This series of stories is a little different than all the others, which is why they are their own collection. Jake and Lila are a heterosexual duo, strangers at first, who bond over a chance connection on a What Would You Do-inspired TV show, and whose relationship grows over time. This series will cover their deepening relationship, from this one, which covers their first pseudo-date, to others in the future, which will peer into their growing WAM fetish and how they act on it in public and private.
Because of the depth of their story, it's not practical to create male-only and female-only variants of these posts. Any individual story in this series could feature one, both, or neither of them getting messy. The type of mess covered in the story will be noted in the title, as this one has: "(CW: Female Mess)".
Happy reading!
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Part 1: Jake and Lila’s Ice Cream Outing
We step out of the studio into the cool night air, the neon glow of the city buzzing around us, a stark contrast to the sticky chaos I’ve just escaped. Lila walks beside me, her presence a quiet anchor, her warm smile cutting through the lingering shame still prickling under my skin. My tank top and yoga pants feel like armor now, a shield against the memory of being bare and drenched, but my pulse races—nerves, sure, but something else, too, sparked by her. She’d suggested ice cream, and I’d laughed my way into agreeing, though the thought of anything sweet still twists my gut after the UTM.
We find a little shop a block away, its flickering sign promising “Scoops of Sin,” and I can’t help but grin at the irony as we duck inside. The place is small, dimly lit, with a handful of mismatched tables and a counter lined with vats of ice cream—colors too bright, too close to the mess I’d just scrubbed off.
Lila slides into a booth, her hazel eyes catching mine as I sit across from her, the vinyl creaking under me. “So,” she says, her voice light but edged with mischief, “what’s it gonna be, Jake? Chocolate? Strawberry? Or are you swearing off sweets forever after… you know?” She wiggles her eyebrows, and I laugh, a real laugh that shakes loose some of the tension in my chest.
“God, no chocolate,” I say, rubbing the back of my neck, still feeling the ghost of that cake smashing into my face. “I think I’ve had my lifetime quota. Maybe vanilla—just to be safe.”
She smirks, ordering a scoop of pistachio for herself, and I catch a flicker in her gaze—playful, but curious, like she’s testing me. The server drops off our cones, and I take a cautious lick, the cold a shock after the warm fruit fillings, but clean, simple.
“You weren’t kidding about the ‘no smearing’ thing, right?” I ask, half-joking, and she laughs, a sound that warms me more than it should. “Promise,” she says, holding up her cone like a truce. “Though I’ll admit, I was tempted back there—watching you get plastered was… something else.”
Her cheeks flush, and she looks down at her ice cream, licking it quick, and I feel a jolt—half embarrassment, half thrill. “What was it like?” she asks, softer now, her eyes flicking back to mine. “Up there, with all that… stuff hitting you?”
I lean back, the memory rushing in—cakes, slime, the crowd’s roar—and I shrug, sheepish. “Like a nightmare I didn’t know I’d signed up for,” I admit. “Shocking, messy… really humiliating. But—” I pause, catching her gaze, “—there was this weird rush, too. Like I’d survived something big.”
Her lips part, a flicker of something — envy? — crossing her face, and I tilt my head. “You caught my eye out there, you know. That heart thing—what was that about?”
She blushes deeper, twirling her cone. “You stood out,” she says, voice low. “That outfit, the way you walked up there. I’ve always liked people who aren’t afraid to be… loud. I grew up in this gray little nowhere, where everything was dull, quiet. I’d sketch stuff like what you wore, hide it under my bed, wishing I could be that bold.”
Her eyes meet mine, steady but tinged with a tension I recognize—wanting something she’s never reached for. “Seeing you take that stage, even when it went south… it hit me hard.”
I blink, surprised, her words sinking in. “You wanted to be up there?” I ask, half-teasing, but her flush tells me I’ve struck something real.
She shrugs, a small, conflicted smile tugging at her lips. “Maybe,” she says, almost a whisper. “I’ve watched this show a dozen times, cheering from the crowd, but you, living it, facing that mess, I don’t know if I’d dare, but I’ve thought about it.” Her gaze drops, then lifts, a spark of mischief back. “Bet I’d look good in slime, though.”
I laugh again, louder, the image flashing through my mind—her spinning in that chair, drenched—and I feel a pull, stronger now. “You’d kill it,” I say, grinning. “But trust me, it’s stickier than it looks.”
She giggles, and we lapse into quiet, licking our cones, the air between us charged. “Why’d you sign up?” she asks after a beat, her tone curious, probing.
I shrug, licking a drip of vanilla. “Needed a shake-up, I guess. Life’s been… flat. I didn’t expect that, though.” I gesture vaguely, and she nods, like she gets it, maybe too well.
