Messy Friendships - Part 3 & 4

[ghilton]

Okay, here's the next two parts, enjoy...


PART 3 - THE BIG DAY


Finally, the day was here.

I stood at the top of the stage, in front of an audience of several hundred. We were in a small community centre which I'd rented out for the occasion, and we'd had no problem selling tickets to the event. The format was that of a messy game show, and even given the slime purchases, hiring expenses and so on, I was going to come out ahead.

Donna and Michelle were standing either side of me, both in perspex gunge booths. I looked from side to side at them. They were holding up pretty well considering I hadn't told either of them this was to be public.

That said, I could also see the enormous tanks of gunge perched atop each booth. As could the audience.

Donna was wearing a strapless evening dress, spotless and white, like she was a bridesmaid. Rather the wrong sort of clothes for an event like this, but she obviously wanted to show off.

Michelle was wearing a black sleeveless vest over a gauzy transparent top, and a short black skirt. The booths were transparent all the way to the floor, so she was keeping her legs pressed tightly together.

For the most part both girls looked composed and stayed facing the audience, though occasionally they'd sneak a nervous glance upward at the very prominent nozzle above their heads. And they were doing it a little more frequently now, as it was now time for the final verdict.

I turned first to Donna. "Donna. You needed three points to avoid gunging... and only managed two." Cheers from the audience. "I'm sorry..."

I held up the remote in my hand. It had just the two buttons. I pushed the button marked 'Donna'.

Donna shrieked as pink gunge poured down on her in gallons and gallons. The torrent covered her head and torso, and sheeted onto the floor of the booth in a thick wave. Her arms flapped about as she shrieked and laughed. I saw fabric bunched up around her waist and realized the weight of the gunge had pulled her dress right off her chest. If she hadn't been sitting down it might well have pulled her dress right off.

Donna was calming down now and just sitting there with her head in the torrent of gunge, making no attempt to move it. I saw her smiling. Gradually the flow lessened, and then stopped. Donna had one arm held not-so-modestly over her bare breasts, but it hardly seemed necessary as every inch of her upper body was covered in gunge. It formed a pool four inches deep at the bottom of the booth. Her white evening dress, which had stretched down to her feet, was a sodden bedraggled mass around her legs.

I watched Donna slowly get her breath back, her chest rising and falling, as the crowd whistled and clapped. Donna cracked a grin and waved with her free hand back at the audience.

At that point I loved Donna unconditionally: I knew our friendship was safe. But the event wasn't over yet.

I turned to Michelle, and immediately the audience grew quiet and anticipatory. "Michelle. You also needed three points to avoid gunging. And, like Donna, you only managed two." More audience cheers. Michelle made a face and clapped her hands over her eyes. "I'm sorry..."

I held up the remote, and pressed the button marked 'Michelle'.

A thick wall of green gunge fell down on Michelle. She didn't scream, just sat there and took it as gunge splashed on the walls, coated her body instantly and continued in a steady deluge. I saw something fall behind her back and realized her vest had been pulled off by the gunge. Her gauzy top was turning completely transparent and wrapping itself tightly around her skin.

As the gunging continued I watched the slime cover more and more of her body, like a painter filling in the margins. Her black skirt was already submerged in a pool of green slime, and slime trickled down her bare legs in thin trails, which became rivulets, then courses. She'd forgotten about her modesty now, as her legs were no longer pressed together.

Finally the gunging finished. Looking entirely unconcerned about her slimy transparent top, Michelle raised her hands to her face, wiped out her eyes, and wrung some of the gunge out of her hair. The audience were giving her some good cheers too, and I could tell from her body language that she wasn't pissed. I might have to watch out for some later revenge, but as far as the three of us were concerned it seemed that the plan had worked.

I stepped forward and addressed the audience. "Well, thank you all for coming, hope you enjoyed it as much as I did." Cheers. "That's all we've got time for, so-"

"Oh no it isn't!" said Michelle and Donna in unison.

I turned, caught off guard. They were both standing up, and each held a remote in their hand.

I felt a thud in my stomach as I realized what they were for.

The audience figured it out at the same time: they roared.

Hellishly nervous, I turned around to face them as I received my punishment. I was only wearing a floral summer dress and high heels. The fabric was thin and single layered. I felt acutely exposed.

"Trust us, Audrey," said Michelle, "we've enjoyed this more than anyone." I heard a click as they pressed their remotes in unison.

Two jets of gunge smacked into me. Not from above; from either side. The direction was unexpected and I almost fell over. It was like standing between two fire hoses.

The jets started at my waist level then moved slowly up and down. Gunge was shooting off everywhere and people in the audience were getting splashback, but the vast majority stuck right to me. Within a second my dress was sodden. It flapped around me in the pressure, then I heard it rip. It ripped again and fell off me in shreds. Below the dress, save for the heels, I was completely naked.

I should have been mortified by this, but the sensation of the gunge was so intense, so alien, so pleasurable, that I just stood still and let it wash over me. Jets of gunge pummeled my face, coated my chest and my back, ran over my legs. As they came back up from the floor and settled at my groin level, I turned ninety degrees so that my crotch and ass were receiving the direct blast.

A part of me was thinking: well, here I am, naked, in front of a large group of strangers.

Then a different part of me thought: oh, of course, a dream...

[ghilton]

PART 4 - THE CLUB


The next morning I found myself with a lot to think about.

Part of me wanted to rationalize the dream as simple anxiety. I was going to be asking a lot of my friends on Saturday - would they be willing to take it? Would I still be their friend at the end of it? But I knew that explanation wouldn't fly. Added to what had happened yesterday, it was clear that mess turned me on.

This confused me. I'd never had these feelings before. I didn't even know what you called these feelings. Was there even anyone else who had such an outre fetish? Was I going mental?

It was a lot to be thinking about while eating breakfast. Trying to take my mind off it, I flipped through the newspaper, paying cursory attention to various photos and advertisements.

I'd almost managed to forget the dream when my eyes picked up an unusual ad in the classifieds section.

It was in the Adult section, surrounded top and bottom and either side by phone numbers, murky gray half-dressed females, and various permutations of 'XXX'. The copy read:

"The Messy Club. Floor shows, private rooms, XXX entertainment. Men only."

The cryptic text intrigued me. Because of my dream, I felt the need to investigate. It wasn't that I had any great enthusiasm for male-oriented strip venues, but maybe I could find out something about this fetish.

Around lunch I drove to the address in the ad and parked opposite.

The location was a little out of the city, in a street full of laundromats, accounting firms and electrical repair shops. The actual address was a small building sandwiched between two warehouses, almost no signage, just a small wooden sign hung on the wall which said 'The Messy Club'.

I waited in my car and watched the street.

Over a period of an hour I saw maybe twenty people go in. They were bankers, real estate agents, unemployed bums, students. Some had packages or bags under their arms. A few went in in groups of two or three but the majority came on their own.

Eventually I got tired of staking the place out and drove home.

Maybe I was overthinking this. Was the place what I thought it was? It might just have a kinky name.

But I hadn't stopped thinking about getting messy. I hadn't stopped wondering what might go on in a messy club.

I decided I had to take a look.

Not soon after I realized I'd need a disguise. Number one, because going as a single female to a strip club was a recipe for trouble; and number two, because of the rather strange 'men only' directive in the Messy Club's ad. So the next step was to put together a handy male disguise. I pored over my clothes collection for a bit, and eventually decided on the following ensemble: faded work jeans, work boots, a thick oversized shirt that must have belonged to an old boyfriend, jacket, and to complete the package, hat and sunglasses.

Once that was on I spent a little more time dirtying up my facial features, for that unwashed grimy male look.

With the disguise complete I gave myself a critical look in the mirror. The main problem with it was that it looked a little too much like a disguise - but I thought this would be okay as some of their male clientele probably disguised their appearance a little too. If I didn't give myself away, this was going to work.

The rest of the day passed far too slowly to my mind.

At eight that evening I got into the car and drove to the Messy Club. Heart beating so hard it felt like my body was shaking, I walked through the door.

A narrow set of stairs led up to a small dark anteroom. There was a man in a ticket booth here, who took a quick glance at me, determined I wasn't a regular, and told me the entrance fee was sixty dollars. I pulled out the money and paid him quickly, relieved when he didn't pay any attention to my hands.

"Any spare clothes you want stored?" said the man. I was nonplussed for a moment until I remembered the people earlier in the day who'd come with bags and cases. I shook my head.

I took a quick glance at the walls around me: they were plastered with what looked like playbills. Before I got a chance to read any however, the man was already indicating a black curtained doorway on his right.

"Enjoy your night," he said.

I nodded and pushed through the doorway.

Now I'd never been to a strip club before, but I had a general idea what they were probably like. Flashing lights, lots of black, tinny techno music, a lineup of girls writhing around poles and men crowding round with dollar bills in their hands.

This place, on the other hand, was more like a theatre restaurant. There were a series of round tables in front of me, the floor sloping down to a stage area at the front three feet high, red sash curtains at the sides. There were no can-can women on the stage, but that was surely an oversight.

One thing at least confirmed my preconceptions. On both sides of the patron area, three per side, were girls in cages writhing under various slimy substances, wearing various outfits, their bodies lit by white spotlights. The cages were about two metres off the ground, so there was no way you couldn't see them. I glanced at one, then felt my face flush red with embarrassment at what I was doing and looked back at the crowd.

The place was maybe a third full. It was about a half-half split between the number of people in groups and those on their own, with about a dozen empty tables left over.

Now that I'd had a chance to take in my surroundings, I noticed the waitresses. They moved through the crowd taking orders and supplying drinks. Each seemed to be wearing the same outfit: a black miniskirt, black scoop top, tights and heels, like a French maid's outfit without the white apron. The miniskirt rode quite high on their legs and the top left very little to the imagination. Some of the waitresses also appeared messed up, although the lighting was too low to be sure.

One of them was approaching me. She had short black hair and was still dry and clean. Giving me a quick professional smile, she said "Hi, my name's Chloe", before leading me through the crowd to a single table set in the middle. She seemed relaxed and at ease, and I felt a bit better for having her nearby.

As I sat down Chloe asked me what I wanted to drink. "Double scotch on the ice," I said, figuring I needed all the nerves I could muster.

She nodded and left, leaving me to study the menu. I flipped through and quickly saw it was arranged in three parts. Part one, the drinks. Part two, the foods. Except these weren't meant to be eaten. These were for messing the waitresses with. For ten dollars I could pie one in the face, twelve dollars bought me a gallon of slime, eggs went at a dollar a pop. I was somewhat amused to see that the menu listed three different 'varieties' of slime, and charged extra for certain colors.

