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: Co-ed Mess)".
Happy reading!
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Story 4: Jake and Lila's Private Ecstasy (Part 1 of 2)
The Ground Rules
Tomorrow’s the day when our pie, cake, messy war blows up, and the thrill in my chest is a live charge.
Jake and I are in the kitchen, the counter a sprawl of boxes, buckets, and bottles, tallying our arsenal. We’re expecting a mess that bring us to our knees, probably literally. 48 pies, each topped with a hefty swirl of whipped cream, creamy peaks over gooey fruit and pudding fillings.
Six chocolate sheet cakes, frosted and dense, plus four vanilla and berry ones, soft and crushable.
I point at the three 5-gallon buckets of slime: green, blue, and red goo.
He hefts the syrups: two quarts of chocolate syrup, one quart of caramel, plus a tub of marshmallow fluff. I nod, adding the sundae kit — two quarts of melted vanilla ice cream in the fridge, a can of whipped cream, a shaker of rainbow sprinkles — toppings for a brutal penalty.
We review the ground rules. “The plan is to use mess as punishment, like After Hours Insanity. Five challenges, at least one loser in each game.
“First is a ring toss. One of us sits on a stool, holding a peg on our head. The other person tosses ten rings. Most on the peg wins.
“Next is a balance challenge. Balance a book on your head, walk in a straight line. If you fall off, you’re done.”
“Then, build a tower. I’ve got a stack of random junk. We take turns stacking, and the person who builds the tallest tower without it crashing down wins.
“Fourth is a round of cornhole. Most points wins, loser gets pied.
“And finally, an obstacle run. We’re gonna crawl under chairs, hop over a broom, first to the end wins, loser becomes a human ice cream sundae.”
“But wait — I have one more layer. For the grand finale, whoever loses more games is the ‘ultimate loser,’ and earns all the leftover mess. Every pie, cake, slime, syrup, sundae scrap we haven’t used, smashed, thrown, dumped on them, they get it all.”
Jake’s eyes widen, then he laughs, “Jeez, you’re a savage!”
I nod, stepping closer, voice dropping, “And one extreme twist for the loser. They’ll be handcuffed, AND they’ll get a ball gag in their mouth.”
His jaw drops, a flash of shock, then intrigue, and I feel it: my heart racing, a raw rush I’ve never voiced, a kink sparking in me, me taking the lead where he’s usually guided. He tilts his head, “Ball gag? Damn, Lila, where’s this coming from?”
I smirk, bold now, “From me! You’ve led plenty, now I’m leading you.”
He pauses, then grins, slow, “You’re a fiend. I’m in, but you’re dreaming if you think it’s gonna be me with the gagged and the handcuffs.”
With the ground rules set, the air crackles with tension and anticipation. But there’s a whole night of sleep ahead, rest that, let’s be honest, neither of us will be getting. Alas, we try.
Heading Home: Jake’s Reflection
I pull away from Lila’s place, the night air sharp through the truck window, engine rumbling low, but my head’s a live wire. The drive home is quiet, just the flicker of streetlights and the hum of tires, and I let it all unspool: how I got here, what’s at stake. It started with After Hours Insanity. That bold leap, volunteering, strutting in with a grin, my body gleaming under tight clothes, expecting I’d own the place and walk out with some easy money.
Then the penalty came: forced to strip, mess hitting me from every angle. The humiliation was so raw, but that’s when she appeared. Lila, trembling but steady, our meet-cute in the chaos, like fate tossed us together, her quiet spark cutting through my haze.
I grip the wheel, replaying those early days, her under that gray weight of her past, me seeing past it and pulling her out. A shared ice cream turned to her raising her hand, stepping into the fray, and I’ve been there since, coaxing her fire. Now, her true self is blazing.
Tomorrow is a big day for us. It’s not just lust anymore. It could be so much more. But if it flops… I don’t dare linger there. The thought is a cold knot I shove down. I park, step into my silent place, my heart thumping. Everything’s on the line, and I’m ready, but damn, it’s gotta work.
Lila’s Reflection
Jake’s truck fades into the night, the apartment door clicks shut, and I’m alone, the silence settling soft around me. And yet it feels like the middle of a storm.
My feet draw me to the spare bedroom, the war room, and I pause at the doorway, my hand hovering over the switch. I flick it on, the light spilling across the plastic sheeting. My breath catches, and I step in tentatively, the plastic crinkling faintly under my socks.
I move deeper, tracing the edge of the tarp with my toes, letting it all flood back: how fate spun me here, from gray shadows to this absurd scene. My entire life, I was caged in good-girl rules. They kept me quiet and unseen. How many years did I spend watching others dive into the fray, while I stayed safely in the shadows?