“Flat’s what I ran from,” she says, her voice softening. “Sewing costumes now, I make chaos for others, but I’ve never worn it myself. You did, though. Mess and all.” Her eyes linger on me, and I catch that tension again—admiration, yes, but a quiet ache, like she’s measuring the gap between us.
I lean forward, bold for once. “Next time, we switch—you take the stage, I’ll cheer.”
She freezes, then laughs, a nervous edge to it. “Deal,” she says, but I wonder if she means it, if she’s closer to that edge than she lets on.
“So,” I say, shifting gears, “ice cream’s safe, but what’s next? Back for round two?” She smirks, twirling her cone. “Only if you promise no slime,” she quips, but her eyes say more. Maybe she’d risk it, with me. The future hangs there, open, a thread of possibility weaving through the night, and I feel it. My worst moment turning into something bright, her quiet spark meeting mine, both of us teetering on something new.
Part 2: Lila’s “Second Date”
A week after ice cream with Jake, I’m back outside After Hours Insanity, my heart thudding like a drum against my ribs as the city’s neon hum crackles in the air. His texts—teasing quips about slime, soft hints at wanting more—have kept me tethered, and when he’d pitched this second date, half in jest, I’d agreed, nerves drowned by a restless thrill. I grip the bag with my silver bodysuit — shimmering, skintight, its cutouts slicing across my hips, the neckline diving low — a secret rebellion stitched in Ash Hollow’s shadows.
Jake is beside me, his grin wide, his own tight gear an echo of our first night. “That’s unreal,” he says, voice warm as his eyes skim the bag, sparking heat in my chest. “You’ll own that stage.”
I laugh, a jittery sound, pulling it out. “Or wreck it,” I say, but his steady nod steadies me, too.
“You’ve got this,” he murmurs, and with him, I believe it. We slip inside, the studio’s roar engulfing us, and I dart to a bathroom to change. The silver hugs me like a second skin, cool and slick, its sheen dancing under the fluorescent lights, a bold mirror to the girl I’ve buried.
I step out, and Jake’s whistle cuts low, his gaze lingering. “Told you,” he says, and my pulse surges, Ash Hollow’s ghost fading as we stride to our seats.
The host’s voice booms, summoning volunteers, and my hand clamps Jake’s arm, fingers quivering. “Go for it,” he whispers, breath hot against my ear, and it’s enough to get me over the hump. My hand shoots to the sky, and before I know it, I hear the crowd’s cheers, a tidal wave crashing over me as I find my feet guiding me on stage, the suit’s silver glinting, its cutouts framing my hips, my heartbeat a frantic rhythm beneath it. I stand next to a confident, attractive woman who seems to be everything I wanted to be. She has a quiet confidence that I find intimidating, but I try to set that aside, knowing that I will likely have to beat her if I want to win the cash prize, avoid ruining my beautiful silver creation, and the humiliation that comes with it. For a moment, I second-guess myself, wondering whether this was all a mistake.
“A silver siren!” the host crows, his grin sharp and wicked. “Will she shine? Or shatter?”
Jake’s shout — “You’ve got it, Lila!” — pierces the din, and I lift my chin, his faith a lifeline in the chaos. The game’s an obstacle course — rope wall, net crawl, balance beam — I have to conquer it before my opponent does.
Before long, the host says go, and I launch forward, the suit shimmering as I grip the rope, its coarse fibers biting my palms, friction warming my skin as I climb, Jake’s pull-up grit in my head. The net’s a tangle, rough weave scraping my knees through the silver, Jake’s “Keep going!” ringing in my ears.
But the beam is narrow and slick. I teeter, the suit’s snug grip no help, and I fall, a sharp yelp escaping as the timer screeches, my rival darting ahead. I fall onto a soft mat, forced to start the beam over again, all while my opponent extends her lead.
The crowd explodes, “Punish! Punish!” a pulsing chant, and my gut lurches. They’re actively cheering for my failure. I try not to let the chants get to me, but my opponent is ahead, so impossibly ahead.
I successfully navigate the beam on my second attempt, but by then, my counterpart has already completed the course.
Out of breath, I feel failure’s sting. But at the same time, Jake is clapping, his grin unwavering, and I latch onto that tiny piece of positivity as the host bellows, “where is she going, audience?”
The call receives its response, “Ultimate! Torture! Machine!”
Unlike Jake, I’m not forced to strip; my suit stays, its silver a brittle armor as I’m led to the machine, its steel arms and nozzles gleaming like a predator’s teeth. I’m strapped in, arms pinned to the rests, ankles clamped tight—the fabric stretching, a taut whisper against my skin, my creation teetering on the edge. My breath snags; this is mine, born from hidden stitches, and its ruin feels like peeling away my soul.