At the bottom of the page was a small charge you could pay if you wanted the mess to be given to a patron - either yourself or someone at your table. Seeing this I looked around and indeed I could see a couple of men with messy bodies.

Finally I took a look at part three of the menu. This was another, even longer list of foods. Not for the waitresses, but for the 'private rooms'. The quantities were frankly unbelievable at first glance - I saw listings like 'buckets of semolina', 'bath of treacle' - and at the bottom of the page were various extra charges for various extra acts that I just goggled at.

I sat back and stared into space. Well, said an inner voice, learning anything about yourself yet?

And yet, somehow I wasn't disgusted.

I put down the menu and looked at the cage girls. The ones on my left caught my eye first, and sitting here in the middle of the crowd I felt safe in studying them.

Girl number 1 was wearing a large striped man's shirt over a bikini top and bottom. Slime drizzled over her from a small nozzle in the cage roof, a trickle rather than a deluge. She undulated beneath it like it was a shower and she was trying to get every inch of her body wet. The slime had covered most of her clothes and her visible body, in a variety of colors. I watched the nozzle and sure enough the slime was slowly cycling through a rainbow of shades. The result was a layered effect on the girl, with slime in multicolored patches. The girl's eyes were shut as she moved under the stream, a small private smile on her face. Her hands rubbed herself where the slime touched flesh, spreading the mess.

The woman in the cage next to her had on a policewoman's uniform. Her cage had small shelves on the inside and they were loaded with as many pies as they could possibly bear. The woman must have just gotten in because she was still clean. She struck a few poses for the crowd in front of her: leaning forward and pulling open her top, pressing her breasts to the cage bars, turning and flashing her panties. Then she picked up a pie and smashed it with great force into her face. Cream flew around and behind her as her arms slowly fell to her sides, leaving behind a solid white mass. Cream and pie crumbs tumbled down over her white shirt and black skirt. Immediately her eyes and mouths opened wide, an expression of burlesque shock on her face. She lifted her hands to her face, pulled handfuls of pie from her face and rubbed them over her front. She picked up another pie and whacked it over her breast. Her mouth parted, she slowly rubbed it around, emphasizing the contours of her breasts.

To the right of these two women was the third girl, standing under a slime nozzle like the first one, only this one had greater volume. It poured over in a continuous green stream, and her body was completely covered in it. She looked to be nude. There were clothes by her side, totally messed, dripping on the grill below her. She was sitting on a small white stool, her upturned face directly below the endless stream of green gunge, both hands vigorously rubbing her crotch.

I watched these three women for a little while, not knowing what to make of the display, but noting the obvious male approval: then turned to take a look at the row of girls on my right.

Girl number four was standing under a similar stream of slime as the first girl. She was wearing a thin bathrobe over nothing, using it to alternately conceal and reveal. Sashaying around the cage, she draped the bathrobe under the slime, then parted it and showed her clean belly and pubic hair, slime dripping down onto the revealed flesh. Then she stood still, her head directly below the slime, letting her hair be totally covered.

The girl next to her had on a thin singlet and shorts, white socks and shoes, like an athletic coed. She had a thick rack of cleavage, especially impressive on someone so short. The shelves around her weren't laden with pies, but various condiments. The crowd seemed to be paying more attention to her than the others, and I quickly realized why: she was taking requests. Someone yelled out a few words, and the girl picked up a packet of custard from the shelf to her left. She pulled out her shorts, pulled down the zipper halfway to give a flash of shaved pussy, then dumped the packet in. Custard dripped out the legs of her shorts, and overflowed in a sudden burst out the top when she pushed her shorts back in. She rubbed the crotch of her shorts, custard slowly oozing down over her legs, and people were already shouting more requests at her. She smiled at one request, held up the packet of custard to show there was more left, then turned and pulled down her short revealing her bare ass. The rest of the custard was poured slowly over her ass, and when all of it was gone she rubbed the custard with her bare hands, pulling her buttocks apart and letting her fingers stray to her crack, then go back to rubbing her ass again. She pulled up her shorts, and turned around for the next request.

I rather liked this girl, but turned to look at the last woman anyway. She was in a white nurse's uniform, under of a stream of what looked like milk, but thicker, gloopy and sticky and glistening. Most of her clothes hung on her arms and her legs, her torso bare. All of her body was covered in the white slime and she had a dildo between her legs, hammering in and out in a frantic pumping motion. Her gasps and moans were so loud I could hear them distinctly above the background noise. Her legs were wide apart and it felt like her crotch was in my face. I looked down.

Chloe was coming back with my drink. Before she'd even set it down on my table I'd ordered another.

"Another double scotch?" she said. "Okay, but I won't be able to bring it out - I'm going into the cages now. Another waitress will bring it out to you". So there was obviously some sort of shift system going on here.

As she left I took a large swig from my double scotch. Unwise to be sure, but I felt a little rattled and there weren't any other sources of comfort around I could see.

For the next few minutes I sat and drank and stole surreptitious glances at everything I could. Gradually I started to feel better: no less nervous and uneasy, but excited as well.

Watching the crowd I saw a waitress bearing a large plastic cup full of spaghetti and tomato sauce. She set it down on a customer's table, who looked excited and turned on. He told her to sit cross-legged on the floor next to him, which she did quickly and calmly. The man lifted the bowl and with deliberate slowness poured it over her head. The sauce and spaghetti coated her shoulder and front, ran down her cleavage, and pooled in her lap. When the man set the cup back on his table she stood and said, "Thank you sir." He tipped her with a few notes and she left, still dripping sauce on the floor.

I thought of the floor and how dirty it must be. Then I suddenly thought it was very humid in here.

There was a noise to my left, and now I saw one the cages lowering to the ground. It was the third cage on the left, the nude girl in the green slime. When the cage reached the floor she opened a door, stepped out, and took a bow. Men were getting up from their tables and pressing notes into her slimy hands. When everyone had tipped her she took a final bow then departed for the wings. A couple of men who were obviously club employees stepped out, hoses in hands, and cleaned the floor below the empty cage.

I kept watching, mostly because Chloe was going to be in that cage soon. Nearby, the policewoman now had her shirt off and bra unclasped, cap still on her head somehow but frosted on all sides by pie. There were clumps of pie on her backside, rubbed all over her front, and as I watched her she pushed a pie into her crotch and started rubbing it all around, one hand kneading her left breast.

Finally I saw Chloe appear. It was a big change in uniform: she was wearing a knee-length brown skirt, slit at the front; hose and high heels; white shirt with a thin string of beads around her neck; tortoiseshell glasses. Her hair was in a bun and she clasped a book in her right hand.

A pretty easy costume to decipher: obviously Chloe was now a demure librarian.

Now that she was out of the waitress uniform, I found myself taking a closer look at Chloe's physique. She was about my height, a little slimmer, her breasts small but perky. With her hair pulled back from her face I could see the soft line of her jaw. She held her hands at her side as she walked, her stride perfectly even, like she was measuring out a line.

The crowd greeted her with a series of wolf whistles. Rather than acknowledge any, she sat primly down on her stool in the middle of her cage. As the cage was pulled back into the air she pulled open her book and started reading.

The attention of a great deal of the room was on her, even with the other five cage girls gyrating away. We all had little smiles on our faces, waiting for the slime to fall.

After the shortest of pauses, it came.

A tiny nozzle opened above her and released a few droplets of pink slime. They landed on the opened pages of her book, and Chloe paused her reading. She leant her head forward slightly, eyebrows raised curiously.

A few more droplets of slime hit the book, and then the nozzles widened further and the flow became a steady trickle. With slime starting to run down the pages of her book Chloe, still looking befuddled, raised her head and did a double take as she saw the slime running from above.

As if in response to the discovery, the nozzle widened further and moved above her, so that it was now directly raining down on her head. Chloe shrieked, flung the book away from her and dived off the stool with enough force to shake the cage. There were droplets of slime on her shirt and in her hair, and she stared wide-eyed at the stool as the slime splattered down and started to build up. Some of it was rebounding off the stool and covering her front with a fine mesh of pink droplets, so Chloe squirreled back further into the corner, raising a forearm to shield herself. She was doing her best to stay clean but it wasn't going to be so easy, as suddenly three new nozzles opened up in the ceiling above her, each spouting outward like water from a showerhead. A stream of yellow slime hit her right in the back, and it quickly coated her shirt. Chloe gave another small shriek and got up, rocking the cage more, trying to find a new safe area. At first she tried standing up in the corner, but the streams of slime radiated further outward, so that yellow slime rose up her legs, splattered onto the front of her skirt, and the bottom of her shirt. Chloe did her best to try and push the slime off her body using her hands as a barricade, but the stream just kept rising, and as it reached her chest she gave up and sidled around the cage, finding a spot between two slime streams and standing there. This bought her a couple of seconds - until the four nozzles above her started spinning.

Then Chloe was ducking and weaving, shrieking and gasping, ducking to the floor and then jumping erect against the cage bars. Somehow everything she did had the effect of putting her in the worst, messiest, most slimeable position possible. Obviously she'd done this many times before: she always knew exactly where to be. It was a pantomime performance that had many of us in the audience in stitches, and I was no exception. I laughed and laughed. And maybe this was just because the laughter was making me feel good, but there was something pretty sexy about her performance. She was streaked with four colors: pink, yellow, blue and brown. Slime was in her hair, in bands around her neck, all along her arms and legs, and her clothes hung loose and heavy on her.

Finally, Chloe resigned herself to her fate. She stopped moving, sat back down on the stool, and as the four nozzles of stream concentrated themselves directly over her head, she looked out at us with a pissed-off, oh-well expression worthy of Laurel and Hardy. I laughed again.

Then Chloe tilted her head back so that her face was under the stream. Her glasses, already streaked and spattered, were covered completely as slime ran over her forehead, her nose and her cheeks. Holding her head still she lifted one hand and pulled her glasses off. Tossing them to one side she let the slime coat her face totally, her chin tightening and cheek muscles pulling in such a way that I could tell she was smiling. She moved her head further back, out of the path of the slime, wiped her face clean, and then with slime covered hands cups her breasts through her shirt, pushing them up so that the slime falls freely on them.

I could hear Chloe's loud breathing, even at this distance from her.

Then I realized it was actually my breathing.