Then came Jake, the bravest, most attractive man I’d ever seen, his grin slicing through the crowd, our eyes locking, a chance spark that jolted me awake. That ice cream date rolled into something bigger, him beside me at the show, nudging me forward. I raised my hand, disbelief a knot in my throat as I stepped up — disbelief that nearly became dissociation when I lost and felt cakes smashing into my face over and over, slime ripping my bodysuit and exposing my breasts, my embarrassment a scalding wave.
I sat there helplessly, thinking I’d made a mistake. But then Jake was there, first returning that heart signal, and then later backstage, handing me a towel, his steadiness when he told me I was brave.
These weeks have been dizzying, with the grayness of my old life crumbling and color bleeding in. I’ve stretched beyond that shadow girl into someone who plans wars, dares him with handcuffs, trusts him with every piece of me. This room is clean right now, but it’s temporary, like I was, blank, waiting, now brimming, alive, because of him.
I linger just a little while longer, and I can feel the buzz sharpening. Our chemistry is real. This could be so much more. But if it flops… I shake it off, step to the doorway, turn the light off. I’m ready. Everything’s on the line, and damn, it’s gonna work.
The Morning Of
The knock jolts me awake. It’s sharp, insistent, and cuts through my sleepy haze. I blink, groggy, the clock glowing 9:00 a.m., my head still fuzzy from last night’s buzzing dreams of pies and slime. I stumble out of bed, tugging a rumpled T-shirt over my shorts, my hair a wild nest. I shuffle to the door, disoriented, half-expecting a delivery guy. I swing it open, and there’s Jake, grinning, eyes bright, practically bouncing with enthusiasm, holding a tray of coffees and a pink box of donuts.
“Morning, candy queen!” he chirps, voice a jolt of sunshine. I blink again, brain catching up, a slow smile tugging at my lips.
“Jake? What are you…?” I mumble, voice thick, but he’s already stepping in, setting the goods on my counter like he owns the place.
“Fuel for the war,” he says, popping the box open to reveal glazed donuts, shiny and sticky. Steam curls from the coffee cups. My chest warms. He’s here. This kind, caring man I adore, surprising me bright and early, setting the day right.
“You didn’t have to,” I say, grabbing a coffee, the heat seeping through the cup, waking me up.
He winks, “Had to. It’s a big day! Can’t have you half-asleep when I bury you in pies.”
I laugh, sharper now, the fog lifting, and snag a donut, the glaze sticking to my fingers. “Oh, look at this,” I tease, holding it up. “Sticky already? What’s next, sneaking glaze into the war lineup?”
He grins and leans in close. “Caught me. Secret weapon, candy girl. I’m gonna smear it on you when the slime runs out.”
I roll my eyes, shoving him lightly, glaze smudging his shirt. “Sneaky,” I quip. “You’re the one getting buried. Donuts won’t save you.”
He laughs as he snags a donut of his own. It’s perfect, the day’s tone bright and playful, our war just hours away.
Final Preparations
Late afternoon comes fast. Sunlight slants low through Lila’s windows, and our war is breathing down our necks now. “Let’s get in there,” I say, grabbing a couple of pies. Lila is right behind, hauling two buckets of slime, green and blue sloshing thick against the sides. We tromp into the war room, plastic sheeting shimmering under the ceiling light, a pristine stage itching for ruin. Lila lines up the pies along the wall while I lug in the cakes, setting them on a rickety table, their heft a promise of gooey destruction.
We take turns hauling in supplies, then I drag the stool in, plunking it smack in the middle. “Loser’s hot seat,” I say, giving it a pat.
Lila smirks, “Your VIP spot, sausage king!” She drops the handcuffs beside it with a clink, her eyes glinting
“Outfits,” I say, glass clinking down, and she nods, “Showtime.” We split up into our privacy of separate rooms to shed the day and slip into our war gear.
Before we know it, we’re back in the war room: me in gray, her in pink and green, with the bright light exposing every inch of our bodies. Her bikini glows, its curves sharp and fearless; my crop top and leggings glint, lovingly stitched by her hands and so skintight. Our eyes meet with energy that is silent and charged. It’s go time.
The First Game - Ring Toss
“The first game is the Ring toss,” I say, grabbing a tall, wobbly stick to place on my head. Jake snags the ten red rings and steps back a few feet.
“You’re up, sausage king,” I tease, planting myself on the stool, holding the peg on my head with my hands.
“Better say goodbye to that clean bikini,” he retorts.
His anxiety is apparent, though. His jaw is tight, his finger twitch, and it shows in his performance. His first throw sails wide, clattering on the plastic. The second clips my shoulder, dropping limply to the floor. He curses under his breath, adjusts, and lands the third—THUNK—on the peg. His fourth misses, his fifth hits—2 out of 10—and the rest scatter, his nerves winning out.
“Damn it,” he mutters, shoulders slumping, and I grin, smug, “Nice try, loser. Your throne awaits.”
He trudges to the stool, and I grab the handcuffs, snapping them on his wrists behind his back.