Jake’s in the crowd, hands shaping a heart, and I lock onto his eyes, terror and longing a churning storm. I’ve craved this chaos, but not like this, not losing what I built.
The audience counts — “One… two… THREE!” — and the machine growls to life, a low, menacing hum vibrating through my bones.
The first cake is chocolate, and it crashes into my face with surprising force, a dense, wet slap of cold batter splattering my cheeks, oozing into my eyes with a gritty sting, the rich cocoa scent flooding my nose. I gasp, a sharp intake drowned by the crowd’s roar, as it trickles down, seeping into the bodysuit’s silver, a dark stain blooming across my neckline, the fabric clinging heavier.
The second cake is vanilla, and it slams into my chest, a frigid thud against my ribs, creamy frosting squelching under the impact, its sweet, milky smell mixing with chocolate as it soaks the suit, dulling its gleam with a sticky sheen.
Another chocolate cake smashes into my face, a thick, gooey wall slamming my lips and nose, crumbs catching in my hair, the bitter-sweet aroma choking me as my vision blurs, batter dripping like molasses onto my chin.
The fourth — vanilla — hits my upper body quickly after, a cold, sloppy burst splattering my shoulders, the suit sagging under the weight, tiny tears prickling at the seams.
The fifth arm looms still, silent, and I’m reeling — humiliation sears, my creation defiled, but the chair’s vibration begins buzzing through me, a low thrum against my thighs, sparking a wild heat that twists shame into defiance.
The fruit cannons erupt, blasting blueberry, cherry, apple, strawberry, raspberry, and peach pie filling at my already-smothered body for 15 seconds, warm, syrupy torrents pelting me.
Blueberry’s tart tang hits first, a purple gush splashing my chest, soaking through the silver with a wet squish, staining it in splotches that drip like ink. Cherry follows, a red spray stinging my arms, its sharp sweetness filling the air as it seeps into the fabric, the suit’s seams creaking. Apple’s golden juice splatters my thighs, warm and pulpy, apple-sweetness mingling with the mess, while strawberry’s bright burst coats my neck, raspberry’s tang pricks my skin, and peach’s velvety slime drenches my hips, the cutouts now clogged with fruit.
The crowd jeers and I flinch, the suit’s silver drowning in a sticky rainbow, tiny rips widening, but Jake’s “You’re incredible, Lila!” slices through, the chaos I’ve craved tearing me open.
Then I feel the chair start to spin, and cream jets unleash, icy streams blasting my chest, groin and face for what feels like an eternity. The cold whips my skin, a sharp, milky slap soaking the suit, white froth bubbling over the colors, the vanilla scent sharp and clean against the fruit’s musk. It sprays my face, stinging my eyes, dripping in thick rivulets down my chin, while jets hit my crotch, a frigid shock seeping through the fabric, chilling my core.
The crowd howls and I yelp, the suit’s seams splitting wider, silver lost under a creamy flood, the vibration pulsing harder, heat coiling tight as I fight the overwhelm.
Mercifully, the seat finally stops spinning, but then the final fruit blast strikes, a five second deluge of all flavors combined, a warm, sticky, a fruity avalanche saturating me. The suit’s a sodden wreck, colors swirling in a pulpy stew, the air thick with their mingled sweetness, my skin slick and heavy. I’m breaking right along with the suit — my work, my shell — but Jake’s spirit holds me.
The vibration finally cuts off, a shaky relief blooming, but then the pink slime bucket tips, a tidal wave of thick goo crashing over me. It’s cold, a gooey torrent with a bubblegum tang, pouring down my head, slicking my hair flat, seeping through every tear. The weight’s too much — the suit’s chest rips wide, fabric splitting with a wet snap, baring my breasts to the gasping crowd.
I choke on a breath, the slime coating my exposed skin, dripping in thick, syrupy strands, a raw exposure like Jake’s nudity echoing through me, and suddenly I feel it: the heat in my body converting to arousal, the tearing of my bodysuit seemingly amplifying the sensation. What is happening to me? I think to myself, uncertain about how my sudden, accidental nudity could possibly be met with intensifying excitement.
The crowd’s stunned roar shakes the air as the fifth cake launches — chocolate, held back from the original barrage — smashing into my face with a deafening thwack, a dense, cold wall of batter exploding across my features, smothering my eyes, nose, mouth in a suffocating shroud. The rich cocoa stench fills my lungs, crumbs lodging in my throat as it cascades down, coating my bared breasts in a thick, sticky layer and burying the suit’s useless tatters below.
I’m blinded, gasping through the mess, the crowd’s cheers a thunderous pulse. My humiliation sears, raw and overwhelming, but triumph surges, too, a primal roar breaking free as the chaos I’ve craved since Ash Hollow consumes me.
