. The sprinkler cycled again, and Julie gasped as the water hit the front of her skirt. Her hands came down and grabbed the skirt hem, lifting it up to her waist. We stayed frozen in that position until the spray came back through again, this time hitting her panties and skin directly. Julie shuddered with excitment, and my hands were shaking.

I stood up, and whirled Julie back to facing me. “So, I am not the only one with a secret, huh?” I asked her, looking into her eyes.

Her breath was coming in great gasps, moving her breasts in a most intoxicating manner. But, I was more interested in her answer.

“Yes!” she panted. “I love this. I can’t get enough.” She bucked as the water passed by again, spraying her back side. “Push me in further, please.”

I took a step towards her, but instead of pushing her on, pulled her to me and kissed her hard. She responded immediately, wrapping her arms around me, pulling my head down to hers, and making little squeaking noises in the back of her throat. The water cycled through three or four times as we stood there, battling with our tongues. Finally, I broke the kiss, and shoved her backwards.

“Do you think you should get your sweater wet?” I asked her. I was feeling dizzy, almost beyond myself, like I was actually standing about five feet behind me, watching us both. “Well?” I demanded.

“No,” she replied in a very small voice.

“Will people like it if you get yourself all wet?” I asked, now really getting in to this sort of disapproving personality that I had always heard in my own mind when I was doing this on my own. Apparently, she was too.

“No they won’t. It is wrong.” She was almost completely gone now, her eyes only a quarter of the way open, her lips open and her breath coming in ragged gasps.

“So I had better not do this, then.” I whirled her around, and pushed her even farther forward, so that the oncoming spray hit her square in the chest.

That did it. She convulsed, doubling up, as a shriek issued from her mouth. She lurched forward, closer and closer to the sprinkler, until she was close enough to be constantly in the water. She stuck her head down, letting the spray hit her in the forhead, as she clutched her hands to her crotch. She shuddered again and again, crying out loud as a strong orgasm overtook her. The water matted her hair, soaked the back of her sweater, and came dripping down her front. Her butt was up in the air, the skirt half up, showing the wet panties she was wearing, and the motion of her hands down the front of them.

I had followed her in, keeping body contact with her, but not intruding on her moment. Julie was completely overcome by the situation, by my presence, but mostly by the act. While I participated, and we had kissed, I wasn’t sure how much of a shared sexual thing this was. For the moment, I was willing to wait and see what would happen next.

Finally, she gasped one last time, and stood up to face me. The sweater still his most of the details of her breasts, though as I passed my hand over them, I could feel the nipple pointing through. She was running her hands down her body, making smoothing motions over her skirt, and still trying to catch her breath.

“That was very good,” she panted, flashing a deep smile at me, as she pulled me down and kissed me again, this time, more tenderly.

“Umm,” I breathed into her mouth, as I enjoyed the kiss. This was the fantasy realization of a lifetime for me, and I savored the moment. Just to have my arms around her, kissing her seemed this afternoon an impossibility. To be standing with her on a golf course, fully dressed, immediately after she orgasmed from getting wet in her clothes was a possibility unexistant to the realms of reality.

Finally, a lifetime later, the kiss ended. She looked up at me, still leaning on my chest, and said simply, “Wow.”

“Wow, indeed,” I agreed. “Does this show have an encore?” She smacked me lightly with one hand.

“Can I rest first, please?” She grinned, and pushed away, heading out of the spray. Nearby was a sandtrap, and she went over and sat on the edge, her feet dangling down. “Something like that can really take it out of a girl, you know.”

I sat down next to her. “You don’t say.” I assessed myself. The water had hit me somewhat, though not directly. Still, I was damp, and the air was cool, so I could only imagine how she was feeling. I put my arm around her and pulled her close, to share our warmth.

“Hmm,” she sighed, setting her head on my shoulder. “That’s nice, Bill. Thank you for doing that with me.”

“I don’t remember doing very much.” I wasn’t planning on hinting on how I hadn’t yet got off, but these things have a way of popping out. But, Julie took it without criticism.

“Well, I liked having you here. It isn’t the same if there isn’t someone to watch.”

“Is that what you like?” I asked, intrigued.

“Uh-huh, or at least in part.” She pulled back, and looked at me, impishly. “Is that interesting to you?”

Duh. Still, was that all there was to it? “So, how did this come about?”

“Well, I have known about what I like for a long time, ok?” It most certainly was. “I think when I was twelve or so, I found that water fights were more than a little interesting to me, particularly when it was out where everyone could see.” She looked at me like she thought I might think she was a little crazy now. “I’m not sure why things turned out that way, but they did.”