Shocked, I pulled my gaze away from Chloe. Without thinking I downed the remainder of my first scotch on ice. I saw another glass next to it and realized another waitress must have brought it out, while I was absorbed watching Chloe. I'd never even noticed her.

This evening was turning out rather differently than I'd first expected.

I took a sip from my second drink, but before I could turn round and see what Chloe was doing the lights dimmed a little, then a spotlight flicked on overhead.

I looked toward the stage. A man in a tan suit was standing there, picked out by the spotlight. Behind him the curtains had closed. He waited there a few seconds, as other people in the audience turned to look.

He looked to me like the manager. Now that he had most people's attention, he cleared his throat. "Welcome." There wasn't much response from the audience to this, and his eyes flicked about nervously. He continued quickly: "For your entertainment: an in-house production, Passing Grade."

Cheers came from the audience, and the manager bowed and rushed off the stage. Behind him the curtains parted.

Revealed were two girls lying down on wooden recliners, facing each other. Behind them was a low table laden with jugs and plates and bowls.

The smaller of the two girls was wearing a boater hat, black stockings, black leather shoes, a white blouse and a black knee length dress. The taller girl had on a full length dress, the bodice of which was pale blue and filigreed with lace. The ruffled sleeves of the dress came down to her wrists. She wore a wide-brimmed sun hat, and the upper half of her body was shaded by a an umbrella stuck in the recliner frame.

It didn't take any thought at all to identify this as a student-teacher setup. And sure enough, as a conversation began between the two girls, the subject was grades.

"Now I'm sure you know why I've brought you out here for a one-on-one talk, Sarah," began the teacher. "There are certain academic standards we expect of our pupils at Huntingdon College, and we've been concerned at your progress for a number of weeks."

As her speech went on my attention wandered and I glanced back up at the cage girls. To my surprise, they were continuing to perform and change places. One of the girls on my right stood completely nude, had two bowls hanging handily either side of her, and was plucking raw eggs out of them. Egg white ran through her fingers and she placed the yolks on various parts of her body, letting gravity pull them over her curves. She picked up a handful and draped them over her breasts, the yolks dropping down one at a time, fluid running down her body so that her belly was shiny with egg white.

"-missed the latest examination and did not achieve a passing grade in the last two. If this continues-"

I looked back at Chloe. She still had all her clothes on, but every inch of her was coated in slime. She was kneeling on the floor of the cage, body arched back, and one hand pressed deeply into her crotch. Slime was falling on her face and upper chest as she jerked her hand and dry humped.

"-just as concerned by your behavior this last month," said the teacher. "Talking back to teachers, the practical jokes you've played on students and teachers alike, - we've had this talk before, and nothing has changed. This really is your last chance, Sarah. Do I make myself clear?"

Sarah, who had been still throughout the teacher's lecture, now slowly nodded her head. "Yes, Mrs. Wilshire. I'm sorry." Then she sat up and reached toward the table at their side. "Would you like me to make you a cup of tea?"

"Thank you, Sarah," said Mrs. Wilshire. "It's the perfect day for an early afternoon cup of iced tea."

There was a tray on the nearest edge of the table, and from it Sarah took a cup and poured water into it, followed with milk. She dropped two ice cubes in after, mixed in the tea, and stirred it briskly before handing the cup over.

"Thanks," said Mrs. Wilshire as she reached for the cup.

Before she'd fully grasped it, Sarah let go of the cup. It fell straight into Mrs. Wilshire's lap, gushing out over her dress. The icy temperature made Mrs. Wilshire gasp, and as she looked down at her lap she moaned in dismay at the brown and white stains in the fabric.

Beside her Sarah looked nearly hysterical with panic and remorse. "Oh GOSH I'm sorry, Mrs. Wilshire!" she exclaimed. "Let me find a rag..." Her hands flew to the table, and fluttered about the crockery until a suspiciously strong knock struck the jug of milk, which had been perched on the edge of the table, sending a gush of milk over Mrs. Wilshire's side, soaking her left arm.

Mrs. Wilshire gasped again, her mouth wide in an expression of disbelief, arms held out from her body as milk dripped from the sleeve of her dress. She looked at the student and gave her a slit-eyed glare of such ferocity it could have stripped paint. "You... you clumsy..." she began.

Sarah now looked even more flustered and apologetic. She was out of her recliner and picking various stuff up off the table, as if searching for something. She picked up a wide bowl of jam, one hand each side, and made to run off with it when one hand slipped and the bowl upended itself over the teacher.

The jam landed just above Mrs. Wilshire's waist, sliding down into her lap where it made a quivering, pyramid-shaped mound.

This time Mrs. Wilshire didn't gasp or scream. She sat there, just looking at Sarah as she ran about, then yelled: "Stop right there!"

Sarah stopped moving. She slowly turned to look at Mrs. Wilshire, a worried expression on her face.

"You're doing this deliberately," said Mrs. Wilshire quietly. A pause dragged out between them until finally Sarah nodded.

"Sit down," said Mrs. Wilshire.

Staring at her with that worried expression on her face, Sarah sat back down on her recliner.

Mrs. Wilshire didn't move. She looked down in her lap at the mound of jam. "This..." She trailed off, then stuck both hands in the jam. She played around with it, picking up a couple of handfuls and dropping them back, smoothed out the mound, then spread it out a little over her thighs. There was a small private smile on her face.

Suddenly she stood up, dramatically. The jam tumbled from her lap, splatting loudly on the floor. The front of her dress had a wide red stain on it from the jam, and together with the milk and water it had plastered itself to her legs. She took a stride toward Sarah and pulled the boater off her head, Sarah making a small 'yipe!' sound. Under the boater she had black hair, tied up in a short ponytail. Mrs. Wilshire turned to the table, picked up a tub of whipped cream, and emptied it into the boater, filling it to the brim. Then she turned and jammed it down on Sarah's head, down to the eyebrows.

Little jets of cream squirted out all around Sarah's head, coating her neck, face and shoulders. Then it began to ooze down, slower, in a thin milky wash that ran down Sarah's face and hair. She looked at Mrs. Wilshire in disbelief, then began blubbering.

Mrs. Wilshire had a satisfied smile on her face. "There. Do you know what I've just realized, Sarah? The whole trouble is, we've never bothered to punish you properly. I'll tell you what though, it's never too late to start. Now turn around!"

Still blubbering, Sarah nonetheless did as Mrs. Wilshire said. Instead of lying down however, she sat up on all fours. Mrs. Wilshire reached for her dress and lifted the back up, revealing Sarah was wearing a pair of yellow panties. Not satisfied with this she yanked down Sarah's panties, revealing her quivering cheeks and ass crack.

Sadistically prolonging the torment, Mrs. Wilshire turned to the food table, let her hand hover over four or five different plates, before finally picking up a cream pie. She drew her hand back like a baseball pitcher then planted it with a smack on Sarah's ass. Sarah squealed, and began whimpering. Mrs. Wilshire smirked.

"Can- can I pull my panties back up?" Sarah asked hesitantly.

"Absolutely not," said Mrs. Wilshire. "Now, on your back again."

Slowly, Sarah turned over. She settled herself back down on the recliner, pie cream oozing out over her legs as she squished it against the recliner. She lay there, tensely, as Mrs. Wilshire turned back to the food table. This time she picked up a ceramic jug. She held it above Sarah's chest and lowered the mouth of the jug, as we all waited tensely to see what it contained.

It was porridge. Mrs. Wilshire moved the jug from side to side, coating every available inch of Sarah's chest, from her neck to her waist. When she'd finished there was obviously still some porridge left, so Mrs. Wilshire said "Lie still. Remember, you've had this punishment coming for a year," then poured it over Sarah's face.

Sarah lay there a while, then wiped her eyes clean and sat up. Her face looked calmer now. She glanced at Mrs. Wilshire, who was at the table choosing what to use next, and we could all read her thought: You know, you're already in as much trouble as it's possible to be. What the hell, may as well fight back!

She jumped off the recliner, darted in front of the teacher and snatched up a bowl of custard. Mrs. Wilshire stumbled back, clearly taken unawares by this development.

Quick as a flash Sarah tossed the custard all over Mrs. Wilshire's front.

Mrs. Wilshire opened her mouth to protest, but Sarah got in first. "Now, YOU listen to me. This is punishment for the last three years of torment you've given me, and all the other girls. Now you're going to sit still, and you're going to take it."

And, amazingly, she did. Without saying a word Mrs. Wilshire sat back down and drew her legs up onto the recliner.

Aha, I thought, Mrs. Wilshire decided that she liked being messed up, and so she purposefully provoked Sarah into doing exactly that! Sneaky...

Sarah turned to the table and picked up another bowl of custard. She held it over the teacher's upper body and drizzled it over her bodice. Mrs. Wilshire lay still and looked at her body as Sarah slowly covered it. For the moment she was just concentrating on the upper body, piling the custard over her breasts and shoulders.

As she started moving down to Mrs. Wilshire's groin, the custard ran out. Sarah then picked up her teacher's hat, and filled it from another jug, this one full of some brown mixture that I thought looked a lot like pancake batter. It made the hat sag and leaked through the bottom in drips. Nestling the brim in the palm of her hand, Sarah wedged it back on her teacher's head. Slowly pancake batter dripped down over her head and shoulders.

The next item Sarah picked up was a bottle of raspberry syrup. As she turned to the table her panties were still down around her knees, so she stepped out of them and kicked them aside. To do this she had to turn around and bend over slightly, and Mrs. Wilshire's eyed the back of her dress hungrily, sticky with the cream of the pie over Sarah's bare ass. With her panties gone, Sarah took the syrup bottle and squirted it over the teacher, starting with the sleeves of her dress. Mrs. Wilshire lifted one arm, then the other, to help Sarah cover them as much as possible.

I glanced back at the egg girl, in the cage on my right. She was publicly fingering herself, pushing her middle digit in and out of her cunt with frantic speed, while her other hand grabbed egg and smushed it in her hair. I took another look at Chloe, who had now opened her shirt and was pushing her breasts through the cage bars at the audience. Despite all that was happening on stage she still seemed to have an appreciative audience. She fingered her nipples while slime ran from the nozzles above, struck the back of her head, and ran down her back. She thrust her hips back and forth.

Looking back at the stage, not much seemed to have changed except that Sarah had run out of raspberry syrup and was now on the chocolate. The arms having been well covered, she was drizzling it over the lower half of Mrs. Wilshire's dress. Her clothing was saggy with the weight of the mess coating it, and starting to go thin and gauzy in places. Pancake batter still dripped from the brim of her sun hat.