“Ready for it?” I ask, snagging two custard pies, whipped cream quivering, and he glares, playful but tense.
“Bring it.” I take pleasure in smashing the first pie square into his face, sending custard exploding across his cheeks and cream down his chin, dripping onto his gray crop top, soaking it yellow. The second hits his chest, sending even more whipped cream splattering, custard oozing over his abs, pooling in his lap, leggings streaked with slop. I step back, grab the bucket of green slime, hoist it high over his head, tipping it slowly. It pours, a gooey cascade oozing over his shoulders, running down his arms, coating his hair, dripping off his nose in neon strings. He shakes his head, laughing through it, “You are so dead, missy!”. He’s messy, defiant, but locked in place, taking it full-on.
We switch places. Jake wipes slime from his eyes, still processing the shock, as he holds the peg on his head. Now I have the rings. I look at him in his ridiculous state, smeared with custard and whipped cream, drenches in slime, and it revs up my nerves. He’s out for revenge, and I know it. My hands shake, the realization of this need to win, to not allow him the privilege. I throw my first ring, and it sails high. The second bounces off his shoulder, and the third misses completely. My stomach is in knots, his messy smirk taunting me, and I miss again, the rings a pathetic scatter on the plastic.
“Oh, Lila,” he crows, “you’re toast.”
I groan. The nerves won, and I’m the loser now, no escaping the mess.
I slump onto the stool, my heart racing, and Jake cuffs my wrists behind me, his slime-slick fingers brushing my skin.
“Payback time,” he barks, his voice low, as he grabs two cherry pies, whipped cream piled high, cherry filling peeking red. He wastes no time with pleasantries, slamming the first one hard into my face with what sounds like a half crunch, half splat. Cream smears my eyes, cherry streaks my cheeks, drips down my neck, staining my bikini top sticky-sweet. The second crashes into my chest with a sickening thud – whipped cream bursts across my breasts, cherry filling slides over my stomach, pooling at my thong’s edge, warm and wet. He steps back, hefts the blue slime bucket and grins. “Hold tight.” He pours, a slow, heavy wave splashing my shoulders, running down my back, coating my hair, dripping off my chin in gooey ropes, my bikini drenched blue.
I squirm, laughing, “You’re evil!” I’m messy, I’m helpless, but I’m alive. The mess is a rush despite my loss.
Narrative: The Second Game - Balance
The war room’s a gooey mess, with slime and pie streaks smearing the plastic, but we’re electric as we prep game two: Balance. I rip off a strip of blue masking tape, Jake pulling it taut across the room. Fifteen feet of wobbly destiny.
“This is nothing,” I boast, flicking my blue, messy hair. “You’re done, sausage king.” He smirks, scraping green slime off his gray crop top, “Pfft. I’ve seen you try to walk when you’re drunk.” We’re all bravado, grinning through the nerves.
“I’m first,” I say, grabbing a thick book — an old hardcover — as I step to the line, my bikini still tacky with cherry goo. I balance the book and start, but my nerves make my legs stutter. Halfway through, my foot slips to the right, the book wobbles, and I lurch off.
“Damn it!”
Jake cheers, “Called it. Throne time, loser!”
My stomach sinks. I shuffle to the wall, bracing for the onslaught.
Jake’s voice is practically a snarl. “Turn around, face the wall, and bend over—now.” I smirk but I obey, bending slightly, thong tight against my cheeks, and he grabs two custard pies, whipped cream trembling. Ploop — the first smashes into my left cheek, custard bursting, fat rippling out in soft waves from the hit. I let out a gasp that’s half shock, half thrill, feeling more exposed now than when the Torture Machine shot surprise jets of cream up these same cheeks. THUNK — the second slams my right, cream splattering, ripples fanning across my cheek, a sticky jolt rushing up my spine.
“Sit,” he commands. I drop to the stool. He cuffs my wrists behind me once again, and before I know it, a chocolate sheet cake is flying at my face. It hits me so hard I feel as though I’ve been concussed, the dense force snapping my head back and forcing my body into a sway as I lose my breath and my balance. The cake collapses down the front of my body, as frosting clogs my eyes, sticks to my neck, and adds a layer of brown onto my once-shiny bikini. Next, I feel him force my legs wide, and not a second later, I feel a blueberry pie hit my lap, cream and filling exploding all over my thighs, smothering my thong.
Then the sundae. He grins, “I’ve dreamt of this since our ice cream date…” as he pours two quarts of melted vanilla ice cream over my head, the icy cold biting my skin, I squeal, shivering as it splashes my shoulders, runs down my chest, and tickles my stomach. Chocolate syrup follows, warm and thick as it slowly oozes over my face, “Ughhh,” I gasp, as he follows with the caramel, tan filth cascading down my body. I let a moan slip out under the sticky heat. He tosses a bowl of rainbow sprinkles, which stick to everything. And finally, a spray of whipped cream atop my head, a towering mound, with a cherry plunked on top.