“So, you like WAM, and you’re an exhibitionist?” She nodded, a bit reluctantly it seemed. “And you want to know if I am ok with that?” She nodded again, looking directly at me.

“Honey, that is so ok with me, I don’t know how to say it.”

Julie laughed. “Well, I thought so, but you can never be sure. . .” True enough. We were both definitely getting cold by now, but neither of us wanted to moment to end. We snuggled some more, though now kissing again seemed a little forward.

In fact, I wasn’t sure what would happen next. I stood up, and gave her my hand. She rose up. Apart from her hair, you really couldn’t tell that she just had a soaking. My pullover was damp, but it wasn’t really clinging to me any more. Our teeth chattering, we started to walk back towards our apartments, arm in arm.

“So . . .” I began.

“So?”

“What . . . ah, what is this?” I sort of gestured around.

“A golf course.”

“Thanks. No, I mean what we did. What happens next?”

“What do you mean?” She was being purposely obtuse. I hate it when women are obtuse. They know what we mean, usually better than we do. They just want US to tell THEM what we mean, so they can see if we have got it right. It’s like some kind of a test, for God’s sake.

“This was a once in a lifetime experience for me, and I loved every second of it,” I began, after a few moments to plan strategy. “Thank you too, for sharing this with me.” What was I after, actually? I wasn’t sure.

“Well, you’re welcome.”

“To find out that you have a similar . . . uh, interest, is very exciting for me, and I cherish the gift you have given.” OK, sometimes I lay it on pretty thick. But, since most guys are hesitant to lay it on at all, it usually works in my favor. Still, what did I want out of this? I was still unsure.

“Hmm.” She leaned in to me a little more. I took the opportunity to stop, bring her around to face me, and took her hands.

“Julie, I don’t know if this is the right thing to say, or if you will think I am moving too fast, but I want to do this again with you. Please? It doesn’t have to be a sex thing, and if you prefer, I won’t lay a hand on you, but I don’t think I could stay your friend if we didn’t do this any more, and I have to stay your friend, because you are really important to my life, so please don’t make me choose because it would kill me to think of loosing you, or loosing this, but I . . .” I sort of ran out of steam as Julie pressed her finger to my lips, hushing my stream of babble.

“We will have plenty of time to talk this over,” she said, in a very definite tone. I’ve heard that tone before. It means that she is laying down the law, and there will be no nonsense about it. “This is a part of my life, and I am not going to stop it. And you are a part of my life, and I want that to stay the same too.” I let out a sigh.

“So, can we do this again?” I asked expectantly.

“Who says we are finished now?” she shot back. That raised my eyebrows. I had assumed we were heading home. It was pretty cold, and she had already had her jollies. But, I should have known Julie better.

“Wow!” I said, as she pulled me towards the inlet.

“Babe, you ain’t seen nothing yet!”

End Part 1

Mon, 14 Mar 2005 18:00:00 +0000 Messy

Always Room For Jello, by Messy Muddy Mike (Michael.R.Howes@CDC.NET)

This story is completely fiction. Any of the persons, places, time, portrayed in this story relating to any such in real life is 100% unintentional (See epilogue). The story contains some instances of sexual arousal. If this offends you, please do not read any further. This story is completely public domain. Feel free to distribute to all your friends.

Hey there, it’s Tanya again. I have got to tell you what happened to me the other day. I was walking through the mall, to pick up some new tights for an aerobics class I had later that day. When I got to the main concourse of the mall, there it was; a huge vat of red jell-o, with a huge pool slide set-up next to it. I had gotten messy many times since my cousin’s graduation party years ago, but it had always been in the mud. Never in anything else. Julie has suggested a few times trying something different, but we never did. Seeing all that jell-o just got the juices flowing.

I asked a woman what was going on. She indicated that a charity event was about to happen. For a donation, people got slide into the vat of 500 gallons of raspberry jell-o. Oh, I had to try this. But wait, what about my clothes? How was I going to get home? Then it came to me. My gym bag with my workout stuff was in the car. Perfect. I could just change into them when I was done.

I ran over to the registration table ( I really ran. In fact I nearly knocked an elderly woman on her but.), and paid $25 dollars, the minimum donation. The woman at the desk took my name, address, and all that stuff, asked my to sign a liability waiver, and gave me my number. #45. She said that they will call the numbers in lots of 10, so I should listen for 41 through 50. She also indicated that the local fire department would provide showers in the parking lot after I was done. I nodded, and ran back to get a good spot to watch the first person slide in.