The last of the chocolate syrup ran out with most of Mrs. Wilshire's lower dress covered. Sarah and Mrs. Wilshire looked at each other, the same half smile on their faces. "Turn around," ordered Sarah. Mrs. Wilshire had no hesitation in obliging, a little slowly with the unfamiliar sensation of all this mess on her front. Her dress was sagging down and away from her. Custard and syrup dripped on the recliner. Then Mrs. Wilshire was on her back, on all fours in the same posture Sarah had been earlier.

Save for a few globs of pancake batter the back of her dress was almost entirely clean. It was buttoned down the spine, and Sarah began to undo the buttons, from the top to the waist. As each button came undone Sarah pulled the dress apart, revealing the white slip below. When the last button was undone Sarah placed her hands firmly on Mrs. Wilshire's ass and yanked the dress downward.

Now Mrs. Wilshire's ass poked through the opening her dress. Sarah pulled the slip up, revealing a pair of pantyhose over bare skin. Taking another bottle of chocolate syrup she started out by coating the pantyhose with chocolate syrup. Then she slowly pulled the dripping mess down and did the same with her teacher's bare skin. Then with what was left she held the pantyhose open and dumped the remainder of chocolate syrup down them. When the bottle was empty Sarah gave her a friendly slap on the ass.

Mrs. Wilshire turned around, leaving her clothes in the position they were, and lay back down. With the buttons undone her bodice hung looser on her body than ever - the top hem of the fabric halfway down her breasts.

Sarah now had a bowl of treacle. She dipped her hands in, then drew out a glistening handful of treacle and started rubbing it over Mrs. Wilshire's chest, rubbing it deeply into the bodice. Her hands moved in circular motion around her teacher's breasts, pushing them together, cupping them through the fabric and pinching the nipples.

I hardly knew where to look. While I had one eye on the action on stage, another watched as Chloe slowly lowered her skirt, revealing stained white panties and slime streaked thighs. She pulled the panties away from her body, and moved so the stream of slime went right into her crotch. The panties bulged and started to leak, so Chloe let go her finger and they slapped back into place. She started rubbing one palm over her crotch, more slime leaking out under the pressure, her head once more under the slime and dripping green from the tips of her hair.

On stage Sarah's wandering hands were down around Mrs. Wilshire's groin, pressing in, pushing treacle right up against her crotch. Then she moved down her thighs, still rubbing and pushing. The teacher's dress now stuck to her body like she'd gone for a quick dip. Sarah moved down her calves, and when she reached the feet she pulled them out of her white shoes. She rubbed over both feet with the last of treacle, coating the tips of her pantyhose, then bent down and sucked at her toes. Mrs. Wilshire rubbed her right breast as she watched Sarah, Sarah staring straight back into her eyes as she nibbled and sucked. Then she straightened and put the shoes back on over her treacle covered feet.

"Your undergarments are still clean," said Sarah. "Pull down your bodice." Mrs. Wilshire nodded and with some difficulty pulled her arms out of her syrup-coated sleeves. This done it was an easy task to fold over her bodice and let the fabric sit in her lap. Underneath her dress her arms were streaked with pink and brown, and a lot of the upper half of her slip glistened brown with treacle. For the first time I could see just how well built Mrs. Wilshire was. Her enormous, succulent breasts were barely held by the slip, her nipples making clear dents in the fabric. Sarah stood and stared. Then she leant forward, extended her tongue, and licked one nipple through the slip, then the other. She let it trace the circles her hands had earlier.

Mrs. Wilshire looked down lovingly at her as Sarah licked her body. She took the hat and lifted it off Sarah's head, revealing the thick white cream coating every strand of her hair. Then Mrs. Wilshire bent down and began to lick at the cream.

Sarah sat back and reached for something else on the table. Her hand came back with a large tub of butter, which had apparently been melting in the sun as she was able to put her hands in and bring them out coated in clumps of butter. She rubbed her hands together, coating the palms, then reached for her teacher's breasts. Her hands moved up and down the slip, pressing it against the skin.

Mrs. Wilshire pulled her head back, her loud breathing audible even to us in the audience. One of her hands was at her waist and seemed to be surreptitiously pulling the dress further down. The waistband of the dress was around her thighs now.

Sarah reached for the tub and applied a fresh coating of butter to her hands, then reached under her teacher's slip and started rubbing the bare skin, slicking it smooth with butter. Her hands pushed up and back and now we saw from the way the slip rose and fell that she was pushing and squeezing at the breasts.

I quickly glanced at Chloe, to see if there were any developments: she had pulled her panties to one side and one finger slid in and out of her cunt.

On stage Sarah was again rubbing her teacher's thighs, directly now. Her dress was down to around her knees and the same for her pantyhose. Mrs. Wilshire rubbed and caressed her breasts as Sarah moved her hands up, palms running smoothly either side of her pubic area, then pushing together in a triangle. The angle of their bodies was such that we could see it as Sarah pressed her thumbs together, then inward. They made contact with her teacher's genitals: we knew because of the urgent gasp from Mrs. Wilshire. Sarah pistoned her fingers in and out, Mrs. Wilshire gasping and gasping, her volume growing until at last she could stand no more and took hold of Sarah's head, pushing it down to her crotch.

Once more Sarah's tongue extended. She started at the pubic hair, licking out the butter and treacle while her teacher was in exquisite agony. (I took a quick look at Chloe - she still masturbated under the slime, and she'd lost all her clothes now.) Then Sarah started tugging at her pubic hair with her teeth. Mrs. Wilshire screamed deliriously. Sarah grinned, and moved her mouth down so that she could kiss her cunt. She planted one, two, three, and then the tongue went in. Mrs. Wilshire's thighs clamped either side of Sarah's head, holding her steady as she ate her out.

Mrs. Wilshire's neck was arched back, she was out of her head with pleasure. Then she seemed to come back to her senses, and she looked down at Sarah's cream covered head. Keeping her body still she reached out one arm and picked up a jug of cream and coated Sarah's back with it. When this was done she took a jug of honey and drizzled it over the cream, one hand rubbing it into Sarah's uniform.

Sarah responded to this attention with a greater intensity of licking. Mrs. Wilshire leant over further and lifted Sarah's dress. Most of the pie was still there, covering her ass. She drizzled more honey over the pie.

As we watched Sarah's legs started to spread. Honey was dripping down the middle of her ass, and running over her genitals. Even with her head pressed into Mrs. Wilshire's crotch we heard her shuddering groan.

In her cage, Chloe was slowing down. Her body juddered, she let out one long sigh, and she rose to her knees. One hand retrieved her glasses, another hand picked up her book. She sat back down on the stool, slime covered and naked, and started reading again.

Mrs. Wilshire was rubbing one hand over Sarah's pied ass. Now Sarah's moaning was louder than her teacher's. At last she raised her head, and looked at her with a clear question in her eyes.

Mrs. Wilshire gave her the answer she wanted. "You're not messy enough," she said. "It's my turn now: lie back."

Sarah eagerly obliged, scooting back onto her recliner. Some of the cream and honey had leaked round onto her front, and most of the porridge was still there in any case. All the contours of her upper body were molded in her crumpled blouse and dress. The bottom hem of her dress rode quite a bit higher on her legs, in fact just barely covering her bare crotch.

Her teacher took a bowl of jam, filled her hands, then ran them up and down her student's stockinged legs. When she reached the feet, she pulled off her shoes, ran jam over the stockinged feet, then sucked them in a clear reciprocation for earlier.

Meanwhile Sarah's hands ran through the porridge mess on her chest, her squeals and sighs higher pitched than her teacher's.

Taking more jam in hand Mrs. Wilshire ran her hands back up her legs all the way to her crotch. We couldn't see under the dress but it was clear she was rubbing in deeply. They stayed in this position for a little while, then Mrs. Wilshire rose, took Sarah by the blouse and pulled her upright. She tugged her blouse away from her chest and dumped honey into the open neck, drizzling it over her breasts, letting it run in viscous treacly streams to her groin. Rather to my surprise I found myself wondering whether Sarah had on any underwear below that blouse. I wasn't a lesbian, but this display was working very well on me!

"Take your shirt off," ordered Mrs. Wilshire. Sarah yanked firmly at the straps of her dress, breaking both buttons, and pulled the front away from her body. Then she grasped her blouse in both hands and, the fabric softened and thinned by the mess, she pulled it apart with one tug. She pulled it away from her body and tossed it behind her. Her chest was pale and sticky - her breasts nestled in a small white bra, itself coated in honey. Sarah didn't waste any more time - she ripped off her bra too, throwing it aside to reveal her slightly smaller, but still plump and rosy breasts. Her teacher immediately bent her head to them, sucking at her breasts, then catching her nipple in her lips. Her tongue licked at the underside of her breasts.

Her teacher distracted, Sarah took the jug of honey, pulled her dress away from her groin, and poured the honey in a thick river over her bush. She guided her teacher's free hand to the sweet mound. Mrs. Wilshire needed no extra encouragement to start fingering her as she kept on kissing her breasts.

I saw movement on my left - Chloe's cage was being lowered. She was still sitting there reading. It had been a bravura performance really - just a pity she'd been upstaged by the main event.

As Mrs. Wilshire continued to finger her student, I saw Sarah's hand lingering by a velcro strap at her waist. Suddenly she ripped it open and tossed her dress aside. She lay back and fondled her breasts, arching her back as an encouragement to her teacher to continue pleasuring her genitals. Mrs. Wilshire moved her head down, but her sun hat made it difficult to directly eat Sarah out, so she pulled it off, revealing her batter covered hair. With Mrs. Wilshire now down at her groin Sarah reached out with a free arm and took a bowl of diced fruit in syrup. She poured it over her bare torso, the juice and syrup running down to her groin and into her teacher's hair and face. Sarah reached out to the tray again and came back with a bowl of marmalade. This too she poured over her torso. Again it tumbled down to her groin in a slow motion cascade.

This seemed to be a signal to change positions, as now Sarah lay full down and Mrs. Wilshire swung her legs around, kneeling over Sarah in a full 69 position. She lowered her groin to Sarah's mouth, and together they sucked and slurped at each other's cunt. Not moving her head, Mrs. Wilshire reached out to the food tray and pulled back a jug of yogurt. This she emptied over her hair, letting it drip down over Sarah's pussy as she bent back down and licked at her again.