“Dessert’s on you!” he snickers. He leans in slowly and I feel his tongue lick a swirl off my chest. I feel the heat surging through me once more.
Now it’s Jake’s turn. He wipes cherry from his chin, struts to the line, book in hand, cockiness dialed up, “Watch the champ show you how it’s done.” I roll my eyes.
He takes one bold step, then hits a slick of pie cream from my fall, sending his foot sliding, the book flying, and his body crashing off the line in a tangle. He lands square on his tailbone and doubles over in pain.
“No fair!” he shouts, writhing on the floor. “That’s cheating! You set that as a trap! Redo!”
I laugh out loud. “Cheating? You’re the quote-unquote ‘champ’, now you’re crying for a redo? Get your ass to that stool, loser.” My voice is biting. He grumbles, and trudges to the wall.
“Turn around, face the wall, bend over,” I order, and he turns, his gray leggings stretched tight. I grab two cherry pies, take a second to admire his shapely, muscular ass, and then I destroy it. I spank his left cheek with the first pie, sending cherry goo bursting, muscle and fat rippling out from the force. He flinches. “Fuck!”
SPLAT – the second bashes his right cheek, sending more slop flying, more ripples pulsing across his ass, a sticky rush he grunts his way through.
“Sit,” I snap, and he slumps to the stool, just like I did. I cuff his wrists, and just as mercilessly, I heft a vanilla-berry cake, stare right into his eyes, and as ridiculous as it sounds, the words just escape me: “Night night, bitch!” I launch it, and it hits with a sickening thud, bashing his face, the heavy hit jerking his head back, shock rippling down his body as he loses his balance for a second. The cake collapses, sending berries streaking down his crop top, cream up his nose, splatter down his arms. I smash a cream pie right in his lap, cream bursting over his leggings, his bulge slick with cream as he doubles over in surprise and pain. I then grab the red slime bucket and tip it slow, mocking him as it douses him “Payback is a bitch, bitch”, as it runs down his shoulders, soaking his crop top, dripping off his chin in crimson ropes. He sputters, laughing, “You’re vicious!”—a massive, wild mess.
Narrative: The Third Game - Tower
The war room’s already destroyed, with red slime pooling, pie tins strewn, sundae sprinkles crunching underfoot, but we’re relentless as we start game three.
I grab our pile of household junk—a cereal box, a wooden spoon, a toilet paper roll, a mug, a paperback book, a plastic cup, a tennis ball, a small frying pan—and dump it all on the floor between us.
“Same stuff, one go each,” I say, “tallest tower wins, no collapse.”
“Me first,” I say, stepping up, and Jake dismissively waves a hand my way, as he takes a seat on the floor. I start steady, placing the cereal box flat on the floor, the mug upside-down, the wooden spoon slotted vertical in the rim. The paperback stands upright on the mug, toilet paper roll upright on that, the plastic cup teetering atop it all, and the tennis ball caps it—a foot high, shaky but holding.
“Beat that,” I say smugly.
Jake groans, “Lame. Watch this.” He scrambles up, grabs the pile, and even though engineering is not his game, his grin is a big bluff. But it turns out he has no strategy at all. He goes big: cereal box base, frying pan flat, mug upside down, toilet paper roll atop the pile. The paperback fans out, crooked but tall, and the stack pushes past my height. “Nailed it,” he mutters, reaching to plop the tennis ball on top… and CRASH. It falls, the result of a weak foundation. The mug clatters, toilet paper harmlessly rolls away, the book landing open on the plastic.
I break out laughing. “Good job, Einstein, a tower of trash!”
He scowls again. “That’s rigged. The slime messed up the grip!”
I step closer and my voice drops once more, the dom in me surging yet again, “No excuses, loser. Shirt off, now.” He winces, peeling the slime-soaked gray crop top over his head, tossing it, chest bare and gleaming with mess.
“Turn around, face the wall, bend over,” I order sharply. He turns, and I see his leggings taut over his butt, the cheeks still splattered with cream from the last punishment. I grab his waistband and yank the shiny yoga pants down to his knees, exposing his clean, bare bum, plump and begging for a mess.
I snatch two blueberry pies and notice the cream atop them quivering. I waste no time serving up justice. DOONK — the first bashes his left cheek, fat rippling out from the hit, blueberry goo bursting. He moans from the sensation of cold cream against his bare skin. PLACK — the second slaps his right cheek, cream and filling flooding out the bottom, with sticky remnants clinging to his bare bum, “Dear God, Lila!” he yelps.
I yank the pants back up over his hips, trapping the gooey pie remnants against his ass, a slick seal. “Sit,” I snap, and he drops to the stool yet again, crushing the pie mess inside, burrowing cream and filling into the shiny fabric. I cuff his wrists yet again.