That day I had worn a blouse, skirt, pantyhose and high heels, all in white. Things started to get under way. The first few people to slide in were kids. The jell-o was still clumpy, so the kids hardly sank into jell-O. Next were a couple to high school girls, wearing shorts and t-shirts. They sank easily into the jell-o, however little to none of the Jell-O stuck to them or their clothes. Their clothes didn’t even become stained. This was not looking good. I just kept hoping that the jell-o would melt some, so that it would be gooey, and slippery.

I watched person after person slide in . Things were going slow, mainly because to p.a. system they were using wasn’t working right, and they would have adjust it every very five minutes. This extra time gave the jell-o a chance to melt some. I was getting excited. I couldn’t wait to plunge my body into the stuff.

Finally, they called my group. They had us line up in numerical order. The woman in front of me caught my eye. She was about my age, and was not dressed like the rest of the people. All the others were jumping in wearing old jeans or shorts and t-shirts. Nothing on there feet, no socks, shoes, tights, etc. Not the woman in front of me. She was wearing a light blue leotard and powder blue tights. I stuck up a brief conversion with her. She said that this was her first time doing this, and that it had been a fantasy to doing something like this. I confided that it was the same for me.

She was next. She went up onto this small stage, gave her name, the amount of her donation, and proceeded up the steps to the top of the slide. When she got there, she just sat there for a minute, and pushed off. She slid down quite quickly, and splash! Pieces of jell-o flew in different directions. When the jell-o settled, there she was sitting chest deep in to red Jell-O. She got up on all fours, and crawled to the edge of the vat, where she was helped out. When she stepped out, her tights and leotard had turned a reddish purple color. As she walked away, little pieces of the red stuff would fall off of her. This was just to much to take.

I was next. I walked up on stage, and gave my name and donation amount, then walked towards the slide. I stopped when I got there, and started to kick off my shoes. But I changed my mind at the last minute. I carefully climbed up, and stopped, sitting at the top. Everyone in the crowd started to shout for me to go in head first, as they had done with other others. None of the others did. But I was going to be different. I pointed my head forward, and slide down. Just before I hit the jell-o I closed my eyes. I hit jell-o, and all I could hear was the squishing sound of the jell-o passing around my head. When I stopped, and I was completely submerged below the surface. I swam around the jell-o briefly.

I sat up, and shook some of the jell-o off my head, wiping my eyes. I looked down, and I saw that my blouse and bra were completely red, and fairly transparent. My nipples were as hard as rocks, and most of the people around the vat could see them poking though my blouse. I stood up, only to find out that I had lost both of my high heels. I got down on all fours, and started to look for them. Suddenly, the girl who had jumped before me, jumped back in, and helped me find them. We both looked at each other, smiled, and dove under the surface. We each swam around, looking for my shoes. We each found one. She handed me the one she found, and we stepped out of the vat. Each my shoes was filled with jell-o. I set each on the floor, careful no to spill any of the jell-o, and stepped into each one. Jell-o oozed out around my feet, making a weird squishing sound. As we walked away, I left a trail of jell-o from my shoes.

As we walked along the path towards the exit of the mall , we passed a store with a full length mirror. What a sight, two grown women covered in red jell-o, clothes sticking tightly to our slim torsos. We both just burst out laughing. As we cleaned up outside, we talked a little more. I found out her name was Janet, and that she had been dying to do this for years, but could never get up the nerve. After we hosed off, we changed, and went back to her place. I told her about the fun I had playing in the mud, and she expressed a real interest. Another convert. We promised that we would have to enjoy future experiences together.

Epilogue: This story is fiction. The idea for it came from an event that really did happen. Every year, they have a jell-o jump for the Children’s Leukemia Foundation of Michigan. The event takes place at the Universal Mall in Warren, Michigan, and usually happens in July or August. If you live in the area, check it out.

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Back to Shokolada’s Messy Stories archive

Mon, 14 Mar 2005 18:00:00 +0000 Messy

Bake Shop (pies, m/f, leather)

This is the first story I ever wrote. I’m reposting it because I’m sort of out of ideas. Those of you who remember the old “Love American Style” pie fight episode may see where I got my inspiration.