Sarah reached for the table and her hand came back with yet another jug of honey. She drizzled it over the folds of her teacher's labia, then over her ass, letting the drops run down into her face. To top this she held the jug over her mouth, filling it to the lips with honey, and then she kissed her teacher's cunt, expelling the honey in one gasping shove, filling the wet cavern. She withdrew her mouth a little, let the honey run out and back into her mouth, then repeated the process, honey passing in a circular chain from vagina to mouth and back to vagina.

I could hardly move or even breathe. I just sat and watched as they sucked each other, groped each other in random places, moaned and sighed and shrieked. I wasn't alone - it felt like everyone in the place was fixed on this one performance.

Finally they slowed their motions, and at last stopped. Slowly, gingerly, they extricated their bodies from each other, stood to face the audience, and took a bow. Both were covered with food to a quite awesome degree.

The audience was cheering, and people stood up from their tables and ran down to the stage. They tossed notes onto the stage, and a man came from the wings and picked them up. The girls were still standing and bowing behind him, and at last the curtain closed.

After half a minute, it felt like I was starting to get my breath back. I was hot and flustered and felt sure that my face was red. I reached for my glass and drained my second drink. I looked around the crowd for Chloe, but didn't see her. No doubt she still had a lot of cleaning up to do.

The impulse came out of nowhere: when I see her next, I'm gonna order a pie and pie her.

With that thought in mind, I took another look around me, starting with the cage girls again. There'd been a change in the first cage, and to my surprise, the setup only seemed to involve water. Inside the cage was a tall girl wearing overalls and a checked shirt, and over these a transparent plastic raincoat. Water rained down on her from a showerhead above. The girl was smiling sunnily with her head tilted back, letting the water run over her face and trickle down her neck, slowly soaking her clothes beneath the raincoat. I could see the patches of moisture slowly expanding on her body.

I looked right, to the next cage. It was the policewoman still: obviously in for a long stretch. She'd lost all her clothes by now, though it was difficult to tell with all the cake frosting covering her body. Her hair was spiky and jagged with cream. She was sitting down with her legs held wide open, one hand holding a truncheon, pushing it in and out of her cunt. Even the truncheon was completely covered in frosting. Cream oozed out of her cunt each time she pushed back in.

It was too explicit for me to look at for long so I turned to the next cage, Chloe's cage. It was still lowered, with a couple of guys around it with hoses cleaning the bars.

In cage number four, there was another new girl. She had well-built shoulders and short black hair. She wore jeans, a checked shirt knotted at the waist (no bra underneath the plunging neckline), and had a bandana in her hair. She was holding a bucket of paste in one hand, and a paintbrush in the other. She stood facing the audience, painting the bars of her cage with paste as if they were a wall. After a little of this, she stopped, poked her finger through the bars, and stared at the space between. She looked at the bucket of paste, and the space again, and shrugged. Dipping the brush freshly into the paste, she started painting herself. The brush moved up and down her front, coating her shirt and the insides of her breasts with shining liquid. I watched as she ran the brush up and down her bare arms, then over the legs of her jeans, the denim gradually turning darker as she kept working the paste in.

Cage number five had another long stayer, the audience request taking college girl. She still had most of her clothes on, though perhaps not in the original place on her body: as requests were shouted out, she'd flash her tits, or her crotch. She was messy all over with what looked like everything, a veritable jigsaw of color. Someone shouted to her: she stuck one hand into a tub of honey, then stuck it down her pants and masturbated beneath the fabric. Honey slowly ran down her legs.

The final cage still had the egg girl. She'd been in there at least ten minutes, and every inch of her was wet with egg white. She was lying on her back, her legs in the air, crotch wide and flashing the audience. She placed a few eggs on her legs as high as she could reach - about her knees - and let them roll down her body to her breasts. She opened her legs wider, making a V against the sides of the cage, took a couple more eggs, and mashed them into her open cunt.

I was itching to get into the action. I looked around the audience and soon spotted Chloe. She was back in her black waitress uniform, as if nothing had happened earlier: except her skin was damp and her wet hair plastered to her skull.

Must be a very efficient shower system set up backstage, I mused.

I opened the menu and looked for an appropriate pie to hit Chloe with. There was a list of about ten, each with a handy picture, and I spent a few minutes picturing each of them splatting against Chloe's face. They had chocolate mint pie: would that be mostly green, or mostly brown? The lemon meringue pie: how much meringue, and how much filling. Would it cling to her face or collapse in her lap?

After a few minutes I'd settled on a custard cream pie. Chloe was nearby, and I could have called her over right then and there, but a small nagging voice inside me was holding me back.

I didn't know if I should be listening to that voice. Because it was telling me that I really wanted to get myself messy.

Which was out of the question. I was here under false pretences as it was - on no account could I be drawing attention to myself. Even if I wasn't disguised, the idea of getting messy in such a public place made me shiver.

But that voice wouldn't go away. You want to get yourself messy.

I studied the menu closely, hoping to ignore the voice. But instead, a new idea came to me. Suppose you just mess yourself surreptitiously?

It could work. It was dark in here and most people in the audience were happy to ignore the other audience members. If I chose my moment when there was another act on the stage... I started looking in the menu again for a suitable substance.

A short while later, Chloe passed my table and I managed to get her attention with a small cough and a nod of the head.

"Hi, Chloe," I said. "Can I get a vodka and lemonade, a vanilla thickshake, and a custard cream pie?"

She smiled weirdly at me, and my heart thudded. She knows I'm female... Then she grinned and asked, "Is that pie for me, or for you?"

I swallowed. "For you," I managed to blurt out.

"No problem," said Chloe. "Pie should be about ten minutes. I'll have your drinks out here in a moment." I watched her go, feeling oddly envious of her ability to be completely at ease in this environment. All that mess, all those men watching you, and for Chloe it was like she was on a summer picnic. She sashayed through the tables, her butt shifting from left to right under her skirt.

It was so hot in here... I took my jacket off and hung it on my chair. With the low lighting, I wasn't too concerned about being discovered, and part of me was beginning not to care. Besides, I still felt secure behind my sunglasses.

I watched the crowd, trying to spot any waitress gungings. I saw one patron making what looked to be a very long, very specific order for the waitress at his side, who smiled and shook her head. She bent over and whispered something at him, and the only words I caught were "...private room." The patron nodded back, and stood up. The waitress led him out an exit at the side.

When I turned my head back I was rather startled to see Chloe already standing at my table, vodka in one hand, thickshake in the other. She deposited them on my table and left, and the whole time that weird smile had been on her face.

I didn't have time to worry any more about that though, as the stage suddenly lit up again.

The manager had returned, standing in front of those red velvet curtains. Maybe he'd had a drink or two, because he looked a lot more comfortable this time. "Hi there. Sure you're all having a good time. Anyway, we've got our next act ready for you. Everyone give a big cheer for: the Russian Doll!"

Everyone cheered as the curtains parted.

All the food had been cleaned from the stage. It was completely bare. Standing there on her own, arms by her side, was a short woman, hunched over, wearing a bulky fur overcoat, gloves, thick boots, and a dark hood wrapped around her neck and head, like a babushka. Instead of the Bond Girl we'd been expecting, she looked like a Ukrainian farmer.

Suddenly a torrent of slime issued from the rafters: a heavy, thick sheet. She stood unmoving beneath it, and was coated in seconds.

As if a switch had been flicked, the slime stopped. The Russian seemed to come to life a little, and lifted her head. Her clothes were saggy with the weight of the slime coating them, even her gloves and boots were heavily splashed, and her hood was a mat of slime. But her face, which I could now see for the first time, was mostly slime free.

The Russian sighed. "Ruined," she said in a thick accent. She lifted her bulky arms, and unwound the sodden scarf at her neck. She let it drop to the floor, then did the same for her hood. She lifted her shoulders and struggled out of her slimy greatcoat, letting it fall to the stage behind her. Likewise she discarded the gloves.

Underneath all this, she had on some sturdy work clothes. She was wearing a long sleeved blue shirt, thick brown pants, even a worker's hat which she'd concealed under her hood somehow. She was still hunched over but with the bulky outer clothes gone I could see she had a strong body and was a lot younger than I'd first thought.

This lower layer of clothes had stayed pretty dry during the slime torrent. The shirt was stained a little at the collar, her boots were splattered, and that cap looked a little moist, but otherwise she was clean. So I knew what was going to happen next.

As I drained my vodka and lemonade the next slime torrent came. This time it was colored pink, and came down thicker and faster than before. Again the Russian made no attempt to hide from the slime, just standing there like she was out in the rain. When she did move, it was just to bring her arms under the sheet of slime, to coat them fully.

By now her slimy shirt clung to her torso like a second skin. The Russian bent over, and did something odd. She stepped out of her boots. Slime pooling on her back, she took the boots and held them directly under the slime stream, filling them to the ankle. Then she put them back onto the floor and stepped into them, slime squirting up around her calves.

This done she just stood and waited for the torrent to be over. I imagined what it must be like to her, buffeted by slime that coated your clothes to your skin, messed up every inch of you. The similarities to my earlier dream were getting me aroused.

Finally the torrent ended. The Russian sighed: "Ruined."

She reached up, pulled the cap from her head and tossed it aside. She stepped out of her boots again and kicked them away. Then she tugged open the belt at her chest and peeled off her pants. Last came the work shirt, clinging with tenacity to her chest.

With all these cast aside, it was apparent that another transformation had taken place. She wore a white top, half falling off her shoulders, lacy and low cut around her cleavage. Below that a black skirt, belted around her waist and cut to the midpoint of her thighs. Underneath that she was wearing sheer black pantyhose.

She shook her head, and I realized I could see she was wearing earrings. The hunch in her back was gone. Now the Russian looked like a prim upperclasswoman, ready to kick it around the town tonight, maybe drink a few drinks and do some things she might regret later.

Except for the slime, that is. Her hands were slimy, and her Pantyhose covered feet looked like they'd been dipped in a bucket. There were stained patches all over her upper body, and a circle of slime Around her neck which slowly dripped down between her breasts. The top of her head was okay but her hair and face were coated with slime.

She faced the audience directly now, one slimy hand on her hip, a confident smile on her face. I felt a little quickening in my pulse and knew I definitely was aroused now. One slightly shaky hand picked up the thickshake, and I lifted it to my lips. With one hand I surreptitiously lifted my shirt open a fraction and at the same time tipped the cup over my lips, just missing my mouth. Thickshake ran down my chin in a chilly flow, spattering down onto the skin of my upper chest.