“Ohh, fuck…” he says, a reaction to the soggy mess underneath him, but I cut his reaction off as I slam a cream pie into his twisted face, sending another wave of cream up his nose, into his hair, and down his chin. I heft two chocolate sheet cakes, and launch the first square his face, the dense force jerking his head back, shock rocking him, his body swaying as his balance slips. The second rams his chest, a heavy smack taking the breath right out of him, sending cream sliding down his bare abs, turning his front from a muscular marvel to a sticky wreck. Then, I slam a cherry pie into his lap, creating another cream explosion in his lap, and top him off with one more green slime bucket, which I pour agonizingly slowly into his hair and all over his face, sending waves of goo down his impeccable body and into his lap. He’s utterly destroyed, and yet we still have two more rounds to go.
Narrative: The Fourth Game - Cornhole
I drag the cornhole board across the room, and plop down eight beanbags, four red and four blue.
“One board, one round,” I say, tossing Jake the red ones, “on the board is 1, in the hole is 3. Highest score wins.”
Jake steps up, beanbags in hand, grinning wide, “Watch a master, Lila.” His cockiness, especially after a couple of brutal takedowns, is admirable.
He tosses the first bag. It lands with a THWACK in the hole, 3 points. The second skids on the board for 1 point. The third — THUNK— 3 more points. Fourth — PLOP — another hole, 10 points. He spins, gets in my face and gloats, “Ten, silly girl. Beat that!” His face is literally inches from mine, smug as hell.
I shove him back playfully. “Get off, dummy, I’m not scared of you,” but my gut twists. I’m probably screwed, and he knows it.
First toss — THUD — lands on the board, 1 point. Second — skid —slides off, zero. Third — THUMP — on again, 2 total. Fourth — miss — nothing, stuck at 2. “Shit,” I mutter under my breath, and Jake whoops, his hands above his head in victory. “Throne time, Lila — you are fuuuuuuuucked.”
I groan.
Jake cuffs my wrists behind my back, that cold feeling all too familiar at this point. Suddenly, his fingers snag my bikini top’s tie, and it unravels, sending it tumbling to the floor, my breasts spilling fre once again. I get a momentary flashback of the unwanted slime dump on After Hours insanity tearing open my top, and I get a cold spike of panic.
But then I find myself laughing, “Taking advantage, huh? Perv…” my voice teasing, though my skin’s buzzing, a secret heat creeping in. I’m getting turned on despite the situation.
He grins, wicked, “Guilty — as you said, payback’s a bitch.”
My fake whine gets brutally cut off when he slams a cherry cream pie into my face, the force a brutal shock, whipping my head back as cream explodes in all directions, sending a stinging blast across my cheeks. I let out a muffled yelp from underneath the tin, “Holy fuck!”—stunned, gasping, pie filling and whipped cream sliding down my bare chest, cherries plopping onto my breasts, a messy flood I can’t stop.
He steps back to admire his artwork. “This is for that last round.” He grabs two vanilla-berry cakes and chucks them at me, one smacking me right between the eyes, its density rocking me back and nearly sending me off the stool. The second splatters my chest, thick frosting smearing my breasts, while sponge collapses down my torso and lands with a thud on my lap. It gets mashed in even more when I get a blueberry pie smushed in my lap, burying my thong and inner thighs in cream, crust and sickly sweet berries. Then comes the chocolate syrup, a jug flowing over my head, dark rivers running down my face and chest, pooling at my waist. And the same with the caramel, warm slop cascading over my shoulders, tracing the same lines as the chocolate over my breasts, collecting in my lap.
Then something new: marshmallow fluff. He scoops a huge handful out of the tub, and ruthlessly smears it across my chest, making sure to grab a handful of each breast as he swipes them both.
He tops me off with a mound of whipped cream on my head, and shakes a container of rainbow sprinkles onto me, turning into a multicolored massacre, smeared with literally every color of the rainbow. He finishes me off by squeezing my breasts once more, honking them as if they were old-time horns.
“You’re a dick!” I shout with a laugh. I’m shocked but surprisingly turned on, a dripping wreck in the worst way, the victim of his savage payback.
Narrative: The Fifth Game - Obstacle Run
The war is tied 2-2, and it’s do-or-die: Obstacle Run, last shot to win ultimate supremacy. We’ve rigged the course across the room: crawl under a broom handle suspended atop safety cones, five feet from the start, hop three chairs jammed close together, weave between two book stacks topped with mugs, sprint to slap the far wall, then race back. First one home wins. No skipping, no toppling, or else you have to start the course over.
I scrape cherry goo off my hands, while Jake flexes, shirtless, his leggings pie-crusted. We line up, barefoot, the pile of mess from the last game glaring like a judge. “Go!” I shout, and we’re off.