None of this would have happened if my girlfriend could control her sugar tooth. Stephanie is one of those people who can pretty much eat whatever they wants and still look perfect. And I do mean perfect. Steph is a willowy brunette who moves with the grace of a dancer – even though she doesn’t dance or partake in any kind of physical activity that resembles exercise. She has big brown eyes with long lashes and a great smile. I never get tired of looking at her, even when she’s dressed casually, as she was that day in a dark brown leather jacket and tight blue jeans over cowboy boots. She was wearing her long brown hair swept up in back and had her sunglasses perched on top like women do when they’re more interested in making a fashion statement than seeing clearly.

It was a cool fall afternoon and we had been driving around town running errands when Steph decided we would have coconut cream pie for dessert that evening.

“Oh, great,” I grumbled. “Remind me to run 5 miles instead of 3 tomorrow morning.”

“If you stop whining maybe we can engage in some other form of calorie-burning activity this evening so you won’t have to run at all,” Steph said with a smile.

“Hmmm, coconut cream pie is starting sound pretty good all of the sudden.”

“Well, hurry up then, the bakery closes early on Saturdays,” Steph commanded.

We got to our (Steph’s) favorite bakery 15 minutes before it was supposed to close and we were the only customers in the store. The girl behind the counter was completely absorbed in a phone conversation and totally ignored us for a long time. I’ve become quite used to the poor service that is pretty common everywhere these days but it just drives Steph nuts. She paced back and forth while the girl prattled on about her latest visit to the hairdresser.

“Wait ’till you see my hair, Carol, I look great! It cost me a hundred dollars but it was worth every penny…”

Despite my impatience I couldn’t agree more. She was your basic college age beauty with big blue eyes and long blond hair that was tousled and coifed to perfection. She was standing behind the counter in profile to me so that I could fully appreciate how her well tanned body barely fit unto her white bakery uniform. I put my elbows on the counter, sighed theatrically, and stared at her. I knew this would get Steph’s attention and sure enough I immediately felt a rough tap on my shoulder.

I turned and saw Steph holding one of the cream pies that was sitting on the counter. “Do you really want to piss me off in a room full of pies?” she said with mock anger.

“Yikes,” I responded quickly. “EXCUSE ME miss, would you mind waiting on us now?” I said in a loud voice.

“Gotta go Carol. See you at the club tonight. What can I do for you sir?” she said in a slightly too friendly tone.

“We’d like a …” Steph began.

“I’ll get to you in a minute,” the girl interrupted as I winced and stepped back.

“If you hadn’t been on the phone when we came in you would have noticed we’re together,” snapped Steph.

At that moment the door opened and beautiful, richly dressed woman came striding in quickly. She wore an unfastened black leather jacket over a white silk blouse, a tight black leather skirt that went to her knees, and expensive-looking black leather gloves. Her shoulder length thick black hair, high cheekbones, and lovely olive/tan complexion suggested Italian or Spanish heritage. She looked like she just stepped out of the pages of Vogue magazine.

“Hello, my name is Jennifer Bonnaro and I’m here to pick up my sister’s birthday cake.”

“It’s right here, Ms. Bonnaro,” the girl responded as she bent down under the counter. She put a large cake with thick white frosting on the counter.

“Excuse me, but you were waiting on us,” snarled Steph.

Jennifer looked at us like she had just noticed us and said, “I hope you don’t mind but I’m in a terrible hurry.”

“We do mind, and we’re in a hurry too!” snapped Steph.

Jennifer rolled her eyes and motioned for the girl to wait on us.

“We’ll have a deep dish coconut cream pie,” said Steph. “Make sure you put lots of coconut sprinkles on top.”

“If we have any coconut cream pies left they’re in the back,” the girl said indifferently. “Why don’t you just take one of the banana cream pies here on the counter?”

“Why don’t you kiss my …” Steph began.

“Would you mind looking back there for one?” I interrupted in as friendly a tone as I could manage.

The girl shrugged, gave Steph a dirty look and went into the back room.

“Remind me to call and complain about this on Monday…” Steph said as I suddenly noticed the aroma of cigar smoke. I turned and looked at Jennifer. She took a puff from a long thin cigar and regarded us both with amusement.

“Don’t you see that NO SMOKING sign?” I asked.

She walked up and stood right in front of me. Just as I was beginning to enjoy the smell of her perfume she took a deep drag and slowly blew a large cloud of smoke into my face. “Sorry, I guess I didn’t see it with all the smoke in here.”

“That looks like a nice cigar. How much did you pay for it?” I asked.

“I don’t know, ten dollars, maybe,” she said indifferently.