It all finally stops, and I’m heaving, dripping, eventually released from the restraints. I stand, legs trembling, the suit in shredded ruins — purples, reds, pinks, whites, browns staining the silver tatters, my breasts bare under chocolate’s heavy smear — and I run a shaky hand over it, the gooey mess slick between my fingers. It’s gone, my creation obliterated, the exposure a knife-twist of vulnerability mirroring Jake’s ruin. But then I spot him: Jake, returning the very heart signal I gave him after his ordeal in this godforsaken device. It gives me the slightest reassurance that everything will be OK.
An assistant rushes up, towel in hand, and before I know it, I’m backstage with Jake, his eyes blazing with pride. “You were unreal,” he says, gently wiping my back with the towel, then covering my chest with it, a tenderness that steadies me.
I laugh, a ragged, real sound, meeting his gaze. My humiliation throbs, but it’s fading, eclipsed by a fierce new light. “It’s destroyed,” I rasp, touching the suit’s remains, but he shakes his head.
“You’re not,” he says, pulling me close, sticky and all. I’ve lost the suit — my shield, my skin bared — but I’ve won more, the conformist shell I’ve carried since Ash Hollow smashed to pieces, Jake’s warmth sealing the fracture.
He pulls me into him, sticky and all, his warmth seeping through the towel, grounding me as the mess squishes between us. I lean into him, my forehead pressing against his chest, the steady thud of his heart a counterpoint to mine, still racing.
The towel’s rough weave chafes against my slime-slicked shoulders, but his scent — clean sweat, faint soap — cuts through the cloying sweetness coating me, a lifeline I cling to.
“I thought I’d break,” I murmur, the words spilling out, raw and shaky, my breath hitching as the memory flashes. The batter blinding me, the slime tearing me open, that final cake smothering me. “It felt like too much, like Ash Hollow was right, and I’d gone too far.” My fingers curl into the towel, the sting of loss prickling my eyes.
But Jake tilts my chin up, his thumb brushing a smear of chocolate from my cheek, leaving a warm trail. “You didn’t break,” he says, his grin soft but fierce. “You owned it. I’ve never seen anything like that.”
His eyes hold mine, steady and bright, and I feel it: a shift, the conformist shell I’ve hauled since childhood cracking wide, its shards dissolving in the sticky ruin clinging to me. I laugh again, lighter now, the sound bubbling up despite the ache in my chest. “Matching messes now,” I say, and he chuckles, the rumble vibrating against me, his arms tightening.
“Damn right,” he replies, his voice dropping low, playful. “Though you’ve got me beat. A cake in the face with your tits out? That’s next-level guts.”
I flush, a shaky grin tugging at my lips, the towel slipping as I swat his arm, the mess squelching under my hand. “Shut up,” I mutter, but there’s no bite in it. His tease pulls me back, softens the edge of exposure still prickling my skin.
I feel the last of Ash Hollow’s whispers dissolve, replaced by a shaky, radiant certainty. I’m not that quiet girl anymore. I squeeze his hand, the mess binding us, and tilt my head, teasing back.
“So, what’s next?” I ask. “You sewing me a new one?”
He laughs, a bright, unguarded sound, pulling me closer until the towel’s edge brushes his chest. “Only if I get to pick the game next time,” he quips, eyes glinting. “Something less… gooey.”
I snort, the idea sparking a flicker of thrill. Another round, maybe, with him beside me, not just watching.
“Deal,” I say, my voice steadier, “but you’re wearing it next time. Silver’s your color now, too.”
His eyebrows shoot up, and he smirks, leaning in until his breath grazes my ear. “Only if you promise a shower after,” he murmurs, low and warm, and my pulse skips, a new heat blooming beneath the mess.
We linger, the studio emptying, his arm around me as he guides me to the shower. He’s been here before, knows the way. My bare feet stick to the floor with each step, the towel a flimsy shield against the chill creeping in. A stagehand tosses us a spare robe, and once I emerge from the shower stall, Jake helps me shrug it on, the soft cotton a stark contrast to the suit’s shredded remains, its weight a quiet comfort.
“You okay?” he asks, softer now, his hand resting on my back as we find a quiet corner, the hum of the crew fading.
I nod, sinking onto a bench, the robe pooling around me, my skin still tacky, hair matted with slime remnants and batter. “Yeah,” I say, and I mean it. “Just… a lot. But good.”
He sits beside me, close enough that our thighs brush, his warmth a steady pulse. “Took guts,” he says, his voice gentle, fingers tracing the edge of the robe. “More than I had.”
I shake my head, a small smile tugging free. “You gave me mine,” I murmur, and it’s true. His heart signal, his grin, pulled me through. We sit in silence, the air thick with unspoken things: relief, pride, a thread of something deeper. I lean into him, the mess forgotten, our next step shimmering ahead like the suit once did: bold and ours.