I quickly put the thickshake back, wiped my chin, and took a quick look around. Nobody was watching. I looked down at the damage. I was wearing a white shirt, but it was thick and you couldn't see the vanilla thickshake against that. I could feel it on my skin: a cold, thin coating of milk and ice-cream. I pressed my shirt into the thickshake and it stuck to my skin a little.

I might have played around a little further, but on stage the next torrent of slime suddenly started. This time the Russian responded almost immediately to the stimulus: turning her head up under it, then tilting it forward and coating her back. She swung her head back, raising her arms so that the slime splashed in her hands and ran down her shoulders. Then she parted her arms, squatted down on the floor and let slime fall flush on her front, tugging at her loose top. With her hands at her sides she closed her eyes like she was in a yoga pose, slime a thick puddle in her lap, splashing her skirt and legs.

The slime continued to rain down. She got to her feet, slime sheeting down her skirt in a thick gush, and did a quick bump and grind beneath the stream. By now pretty much her whole front was coated with slime. As she swayed her hips and thrust her chest out, she slowly rotated, giving us a chance to see the slime running down her back and dripping from the hemline of her skirt. When she'd completed the full 360 she tugged up her skirt, then held open her pantyhose under the stream. First her left leg, then her right puffed up with slime. Eventually her pantyhose were so full they began overflowing at the top, slime dripping down the outside. She rubbed her hands up and down her legs, squeezing and pushing, and more slime oozed out and trickled down to her feet.

Slime was still falling on her head as she did this, so that it was getting hard to see her face under the layers of slime. She suddenly stood up straight and gave the audience a cheeky grin, one finger to her lips. Then she pushed out her groin, held open her skirt, pulled out her pantyhose, and let the slime splash down over her crotch. Her skirt was already so high up her body that we could see it all covered in an instant. She put one hand against her groin and rubbed up and down.

Next she let go of the skirt's waistband and moved her body forward slightly, so that the slime fell directly onto her chest. And whereas before she'd just let the slime coat her top, now she seemed more interested in her breasts. Her hands were all over them, rubbing slime into them, pushing them together beneath the slime, tugging her top down slightly to expose more skin. The top now clung so closely to her body we could see every rise and fall of her breasts.

As she had done with the skirt, she pulled open her top and let the slime fall inside, arching her head back in ecstasy.

This was getting too much for me. As I picked up the thickshake again I could feel my heart beating. I raised the cup to my mouth and deliberately missed it completely. Thickshake splashed over my chin again, running down my throat in a thick stream onto my chest.

It wasn't enough. I wanted more. Immediately I tipped the cup over my breasts. In a second more than a third of the cup had poured out, coating my torso. The mixture was deliciously cool and thick over my breasts, and I felt my nipples shiver. I had been reclining in my seat when I poured the thickshake, so some of it ran down my belly to my waist. It ran over my crotch and dripped onto the floor.

Looking down at myself I could see stains on my shirt, not too obvious since it was white on white, but definitely visible. The fabric felt sticky on my skin, and the contours of my torso definitely looked a lot more female. Had I been less turned on - and less drunk - this might have been a concern.

As I sat there and concentrated on the sensation of thickshake seeping through my shirt - and wanting nothing more than to stick my hand up there and rub - the slime stopped pouring on stage. The Russian was in the same pose, head arched back, top open, slime still running in a thick stream down her torso and over her skirt. She seemed to take a moment to come to her senses, before turning to us in the audience and giving an exaggerated shrug of disappointment. "Ruined," she said sadly, though a little smirk on her face more than communicated the real reason for her disappointment.

She unbuttoned her skirt and tossed it aside. The white top was halfway down her front, and she simply ripped it in two, the slime sodden fabric tearing like tissue, and likewise threw it away. Somewhat unnecessarily - I'd forgotten she even had them on - she took off her earrings and discarded them. Following them came the pantyhose, which she rolled up in a squelchy little pile.

What was left was nothing you could possibly wear outdoors. As far as I could see, all she had on was a pink teddy. The teddy was already well coated with green slime, and had faded against her skin. I could see her red nipples clearly through the fabric. The bottom of the teddy came down to her crotch, and behind it she had nothing on. As she moved I could see flashes of pubic hair.

The torrent of stream started again, a thick river of blue slime even heavier and faster than before. As it splashed onto her face her response was immediate and sexual. She pulled out her teddy from her chest and let the slime coat her breasts. But the slime was so heavy she was overwhelmed. The teddy was pulled out of her hands by the force of the slime, and all she could do was just stand there naked as slime sheeted down over her. The noise was tremendous, like a minor storm, and slime was spattering all over the stage, and onto the audience. Her body was partly obscured in the slime, like she was standing behind a waterfall. All we could see were outlines - her arms moving over her body, hands running over slimed skin, head tilting and tossing around.

Her eyes were shut, as it would be impossible to see with all that coming down on you, but it gave the impression that she had slipped into her own private reverie. And now she was gathering her legs under her and sitting down on the stage, a peaceful expression her face as slime hammered her from above. She opened her legs and flashed her vagina at the audience, her body leaning slightly back, slime landing in a wide circle over her breasts and face, sheeting out horizontally over her legs. A hand had slipped into her cunt and was moving furiously back and forth. Holding it there she got to her knees, turned around so that she was on all fours, legs still spread apart displaying her slimy labia, the slime now falling on her lower back and splashing out left and right. She moved her hand and stuck two fingers in, parting the lips of her cunt, pushing back and forth again frantically. Slime coated her butt and trickled down over her fingers again, and we could hear the lubrication as she continued to masturbate.

And just as the rhythm of her fingers reached a peak, and we could hear her frenzied gasping even over the torrent of slime, it suddenly stopped.

[ghilton]

It wouldn't all fit! Here's the rest of the chapter.


The Russian turned around to face us again. No cute little smirks this time, instead she had a look of frustrated longing on her face. She just sat there legs spread, her fingers still in her cunt, looking ticked off that she hadn't had time for her climax.

By this stage I fully identified with the slimed Russian, and felt her sexual disappointment like it was my own. I just had to use up all that thickshake. I could feel my groin getting warm at the thought. With no time for my cooler head to prevail, my left hand stealthily reached down to my crotch and pulled down the zipper of my jeans, while my right hand took the thickshake cup.

The Russian was looking from left to right, as if looking for a new source of slime, and suddenly her face brightened in relief. Before we could guess what she was supposed to have seen, five waitresses appeared from the wings with choreographed speed. In the midst of them was a cart laden with pies.

The Russian waited, every inch of her skin slimy, her hair dripping. The first waitress took a pie and planted it on the Russian's face. We heard what sounded like a very satisfied "MMMPPPHH!!" noise as the waitress moved the pie around her face, and as she let her hand fall and pie began to drop down from the Russian's face, she sighed, "Ohhhh yeah..." Her hand was pumping at her crotch again.

The second waitress already had two pies in her hands and as soon as the first was out of the way she smushed them firmly on the Russian's breasts, moving them around with her bare hands, rubbing the cream over her skin. "Mmmm, more," moaned the Russian.

The third and fourth waitresses were already creeping up behind the Russian and as the second left they attacked in unison, one pieing the back of her head, sliding the pie up to the top of the head, while the other sandwiched her head with the next two pies. Her head nearly disappeared beneath the cream, but we heard her moan louder than ever.

I could hear myself breathing. I had to do it. I poured the thickshake out over my panties.

The fifth waitress had another two pies. As the first and second lifted the Russian by her arms she put one pie below her, and they let her sit back down, squishing out cream and saucy filling over her genitals. She didn't even move her hand, masturbating the whole time, fingers and palm plunging into the white mass of cream. She shuddered out a loud moan, her torso writhing with pleasure, and spread her legs wide, allowing the fifth waitress to plant her last pie straight on her crotch, over her hand and bush. As the Russian continued to finger herself she moved her hand in alongside, rubbing the cream in good and hard.

Thickshake ran over my panties and trickled down my legs. I felt the moisture seep into my crotch and I watched as the Russian fingered herself, cream in a pile around her groin. As she stroked herself I could imagine those same hands around my crotch. More thickshake ran from the cup onto my panties, and my eyes were locked on the Russian.

She was shouting with pleasure now, knees shaking, groin bucking. The waitresses had withdrawn from her and two went back to the cart, with had one final treat: a huge pot.

The two waitresses took the pot by the handles and, even working together, struggled to lift it. There must have been room for at least ten gallons there. Helped by the other waitresses, they brought it up over the Russian's head and tipped it over.

The pot was full of creamed corn. The Russian wasn't watching it but as the as it first pressed onto her head her mouth opened in a wide 'O'. Then like a mountain of yellow molasses the corn rolled down over her head and body. As it pooled in her groin more was still coming from the pot. She was starting to disappear beneath it. Like the slime, it just kept on coming and coming.

I couldn't see her fingers or even her hand anymore but I could see the frantic motion at her crotch. She was squealing with delight. I had to swallow a moan of my own as I felt the thickshake running down my legs. I was sitting so it wasn't running down to my knees much, but the thickshake was running down the sides of my legs and pooling around my butt. I felt the seat of my panties moistening. The last of the thickshake had run out now and I put the cup back on the table.

On stage the last of the corn had run out of the pot, but the Russian wasn't done. Still she fingered herself, her arm moving in and out like she was holding an enormous dildo, legs shaking, one arm rubbing at her breasts and pulling clumps of cream and corn down from her hair. Her shouts of pleasure came in a quickening rhythm.

Though I desperately wanted to copy her and masturbate myself, I hadn't totally forgotten the people around me. Instead I contented myself with pressing my hand to my crotch, the tips of the fingers dimpling my thickshake-moistened panties. It felt good enough that I pulled my chair closer into my table to hide myself a little. The other guys couldn't really see what I was doing... Besides, I was more interested in the way my pubic hair prickled my fingers through my panties. The way the thickshake lubricated the motion of my panties over my skin.

The Russian let out a long high scream. Her hands stopped moving. Slowly, uncertainly, she got to her feet, brushing some of the mess off her. Then she bowed to the audience.

They were cheering even before she stood straight again. People ran down to the stage and threw out their notes, most of which stuck in the slime and creamed corn. The Russian took one final bow, and the curtains closed.

I exhaled deeply. As the lights went up slightly I stopped rubbing my crotch. I hadn't orgasmed, but I felt giddy and happy. That had been good. I brought my right hand to my face, looked at the white mess on my fingers, and licked them clean.