I pulled a ten dollar bill out of my wallet and handed it to her. Then I snatched the cigar out of her hand and extinguished it in one of the pies sitting on the counter.

“I guess we’ll have to buy one of these banana cream pies now,” I said to an open mouthed Steph.

Jennifer pulled another cigar out of her purse, lit it, and looked at me reflectively. Then she walked over to the counter and picked up a pie. Using the gloved hand with the cigar she held it up in the air like a waitress and walked back over to me. As she slowly pushed the pie into my face and twisted it back and forth she said, “I guess I’ll have to buy one too.”

I stood with my head tilted back slightly so the pie and crust stayed on my face and I listened to my girlfriend laughing hysterically. She seemed to be enjoying my humiliation so much that I held that pose while I considered how to respond. I decided to have a sense of humor about the whole thing and let these women have a good laugh at my expense. I can never stay mad at Steph very long and Jennifer was so drop dead gorgeous that I found myself wanting to please her too. The pie consisted of a layer of very thick whipped cream and a deep layer of banana pudding with the consistency of a mousse. I just let it stick to my face and stood there with my hands behind my back looking like a fool while Steph laughed on. Jennifer didn’t make a sound but I could sense she was still standing in front of me. Finally, I wiped just enough pie out of my eyes so that I could see and then let the crust slide slowly down my face and on to my shirt and jacket. I opened my eyes to see Jennifer’s sensuous red lips just inches from mine. She slowly blew a stream of cigar smoke into my face and said, “So what do you like better, pie in the face or smoke in the face?”

Steph walked over and picked up a pie and said, “Nobody does that to my boyfriend,” she said as she glared at Jennifer, “except me.” Then she pushed the pie into my face.

Once again, I stood there with my head tilted back, letting the pie stick to my face while I listened to them laughing at me. Then I heard Steph say something that made me start to lose my sense of humor.

“Hey, could I bum a cigar off of you? I’ve never tried one before.”

Steph will sneak the occasional cigarette but only when she thinks I don’t notice. She knows it pisses me off. I wiped the pie off my face just in time to see Jennifer give Steph a light.

The girl emerged from the back room saying, “Well, you’re in luck – I found a coconut cream pie back there. Here’s a box of sprinkles – put as many on as you… ” she stopped when she saw me. “Hey what’s going on?” she said with a giggle.

I ignored her and picked up a pie. “This is for lighting that cigar!” I huffed.

“Not so fast, sweetie. You hit me with that pie and you can forget about having sex for a long, long time!” said Steph.

Her tone was convincing enough to stop me just before I let her have it. I held the pie in front of me and looked at the two of them. Steph took a defiant puff on her cigar and stared straight ahead. Jennifer looked at me with amusement as she stood with one hand on her hip and the other holding her cigar up by her face like a fashion model. I knew what I had to do.

“I never answered your question Ms. Bonnaro. I actually prefer pie in the face much more than smoke.”

With that I pushed the pie into my face and slowly twisted it back and forth. I held it there while I listened to all three women laughing at me. I let the pie slide down my face and looked at them.

Jennifer said, “Wherever did you find such a cute, well-trained male? What’s his name?”

“Wade. He was easy to train,” laughed Steph as she slowly drew her finger across my face and tasted it.

Jennifer said, “You know, Wade, you have no one to blame but yourself for this gooey mess you’ve become. I bet you’d like cigars much more than pie if you gave them a fair chance. Here, try one.” With that she stuck her cigar between my lips.

Big mistake.

“You know Jennifer, I bet you’d like pastry much more than cigars if you gave it a fair chance.” As I spoke I walked around behind her and put my hands on her shoulders. I gently turned her around and pushed her face deeply into the cake sitting on the counter. I slowly rocked her head back and forth, carefully making sure she got plenty of icing in her thick black hair.

I have to give her credit. I expected her to quickly emerge from the cake and scratch my eyes out. Instead, she showed that she had a sense of humor too. She kept her face stuck down in the cake with frosting up to her ears while she listened to all of us laugh at her. Finally, she carefully placed her hands on the counter and slowly extracted her face out of the cake. Her face looked like it had been plastered with a thick layer of white paste. None of her features were visible. She stood there for a moment with her head held high while the frosting dripped all over her leather jacket and silk blouse. She carefully wiped the frosting out of each eye, taking care to use only one finger so as to keep her gloves as clean as possible. She looked at Steph.

“Would you mind getting a cigar out of my purse?”

Steph laughingly complied. She placed the cigar between Jennifer