Jake dives first, belly-sliding under the broom, slime smearing his chest, while I’m just a heartbeat behind, my thong scraping plastic, my elbows burning. Then he’s up, charging toward the chairs, but I’m right there, too. He hops, one, two, three, but has a rough landing. I leap over chair one cleanly, but clear chair two wobbly, as my foot slips on some pie goo, “Crap!” But I nail the third and close in on his lead. He weaves the book stacks swiftly, sending the mug rattling and nearly clattering to the ground. I dodge too, much lighter, leaving the mug steady, and gaining more ground. Now we sprint: he bolts for the wall, I’m on his tail, all our legs flying. SLAP – he tags it, a fingernail ahead, but I slap right after, hot on his heels.
The return is chaotic. Jake makes the book stack sway, and I dart past him, hopping the chairs first, one-two-three, but he’s closing, I can feel it. I dive for the broom and slide under, but I feel my foot clip the handle. It shifts an inch on the cones but stays in place. Jake’s under too, but bangs his knee hard on the floor, slowing him down for just a moment. “Shit!” I hear him shout.
We lurch to our feet, the finish line just steps away. He lunges, I lunge, and I hit the wrapping on the wall first, plastic stinging my palm, Jake a gasp behind, his hand a tick late.
“I win!” I yell, panting, my chest heaving. But already he’s on his feet, red-faced, claiming shenanigans.
“No fucking way—that broom moved! You cheated, that’s a redo!”
I laugh right in his face, “Cheated? It held, bro! Fair’s fair, I got you, 3-2!”
He jabs a finger, “Bullshit, Lila! That clip of yours slowed me, it’s a foul! Redo, now!”
I smirk, my inner dom kicking in to settle things once and for all, “Oh, quit weaseling, Jake—you’re just mad you’re about to take a big fat, messy L, like that After Hours drenching you loved so much. Face it, ya lost, so suck it up and take it like a man!” I plant my hands on my hips with a shit-eating grin plastered across my face.
He glares, “This is horseshit!”
Narrative: From Argument to First Pie
Jake is still fuming, stomping toward the stool shirtless, his leggings in tatters, grumbling loud enough to fill the entire house. “This is bullshit, Lila, and you know it!” He plants himself beside the stool, not sitting, his arms crossed like a sulky kid.
I stride over, the handcuffs dangling from a single finger, the smirk still on my face, “Keep whining, it won’t change a thing.”
With a huff, he finally relents. I snap the cuffs on his wrists behind his back, and he twists his body toward me, still salty over his loss. “You’re just scared I’d win a redo,” he mumbles.
I grab the ball gag from the pile, black and gleaming, and step close, voice cutting, “God, I’m sick of your shit. Shut it already.” Before he can retort, I shove the gag into his mouth, his lips stretching around it, and make sure to tie it as tight as I can behind his head, the straps biting into his slime-streaked hair.
His complaints muffle into low moans, “Mmm… mmm,” eyes flashing defiance through the silence.
I step back, grinning, and hook my thumbs into his leggings’ waistband—once shiny, now a gooey ruin—at his hips. “You’re not gonna need these anymore, loser” I say, giving them a firm tug and sending them down to the floor. A melange of slop flies — green slime, cherry goo, melted whipped cream — splattering the plastic in all directions, but my eyes lock on his manhood, bouncing free, springing up and down in the air like it’s thrilled to escape its tight prison. I stare, watching it comically flop around in its sudden freedom, and then I look up at him with a mischievous smile curling my lips. His gagged moans pitch higher, indicating concern (or is it panic?): “Mmm-eee!”
I grab a chocolate sheet cake with its dense base and thick frosting, and set it on the stool, the whipped icing quivering beneath his naked cheeks, still sloppy from being targeted earlier in the game.
Jake’s eyes widen, knowing what’s next, and I circle behind him, hands firm on his bare shoulders. “Down you go,” I say, and I push hard. He resists a beat, but then relents, his bare ass smacking the cake with a squelch, gooey chocolate and cream smothering his cheeks, squishing warm and slick between them as he sinks into the decadent dessert. Frosting oozes up, a sticky flood creeping into his every crevice — “feel familiar?!” I quip — and he can’t hold it in, moaning through the gag in a mix that’s half agony, half pleasure.
“Mmmph-ahh,” he wails, low and shaky, his body tensing in the mess. With the cake now flat, I step back, satisfied and admiring his defeat.
I turn to the remaining mess — a whopping 33 pies still remain, plus syrups and other sticky treats — and snag the first pie , a custard concoction, the whipped topping trembling. I raise it, cock my arm, and mock him, “Big, bad cocky boy’s about to get buried. Tell me, how does defeat taste?!” His gagged face twists, his eyes narrow, his moans muffled, and he braces himself helplessly. BLAM. He cries out through the ball gag in agony, as if shot by a gun. I revel in his suffering. One down, 32 more to go.