Then I remembered the pie I'd ordered. I looked around quickly for Chloe, but couldn't see her. I immediately decided that once I'd pied Chloe, I'd ask her to pie me back. Sure, now that I was getting my breath back I was starting to feel a little more worried by the prospect of discovery, but another part of me said to hell with that - I'm going to enjoy myself. It didn't even occur to me that I was still wearing sunglasses.

Sure enough, as if she'd been waiting for the performance to conclude, Chloe showed up a moment later, bearing a large pie in one hand. She didn't have a supermodel body but she moved with such assurance, such total confidence, that other people in the audience were turning to watch her. Her skirt was wet and flapped loosely against her body. It was stained white as if someone had been pouring cream over it - and into it. But the upper half of her body was clean.

When she reached my table she stood at my side and lowered the pie into my shaking hand. I stared nervously at it - it was so much heavier and thicker than I'd been expecting.

"Where do you want it?" Chloe asked.

I forced myself to look at her. "On the face," I croaked.

Chloe nodded, and knelt in front of me. I felt sure she could see the thickshake stains on my shirt. I was conscious of people around me watching. I remembered that I'd forgotten to pull my zipper closed.

I gritted my teeth. The hell with it...

One hand moved to steady the back of Chloe's head.

The other pushed the pie firmly into her face.

The pie hadn't come in a tin - it was just my hand on bare crust. I felt the cream squish against her face. Some splatted down on her shoulders and chest, but the majority clung to her face. The crust had split in several places but was intact.

More globs of cream dropped down onto her chest. Chloe held still, just kneeling there as the pie began to slide inexorably downward. Then, as the lower half dropped into her lap, she brought her hands up and wiped out her eyes.

Our heads were scarcely a foot apart. Her eyes blinked open and looked into mine. Sunglasses or not, I felt them directly lock onto my pupils.

"Now you pie me," I said.

Maybe it was the way I said it. But I don't think so. It was her eyes looking into mine.

Chloe did nothing, but her eyes flickered. I saw her look down, at the stains on my shirt. Her eyes flicked to my groin, which was stained dark with liquid and open at the zipper.

She looked at me and I felt acutely conscious of my breasts pushing at the fabric of my shirt.

"You're a woman," she whispered.

She reached up and pulled the sunglasses from my eyes. Some of the men nearby exclaimed when they saw my face, but she wasn't done yet. She stood up, looked around her, and yelled, "This customer here's a woman!"

People all around me were turning to look. Background noise died away. Even the girls in the cages had stopped gyrating and were staring down at me. I just slouched in my chair and wanted to die of embarrassment.

Some waitresses were moving through the crowd toward me. Her announcement made, Chloe grabbed me by the wrist and pulled me up. The other waitresses arrived and began to lead me away from the table.

This'll make a great story, I thought to myself. Hey guys, want to hear about the time I got escorted out of a strip club?

Then I realized they weren't taking me to the exit. I was being lead to the stage. A stage whose curtains had been hastily pulled back, and on which even now two waitresses were setting down a wooden chair.

My gut churned. I stiffened and tried to resist being pushed, but the waitresses behind me were obviously expecting this and just shoved me on harder. None of the customers around me were making a move: they all had big grins on their faces, like they thought I was part of the entertainment.

And to be honest, it now looked like I was.

The waitresses pushed me up onto the stage. It had hardly been cleaned from the previous performance, with slime and soapy water all over the floor. I nearly slipped in it, but one of the waitresses held me steady. They took me over to the chair and sat me down firmly in it, facing the audience.

As I gazed out into that black expanse, dotted with eyes and lights, I remembered my zipper was still undone. Somehow my face got even redder.

Looking to my right I saw Chloe approach, her face still smeared with pie. She held coils of rope in her hand. I went rigid with shock. Chloe knelt down by the chair, and looped the rope around one wrist, then the other. She didn't tie off either of them, so I could pull my arms out immediately if I wanted.

At that point I realized this was just for show. I relaxed just a little.

Chloe leant over and did similar loops around my ankles. Then she looked up at me and winked. "I saw those stains," she whispered. "Naughty!" Then she stood and moved out of sight.

I sat still, took deep breaths and tried to calm myself. They're just going to mess you up a little bit, I told myself. That's all, just some punishment for you and a reward for the patrons. A minute or two and it'll be all over. I tried not to look at the large group of waitresses nearby smiling wickedly at me, or the cart loaded with food already being wheeled onto stage.

Two waitresses approached me, each holding a can of shaving cream. They took positions either side of the chair and started coating me with cream. They made long white lines on my denim jeans, then a thick bouncy mass on my chest. Still working symmetrically, they ran up my shoulders, and down my arms.

This wasn't so bad. The cream hardly weighed anything on my body, and it wasn't so messy either. The waitresses finished by making a large spiral on my hair, then coating my neck and ears.

Suddenly I gasped as I was drenched from above in thick, cold liquid. A liquid mass of shaving cream shot down into my lap and my shirt plastered itself on my skin, while the whole of my upper body broke out in goosebumps.

The smell was what tipped me off. One of the waitresses must have snuck up behind me while the other two were working with the shaving cream, and tipped a jug of milk over me. I spat some shaving cream and liquid out of my mouth, and looked down at the damage. The cream on my shirt had taken on a strange glossy, gelatinous look, and my breasts were sharply defined against my shirt. I wanted to run my hands through the slippery mixture. Lower down my groin and upper thighs were wet, and my panties in particular were soaked through. I started to feel a chill at my crotch.

I thought then that they would continue to attack from behind, and flicked my eyes up to watch the crowd. I saw mounting anticipation in their faces and shut my eyes. Sure enough, a second later, a waitress tipped a bowl of raw eggs over my head.

I sat there and explored the sensations as they came. The eggs were more tactile than the milk - I could feel the yolks splat on my skin and run down my front. The yolk slowly dragged itself down my skin, slipping down the inside of my shirt, running over my bra and down to my waist. When I opened my eyes there were more than a dozen eggs in my lap, and my shirt had a silvery sheen.

The next two waitresses approached me from the front, a couple of tins in each hand. I strained helplessly against my 'bonds' - I was really starting to get into the pantomime aspect of this.

The waitresses turned the tins upside down over me, and brown pancake batter slowly poured out. They started at my jeans, running the batter over my legs, and pausing a little to completely coat my crotch. I felt the batter run between my legs, soaking through my panties. It made me want to tear my hands free and plunge them into the sticky mass at my groin.

Somehow the audience had ceased to matter. The loops of rope around my limbs were, if anything, increasing my excitement. Tied up like this, at the mercy of the waitresses, I could get as messy as I wanted and it wouldn't be my fault.

And I knew it now. I loved to get messy.

The waitresses still had more pancake batter, so they untied my legs, lifted them up, and pulled the boots off my feet. They emptied the batter into my boots then jammed them back on.

Batter squelched up my calves, and all over the bottom of my jeans. I wriggled my toes in the warm mixture. I had a goofy grin on my face, though I was a little disappointed they hadn't tipped the remainder over my head.

As if I'd made a wish, a waitress behind me immediately did just that. At first it felt like someone dripping mud on my hair, then the curtains of brown batter began to draw down in front of my face. More batter was still pouring on my head and I impulsively pulled my head back, so that it was falling directly over my face.

It felt to me like gradual submersion. The batter spread down over my face, ran around my nose, pushed up my nostrils, covered my mouth and dripped down my neck and front.

When the batter stopped from above, I sat still for a moment, then raised my head and opened my eyes a slit. I could barely see anything, so I shook my head for a bit, flicking batter around, until I'd cleared enough space to see.

To my side the waitresses were in a group, not doing anything, just standing there and looking puzzled. This is all they'd planned to do to you, I told myself. But the way you've responded... they want to press on.

I saw Chloe in the mix, making a very animated argument. She got two waitresses nearby to nod agreement, and the three of them left.

Before I could work out what this meant, one of the remaining waitresses took a bottle from the cart and suddenly, without any regard for the mess on my jeans, sat in my lap, straddling me. Her skirt and panties were immediately stained with batter and egg.

The waitress opened the bottle, which was full of a clear liquid - salad oil. She poured it in streams and drizzles over my shirt, and I felt it getting smoother, the oil seeping against my skin.

As she did this another waitress stood behind me and ran her hands through my batter smothered head. I felt lips press against my hair.

Looking down, it seemed to me my white shirt was revealing a lot more skin than it had previously. The oil was turning it transparent and clinging, like I was in sexy nightwear. Most of the oil had run out over my body now, and the waitress decided to run some over her chest, pouring oil over the tops of her breasts, down her cleavage, and over the front of her uniform. Then with the last of the oil she poured it one-handed over my breasts while her other hand reached up and began to rub my shirt up and down.

I sighed and tilted my head back. The waitress behind me tilted her head forward further and kissed my forehead, her hands gently supporting my face.

The waitress in front had finished with the oil and tossed it aside. Both her hands now moved to my breasts, cupping them, then moving the fabric over the skin, working in the oil. The slippery friction was delicious, and my smile was totally involuntary.

I just sat there and let them writhe over me. One kissing my face, my eyes, my mouth, the other now pressing her whole body against mine, two pairs of oily breasts rubbing against each other. I'd never had so much fun doing nothing.

The waitress in front pulled back, and I felt her fingers at my breasts. With a thrill I realized she was undoing the top button of my shirt. Immediately I was reminded of the proximity of the audience. Should I lift my arms and try to stop her? But her touch still felt good to me, and I decided I didn't yet mind being helpless.

One by the one the buttons popped open, from top to bottom. The waitress pulled my shirt out from my jeans, and pulled it apart slightly, so that you could see a ribbon of skin from my neck to my waist, and my oil-soaked bra. She ran her fingers up and down my bare skin.

Then both waitresses looked to one side and suddenly got up. I followed their gaze, puzzled and somewhat disappointed they'd stopped.

Standing before me was Chloe, holding a big, thick custard cream pie.

I decided I had to be standing for this. I quickly stood and faced Chloe directly.

"I believe you wanted this," said Chloe.

I nodded and composed myself, holding my arms still by my side.

Chloe leant back, and flung her pie.

It hit me full on the face. The force was a surprise, and my head rocked back. The sensation was truly like nothing I'd ever experienced. It was like falling face down in a thick mud puddle. A sweet, sticky mud puddle.

Cream and crust coated my face, splatted onto my breasts, streaked in my hair, slowly dripped down my neck and shoulders. I opened my mouth, making more slide down my front, and licked my tongue through the custard and cream. I reached up and wiped out my eyes.

Chloe was smirking. "Knew you'd enjoy that," she said. Then she moved in close, her arms reaching for me.

