(Written for nikki)

The premise of the skit is that you're addicted to pieing people in the face, and I'm trying to help you overcome this obsession. You're sitting at your desk, while I'm standing, walking back and forth. There's a food trolley off to the side, though you can't see what's in it. There's also a walk-in shower nearby.

I'd ask you why you liked pieing people in the face, and why you have a history of doing it. I'd tell you that it's embarrassing to do to people, and take out a ordinary cream pie. You'd brag about how fun it is to start food fights in the cafeteria. All the while, you'd be in that awesome black dress, sitting at a desk, twirling a pencil, smirking.

While I talked you'd keep eye contact on the pie, just waiting to grab it from me. At that moment I'd pretend I'm going to give it to you. But then just at the last second I'd do a fake-out, and shove it in your face instead. It would be overfilled, so there would be a collar of white goop around your neck, dripping down on your breasts. Your mouth would open in a wide "O", and you'd be able to see you blushing crimson red even underneath the layer of whipped topping.

I'd apologize, and ask you if you think you deserved it. You'd admit you did, grimacing, without trying to wipe away any of the goop from your eyes. At this point, from my tone of voice you can tell that I'm more excited than I should be. Every so often, you may or may not notice that I discreetly rub one of my nipples.

I'd express sympathy for you, and say how I really understand your urge to throw pies at people. Then I'd take out a silver platter with a cover on it, and approach you again. I say, "this time we'll conduct an experiment. Underneath the cover is a pie. If you resist the urge to throw it at me, you'll get this twenty dollar bill. If you don't, then you'll get a pie in the face." You struggle for a few seconds, and finally relent. Then you lift the cover, only to find the platter is empty. Then you look up, mouth wide open in shock, just in time for me to smash a chocolate cream pie in your face. Your mouth is so filled with cream that you have to spit it out in one smart little huff. Beneath my jeans I have an erection.

You stand up immediately, throw down your pencil in revolt. You say, "That's not fair!" And I apologize again, saying it's true, I did trick you, but it's for your own good.

As a peace offering, I give you a towel. You sit back down, and put the towel over your head, cleaning. While you're doing that, unbeknownst to you, I pick two custard pies. Then, once you have done cleaning yourself up, I give you a pie sandwich.

(All throughout, I'm visibly having way too much fun for my own good, but my facial expressions tell you that I'm acting like I'm just doing my job. On the surface you are responding like you're miserable, but every so often your hand wanders down to gently rub your clit.)

"What was that for?" you'd gasp.

"To distract you, mostly," I'd say. Then I'd take away the mess-filled towel, explaining, "So you don't get any ideas for revenge." Then you'd sigh and nod, as if I'd read your mind.

At that point you're in such a messy state that you have to take off your dress. You do that, and clean up using the dress as a towel. You're just sitting at your desk, reasonably clean, only in your underwear.

I'd ask you, "So where did this obsession with pieing people come from?"

You'd explain that it all started when you were a child. Your parents were political activists who liked to pie politicians in the face, and you saw it as an ordinary way of releasing stress. It's just fun to see people get humiliated. Nobody really gets hurt, after all.

While you're explaining this to me, I don a sash reading "Mayor", and put an icing-strewn cake down on the desk. You'd only notice it just in time for me to dunk your head into the cake. I'd give you a salute, and take off my sash. A whole layer of cake would be stuck to your face, only your long eyelashes would be visible beneath them.

That's when you'd get up to leave, slowly and deliberately. "OK, I get it. Got the message. I'm cured. No more pie throwing. No more cakes. I just want a shower now."

I'd shrug, slightly disappointed, taking the cake away. You'd flinch, visibly wanting to throw it at me, but restraining yourself. "Go ahead, the shower's over there," I'd say.

You go to the shower, get naked, and clean yourself off. You take the time to quickly masturbate underneath the hot water, biting your lip to keep from moaning. Still naked, but clean, you come back to the desk. I've cleaned everything up, so everything looks normal. I'm standing off to the side of the desk, and a cord is hanging down from the rafters.

You pick up your pencil, and take out a pad of paper. "Pie obsession, fixed", you'd say, ticking off a checkbox. You sit down, satisfied.

"You did well today," I'd agree. "Good job."

"Next up," you'd say, "I have to break my slime addiction."

We make eye contact. You instinctively know what's going to happen next. I pull the cord, which pours a gallon of viscous green goo over your head. Your pencil and paper are soaked. You sit down, defeated, and laugh long and bitterly. "Ha, ha... haaaa."

Your laugh is interrupted by me kissing you, the first actually sexual contact through the whole thing. I've felt teased the whole time. You're slightly surprised, because now it feels as if a barrier is broken. But you return the kiss immediately, naturally, and you laugh through your nose in relief. I pick you up and throw you down onto the desk, then mount on top of you. One of your hands drifts down to my pants, and you feel the contours of my hard penis while undoing the zipper. But as we kiss, your other hand pulls the cord.

We're both beleaguered by a torrent of thick green slime. The slime is like a cloak of anonymity. Nobody else can see it when my cock enters you, and nobody else could possibly know when I come inside of you, if it weren't for the slamming of your ass against the desk as I thrust myself into you, and our rhythmic moans of erotic bliss.

And of course, just as we both orgasm, the desk breaks.