I grab the next one. “Poor sausage king,” I purr, mock pity thick as molasses, “ready to wear your crown?” SPLAT, a wet smack rings out as another wave of cream cream crashes between his eyes, custard streaking his nose, sliding slowly down his chin in gooey yellow trails. His head jerks back hard, a sharp arc of shock, a muffled “Mmmfff!” bursting through the gag, eyes wired shut as goo drips onto his bare chest, pooling at his collarbone. His shoulders twitch, a shudder of surprise rippling down, and I laugh at his misfortune. “Aw, did that sting your pretty face? Too bad, so sad…” Behind his back, his fingers flex subtly, testing the cuffs, a faint motion unnoticed as I snag another custard pie.
I saunter closer, pie in hand, and straddle his lap, my cherry-splattered, thong-clad thighs brushing his bare ones. I know what I’m doing. I lean forward slowly, deliberately, pushing my bare messy breasts smeared with pie and slime inches from his face, a tantalizing tease, cherry filling glistening on my skin, close enough he could taste me if he weren’t gagged.
His eyes widen, I feel his body trembling. I flash a temptress’s smile, then dip a finger into the whipped cream — sensual, swirling it with a soft hum — and dab a dollop on his nose, tender and teasing, letting it sit pristine against the mess. “You are SO cute like this,” I coo, stroking his cheek with my palm, smudging mess across his face. And as if out of nowhere, WHAM—I obliterate his face with the pie, sending more cream exploding outward, butterscotch pudding flooding his eyes, nose, and mouth, a gooey mask. His head snaps back once again, his upper body shuddering violently, a deep “Mmmph!” rumbling as he squirms beneath me, caught off guard by the violence.
My laugh cuts him sharply, “Fooled you, huh, babe? Thought I’d play nice?” His hands twist harder, a faint clink of metal, still hidden, still working, as I slide off, high on the thrill. I theatrically slap my hands together to clean them off.
Next, I snag a vanilla sheet cake and circle him slowly. The thing is a monstrosity, heavy and dense, its frosting gleaming with peaks of pink and purple flowers. “If you thought those pies were hard, it’s time for a real hit, big guy,” I taunt, rearing back like I’m winding up for a pitch. I hurl it straight into his face, the explosion spraying out onto the wall behind him, the heavy smack rocking his whole body in the stool, sending him teetering on the edge, legs kicking out as he fights to stay put. Chunks of cake scatter, frosting clogs his eyes, the remnants of the boldly-colored flowers sliding down his neck in dark, sticky streaks. He lets out another agonizing moan, and his head lolls from side to side, dazed by the force.
“Ooh, that looked rough,” I mock, stepping close to flick a chunk off his shoulder, “Hurt much, sausage? Guess I’ll never know!” His torso quivers, shivers of shock that his body can barely contain, though through it all, his fingers strain, wrists flexing against the cuffs, a quiet scrape, unnoticed as I turn away.
Next, I grab two blueberry pies and step to his sides, one in each hand. “Let’s try something new,” I chirp, fake sweetness dripping as I line them up. I clap them together simultaneously like cymbals with his head in between, a disgusting pie sandwich sending filling bursting in a purple-blue blast, goo mashing his skull, filling oozing down his ears in sticky trails, streaking his shoulders with berry streaks. His head jolts left, then right, and his upper body trembles all over again, hands clenching into fists behind him.
“Aw, poor baby,” I tease, leaning in to inspect the mess, “did that rattle your little brain?” I swipe a finger through the goo on his cheek, glaring deep into his eyes and licking it with a smirk. He flinches, and his hands twist again, metal shifting faintly, still locked but loosening.
I yank him up by the arm. “Up, loser!” He stumbles to his feet, legs wobbly, cake-smeared ass glistening under the lights. “Bend over,” I snap, shoving his shoulders down till he’s doubled over, bare cheeks thrust out, red from earlier rounds. He covers up his hands to obscure the evidence of his quiet handiwork, and I don’t even notice. My eyes are too set on destruction.
I grab a cherry pie, hefting it like a weapon, and spank his left cheek once more, sending more ripples of butt fat out wide, and splattering even more cherry goo across his skin, streaking down his thigh in a slow, syrupy drip. He grunts and his body lurches forward, a jolt of sting and shock bowing his back slightly. I snatch another cherry pie and whack his right cheek, cream sticking thick blasting him yet again, with more splatters landing on his lower back, while whole cherries tumble to the plastic below. His moan deepens, his back arches more sharply, and his legs tremble harder as he fights to steady himself.
I spin him around and grab a fistful of his slime-soaked hair. “Hold still!” I growl, as I snag a vanilla pudding pie with my free hand. I smash it hard into his face, vanilla flooding his nose, dripping fast down his chin, pooling at his neck. His head snaps back under my grip, his body shuddering as he fights the force, goo blinding him again. “Oh, you’re just a mess now,” I taunt, my fake pity thick as I release his hair, letting his head droop. “Can’t even cry for mercy, can you?”