All of a sudden she was in some sort of shadow. I felt a third presence nearby and realized there was another shadow over me.

Two waitress dumped buckets of custard over both of us.

The world turned yellow. For a second I was completely unaware of my surroundings. Then Chloe pushed her head through the custard and violently kissed me. Custard was running in rivers down my back, over every inch of my head, but I hardly felt it. Her arms encircled me as I put mine around her shoulders, and we continued to kiss. Her tongue moved into my mouth. We were sharing pie filling and crust. Still the custard poured over our heads.

I felt Chloe's arm suddenly steady against my back, and she moved forward against me, pressing her body into mine. I stumbled back, almost overbalancing, and felt my legs fetch up against something at knee level.

Instantly I toppled back... into a bath full to the brim with custard.

Custard slopped out onto the stage floor. My body sank to my neck in the custard. It was a heavenly, dreamlike feeling... and then Chloe toppled in on top of me.

More custard slopped out. We writhed over each other, half in and half out of the tub, Chloe on top, me at the bottom. With most of my body below the custard, I didn't mind it when Chloe parted my shirt. I wriggled my arms free as Chloe felt my breasts through my bra. Then she leant her head forward and licked at my neck, and the upper halves of my breasts. I gathered up my shirt in one hand and threw it out of the tub. She bared her teeth and bit my nipple through the bra. I arched my back and purred.

I know what you're thinking. But even at this moment I didn't consider myself a lesbian. It was just... there was something about being messy that made it okay to cross certain boundaries. And yes, it was so much more fun to have someone mess you, than to have to mess yourself.

It felt like Chloe was doing all the work, so I reached for her top, curling my fingers around the bottom to rip it off. Chloe whispered to me: "Round the back." I felt around the back of her top and found the zip. It pulled open easily and I was able to peel off her top.

Her skin below was coated with the custard from the bath. Her bare breasts were small but delicious.

Chloe's hands were down at my groin. One was cupping my butt, and I suddenly she tugged at my jeans. I stiffened. I hadn't totally forgotten the crowd, and even had we been in private I wasn't totally comfortable with exposing my genitals. There were still some boundaries I was reluctant to cross.

Chloe didn't press the issue. She smiled, and brought a hand up to my face, stroking my hair. She leant her body down against mine, rubbing her breasts up and down my chest. Then she looked at me, and I nodded. This was okay.

This was no longer about punishment or obscure club rules. This was a performance and I was being allowed to set my comfort level.

I felt so grateful to Chloe for this that I managed to wrestle her down to the bottom of the bath and slip on top. I pushed her down so just her face and her boobs were visible above the custard. Then I bent my head and licked at her breasts.

I moved my tongue in circles, cleaning up the custard, first from one breast, then the other. Meanwhile Chloe was reaching up with her hands and rubbing at mine. I licked her nipples clean.

My bra was still on, and it felt unfair for Chloe to be rubbing fabric instead of skin, so I reached behind my back and unclasped it. My breasts were mostly clean, but that soon changed as Chloe fondled them.

I lowered my body again and kissed Chloe on the mouth, and licked her cheeks as she continued to fondle me. Then I dipped my head fully in the custard beside her, and lifted it up and looked at the audience. The stunt drew an appreciative laugh.

I considered putting on some moans as well to heighten the performance, but they were scarcely necessary - each time we moved the custard squelched between us. I thought of my ass sticking out in the air - the audience might not be able to see what was going on between me and Chloe all that well, but they were sure getting a good look at custard saturated denim. All the moisture had somehow made my jeans contract, so they molded tightly around my butt like spandex.

Finally, after another minute or two of fumbling, writhing, licking and sucking, Chloe looked at one of the waitresses nearby and gave a small signal. She and another two came and grasped the rim of the bath, and began pushing it - it was mounted on brass wheels - offstage.

As we kept on caressing I heard the audience cheering and applauding. Out of the corner of one eye I saw people run down to the stage and throw dollar bills at us. There were so many of them the crowd was five deep.

We were a hit.

I looked down at Chloe and smiled. She returned the favor and I kissed her on the lips again, pushing my tongue against hers. We continued Frenching as they wheeled us out of sight.

Eventually the bathtub fetched up in a small dim room in the wings. We pulled apart from each other, and Chloe helped me out of the bath. My body felt strangely stiff, like I'd been swimming for an hour.

Chloe looked satisfied with me. "Impressive performance," she said.

I shrugged. "I'm just a beginner." Here we were, two topless women covered in custard, and already it felt like the most natural thing in the world.

We walked squelching through the wings, leaving a slimy trail of custard behind us. Chloe was leading me somewhere so I just looked around. There were trays and trays of food, stacked up against walls, and shelving laden with pots and jugs and pans. Women wearing all sorts of costumes, both messy and clean, rushed past us without paying us the slightest bit of attention. Men with brooms and buckets of hot soapy water likewise passed us by.

Soon we were in a small passageway, and judging by the noise we were at the side of the public area. The nearest doorway had steam rising through it, and Chloe led me inside.

Inside was a long narrow room with seven or eight shower heads lined up against one wall. The tiled floor angled down slightly before ending at a shallow trough, which was slowly draining away all sorts of colored gunk. Privacy obviously wasn't a concern as there were no shower stalls. All of the shower heads were running continuously, so that the floor and the trough were slick with moisture.

A couple of the showers were being used, one with a woman trying to shampoo treacle out of her hair, another with a woman scrubbing honey off her body.

They paid no attention to us and Chloe took me over to the nearest showers. I was more than happy to stand under the hot steaming water and feel the custard just fall from me.

Chloe reached for a bottle in a recess underneath the shower head. It was unmarked and full of blue liquid. She poured some out on her hand and started rubbing it over her body. Perhaps it was meant to loosen the mess on your body? I picked up the bottle below my shower head and began applying it to my chest.

After just a few seconds I could feel the mess on me begin to slip from my skin. I looked at Chloe and saw cream and pie crust just sliding off her. Her head and hair were already nearly clean.

I picked up the pace and started rubbing the liquid soap all over my body. Chloe was slowly working her way down, already her hands were at her waist. As I watched her she undid her skirt and slipped it off. Her panties were soaked and transparent. She pulled them off too and rubbed her soapy hand over her groin.

She'd obviously done this dozens of times and it was a real struggle to keep up with her. I'd managed to soap over my body down to my waist, though I could still feel messy patches on my skin. When I reached the waistband of my jeans, I pulled them slowly down my legs, then kicked them away. I stepped out of my panties and soaped my groin, as meanwhile Chloe was running her hands up and down her legs.

Somehow I didn't feel uncomfortable at all about exposing myself to Chloe. Now we were offstage and nobody had any gunge in their hand, our nudity was entirely nonsexual.

All the same, I'd been watching her rub soap over her naked body for more than a minute.

Chloe was finished shortly thereafter. She stood in the water and watched me as I soaped my knees and calves. I ran my fingers through my toes and cleaned the gunk from under my feet best I could, then straightened and presented myself to her.

"All good?" I said.

"You missed a few spots," said Chloe. "I know, it's pretty difficult to clean yourself up the first time. Here, let me." And she tipped some liquid soap in her hand and started rubbing at a spot on the side of my neck.

Her touch was warm and comforting. I stood still as she cleaned up the few messy spots on my body, at my neck, my waist, under my shoulders, and on my butt. Finally she stood back. "Done."

We picked up our messy clothes and dumped them into the laundry chute, a big square hole in the wall at the far end of the room. Hanging on hooks mounted on the wall above the draining trough were white bathrobes. We took two and wrapped them round our bodies.

Chloe started for the exit. I didn't know where we were headed now, but I didn't feel worried. "I hope it's not too late for formal introductions," I said as we reentered the passage. "My name's Audrey."

"Mine's Chloe," said Chloe. "And don't take this wrong way or anything, but you're not like any woman I've ever met. Thanks so much for coming tonight."

"It's been a pleasure."

We entered a small cluttered office, with a black tinted window overlooking the audience. The manager got up from behind his desk and, grinning, pumped my hand enthusiastically.

To be honest, I was in such a dazed, blissful state that I could barely hear what he was saying. He was praising my performance to the stars, calling it "unexpected" and "natural". He was waiving my night's bill. He said he'd give me a pair of clothes to leave with while they laundered mine. As he was saying this I remembered my jacket and sunglasses. Near as I could recall, they were still at my table. I was glad they hadn't been messed.

The manager handed me his business card. He asked if I'd consider coming to work a few shifts. I stared down at the card, hardly able to process the information on it, and mumbled something about not wanting to make this a "full time thing". This didn't faze the manager, who kept selling me on the virtues of this club, told me I was a "natural" at this, until finally I gave in and told him my phone number.

As he wrote it down I realized I had a little leverage to find out stuff I wanted to know. "That liquid soap you use," I asked, "...where do you get it?"

The manager stuffed my number into his pocket. "What? Oh. Yeah, it's a specialty product. We order it from a chemical processing plant. Here, I'll give you this..." He looked through the piles of paper on his desk, and handed me another business card.

Ten minutes later I was walking out the front door. Chloe smiled goodbye and asked me if I was coming back. I told her I'd think about it. Then I was out on the street, in the suddenly cold night air, feeling lightheaded and dazed.

The last two hours hadn't just happened.

Had they?

I wanted to crawl into bed and sleep for sixteen hours.

[jammed06]

woweee!!! i want more. or a club local to me like that!

[captain sensible]

A long, sexy epic - thank you! And what a fabulous idea "The Messy Club" is as a place to set stories like this...

[Richard]

Phew! I'm exhausted just reading it; but what a fantastic story . Thank you for sharing the contents of your dirty mind with the rest of us !

Just wondering what happened to the two girls at the start of the epic though. Is there more to come? - I think most of us have already .

If anybody happens to open a club like that, please let me know .

[Scud01us]

oh how I would love to go to a club like that with a few thousand quid on my person at the time...

[Devo77]

Great story. Long but great. If only a place like that exsited.
It will be interesting to see how her experience with the
waitress will effect how she approaches geting her friends
messy.

[ghilton]

Thanks everyone for their comments so far! Next couple of bits should be up soon.

[shredder]

Holy smokes. I actually could not fit enough in my head all at once and will have to leave parts 5/6 for another time.

Truly wonderful and a fantastic huge volume (just like I like my messes! )

[PleasePieMeMistress]

Blimey. Think I need to have a long cold shower after reading that! Would love to be in Audrey's place for the Chloe on stage encounter. Wow!