“Sit,” I order as I point to the stool. He sinks down with a squelch, that ass I love so pieing so much hitting the remains of the chocolate cake again, his legs clamped tight. I grab another cherry pie, ready to continue this unrelenting assault. I eye his closed lap. “Open your legs,” I command, my voice firm. He hesitates, his thighs twitching, a low muffle through the ball gag a protest, while his legs stay shut.
My eyes narrow and my dom side surges. I lean in close, my voice rising stern and sharp. “SPREAD ‘EM, I SAID!” He flinches, emits a quick “Mmmph!”, then spreads them slowly, exposing his manhood, a big target framed by smeared thighs. I step between his legs, raise the pie, and slam it hard into his crotch, cream bursting up, cherry goo coating his groin, the filling sticking thick between his legs. His whole body jolts, a deep “Mmmphhh!” rumbling out, the stool rocking as the sting slams his balls, his head tipping back in a sharp arc.
“Hurts down there, huh?” I mock, patting his cheek. His legs tremble in a recovery twitch as cream continues to slide off his manhood onto the floor. His hands strain, the metal groaning faintly, but still locked.
I saunter over to the cart, selecting a blueberry pie, and turn back to him with a grin. Silently, I slam it into his already smothered mug, layering more purple filling onto his face, cream dripping slow over the gag, mixing with whipped cream into a gooey mess. His body twitches as he takes the blunt force of the hit. His shoulders shake, and his fingers twist — the cuffs rattling, an inch closer to freedom.
Then I force him back on his trembling feet. I delicately place a fruit-filled cake on his vacated stool, patting it like a velvet seat. “Your throne, sausage king,” I purr, grabbing his shoulders once more, my nails digging in so deep they might as well leave bruises. Without warning, I shove him down, and his bare ass crushes yet another cake, frosting bursting out, berries forcing their way up his cheeks, and oozing gently over his thighs. His whole body jolts yet again, his moan louder than ever as he feels the slop digging deeper and deeper into his most unmentionable areas. “Fit for a king,” I say.
And then I get him on his knees. He resists at first, but my eyes show him who’s in charge, and not long after, they hit the sticky plastic with a wet slap that echoes my will. “Beg me to stop,” I taunt, knowing he can’t, and instead, I blow him away with another pie. His head and shoulders arc back sharply, his moans still muffled but getting more desperate, his body shuddering as he kneels, inching closer to utter brokenness. I laugh at him in his compromised position, licking a smear off wayward cream off my hand. He’s trembling, and by contrast, I’m so alive, every quiver a testament to my rule. But wrists continue to strain, metal creaking, so close.
I grab him by the arm and sit him back on the stool. He sits on the remnants of yet another cake, sending even more of it busting in where the sun doesn’t shine. I grab another custard pie and add to the gruesome car crash already piled up on his face, this time rubbing it around and around his head to really send the message. “I’m not tired yet,” I bark. “Are you?”
Back to the cart I go, and I return with another blueberry pie, stepping close and eyeing that sack of his once more. “Legs wide,” I command. He spreads them slowly, still shaky from the first crotch hit, with the knowledge that this one might do even more damage. I hear a whine from underneath the gag, and it’s like a trigger to me. “I’m going to ENJOY this,” I exclaim, and as he emits a louder, more panicked whine, I wind up and slam the sucker down hard onto his crotch, creating another explosion of cream and syrupy goo, making a sound as loud as a shotgun blast as the treat hit its target. His upper body convulses violently, his voice crying out in embarrassment, as that familiar sting bites his balls again. The stool teeters as if he believes dumping himself to the floor to be less humiliating than another hit in the family jewels.
I grab the chocolate syrup and pop the cap. “Time to glaze my prize,” I purr, squirting a thick stream over his head, sending dark rivers down his face and chest. It washes the pie mess off his dick and turns his shaft a shiny shade of brown, smothered like the rest of him. His head tilts and his body shivers as I coat him. Despite his growing humiliation, his hands continue flex, as close as he’s ever been to escape.
“Spread ‘em,” I command, and he shakily obeys, his manhood a chocolatey target that completely belongs to me. I step between his legs and slam it down hard, relishing the sound he emits once more. His body slumps, but not certain whether it’s out of exhaustion or relief. His hands twist — SNAP — the cuffs give, the metal clatters free, but I don’t hear it, too entranced in my dominance to notice.
I grab another custard pie — number 17? I’ve lost count at this point — and step in close. “Poor, poor little man,” I coo, showering him with fake pity I smash it in his face, earning another body shudder as more slop drips slowly down his body. I’m convinced my dominance is a fire that won’t burn out, gleefully unaware that his hands are now free, flexing behind him, ready to get his own back.
Look out for Part 2, coming soon...