ChatGPT is getting better at allowing suggestive story writing. This was the output from a few prompts:

Slippery Fantasies
By Sophie

Chapter 1: The Note

I always thought Lucy knew me better than anyone else. We've been together since Year 11, all giggles and late-night texts at first, and now here we are, sharing a flat, a coffee machine we both pretend to know how to use, and a life that--while messy and imperfect--is very us.

A few weeks ago, one of those slow, wine-hazed nights led to that conversation. You know the kind. You're curled up on the sofa in your partner's hoodie, legs tangled, a film playing in the background neither of you are watching. It started with one of Lucy's raised-eyebrow questions: "What's the weirdest thing you've always wanted to do but never told anyone?"

I laughed, because how do you answer that without sounding like a total weirdo?

But, well, I told her. I actually told her.

"I always wanted to get gunged."

She blinked at me like I'd just said I wanted to live on the moon.

"You know, like on those old kids' TV shows," I explained, cheeks burning. "The big tank of green slime, the dramatic countdown, the squealing. I used to watch it and think, 'That looks like the most ridiculous fun ever.' I don't know... it stuck with me."

She grinned then. That cheeky, dimple-on-one-side grin that always tells me she's up to something.

And then she didn't bring it up again. For weeks.

Until today.

I came home from work, tired and soggy from a surprise rainstorm, expecting tea and slippers and maybe a hug. Instead, I found a pair of my lacy black knickers--my knickers, the ones Lucy always says should come with a warning sign--laid out on the kitchen table. And next to them, a simple handwritten note:

"Meet me upstairs."

That was it. No hearts, no winks, just her handwriting, neat and certain.

My stomach did this odd little flip. The good kind. Like just before a roller coaster drops.

I toed off my shoes, suddenly very aware of the silence in the flat. The hallway felt longer than usual as I padded toward the stairs. Something about the air felt... expectant.

I took the note with me, holding it tight like a clue in some sultry scavenger hunt. My heart thudded louder with every step.

At the top of the stairs, I paused.

And then I saw it.

A glimmer of plastic sheeting through the slightly ajar door to our spare room. A soft glow from within. And a smell--sweet and oddly familiar, like custard and something synthetic.

She hadn't forgotten.

She'd really not forgotten.

I pushed the door open.

And that's when I saw what Lucy had done.

Chapter 2: Under the Slime

I stood in the doorway, mouth half-open, heart fully in my throat.

The room--our boring, cluttered spare room, usually home to laundry piles and unopened Amazon boxes--had been transformed. The floor was covered in a big plastic sheet, the kind decorators use, only neater, tucked under the skirting like she'd measured it out with military precision. In the middle of it all sat a plain wooden stool. Innocent. Except for the looming frame above it--two vertical beams with a crossbar at the top, solid and simple.

Balanced on that crossbar was a clear plastic box. And inside... was my fantasy.

Green gunge. Neon, thick, gloopy. The colour of cartoon goo and pure chaos. It shimmered under the soft glow of fairy lights Lucy had strung around the frame, absurdly romantic for something that looked like it had come straight off a kids' game show set.

I laughed. Out loud. A surprised, bubbling laugh that kind of escaped me before I could hold it in.

"Oh my God," I said, stepping into the room. "You actually built a gunge tank?"

Lucy was leaning against the wall, arms folded, looking far too pleased with herself.

"Not bad for a girl with a hot glue gun and a DIY YouTube addiction," she said with a wink. "You like?"

"Like?" I looked from her to the tank and back again. "Lucy, this is amazing. I can't believe you did this."

She walked over to me, brushing a hand lightly over my arm, her touch soft but electric. "I figured... you've had this dream since you were, what, ten? You deserve the full experience."

I felt a little dizzy. And not just from the smell of the slime, which now up close had a faint vanilla scent under the artificial sweetness. My cheeks were warm--okay, blazing--and I suddenly remembered exactly how little I was wearing. The knickers from the table, now hugged low on my hips. And the matching black bra I'd dug out of the drawer on instinct before coming upstairs. I crossed my arms instinctively, then forced myself to drop them.

Because that was the whole point, wasn't it?

"I feel ridiculous," I murmured.

"You look gorgeous," Lucy replied, and something in her voice made me believe her. "Come on. Take a seat."

I hesitated for just a second, biting my lip, then stepped carefully onto the plastic sheet. The stool was smooth, a little cool under my bare thighs. I perched on it, legs crossed nervously, every part of me aware. Of the air on my skin. Of Lucy's eyes on me. Of the box above my head, heavy with promise.

This was actually happening.

I looked up. The slime quivered slightly, as if it were sentient, waiting for its moment.

Lucy stepped closer, holding something behind her back. She grinned again--that same wicked, loving grin she gave me when she dared me to kiss her behind the bike sheds all those years ago.

"Ready?" she asked.

I swallowed hard, heart hammering.

"God, yes."

And then she revealed what she was hiding--a rope attached to a latch. One gentle tug away from turning this from fantasy into reality.

But she didn't pull it.

Not yet.

She just looked at me, eyes shining.

And I knew.

I'd never wanted anything more.

Chapter 3: We Share Everything

I don't know what came over me.

Maybe it was the lights. Or the smell of the slime. Or just Lucy, standing there in jeans and a loose tee, far too dressed for the moment.

I looked up at her--her eyes flicking between the rope in her hand and me sitting there, nearly naked, heart about to beat out of my chest. And it just slipped out. A thought turned impulse turned words before I could think better of them.

"Get undressed."

She blinked, surprised. "What?"

I felt my lips curl into a grin that didn't feel entirely like mine. "You heard me."

Lucy raised an eyebrow, mock-offended. "Is this a trap so you don't go down alone?"

"Nope." I tilted my head. "It's because we share everything, right?"

That made her pause. Just for a second. Then her smirk softened, and she nodded slowly. "Yeah. We do."

She peeled her shirt off with one smooth motion, tossing it toward the corner like it owed her money. Then she unbuttoned her jeans, slid them down, and stepped out of them. Black bra. Boyshorts. Simple. Sexy. Effortless. Very her.

My stomach flipped again. Maybe the gunge wasn't the most overwhelming thing in the room after all.

She crossed the plastic sheet toward me, bare feet making the tiniest crinkle-sounds as she moved. Then she stopped just in front of the stool.

"Room for one more?"

I opened my arms. "Always."

She straddled my lap, legs warm against mine, arms around my shoulders. The wooden stool creaked faintly under the extra weight, but it held. Just.

And suddenly the whole thing felt very real.

We were sitting there--two girls in their underwear, clinging to each other under a box full of slime--with nothing but a rope and a moment between us and chaos.

Her skin was warm. Her breathing matched mine--shallow, quick, expectant. I could feel the twitch of nerves in her thighs, the slight tremble of excitement in her fingers resting on my shoulders.

I looked up at her. "You still holding that rope?"

She held it up between two fingers, smiling. "Wouldn't dream of letting go without you."

We were both laughing a little now, hearts racing together.

And then, just before everything changed, she leaned in close and whispered:

"You're not going to forget this, are you?"

I grinned, lips brushing hers.

"Not in a million years."

And above us, the gunge waited.

Chapter 4: The Drop

There was a second--just one--where everything paused.

I could feel Lucy's heartbeat against mine, her fingers curled tightly around the rope, the cool edge of the stool beneath us, the slow warmth of our breath mingling. The silence in the room was thick, electric.

Then she pulled.

And the world exploded.

The first wave of gunge hit us like a warm, silky waterfall--thick and slow and everywhere. A great whooshing plop as it broke over our heads, sliding instantly down our faces, into our hair, down the nape of my neck in sticky streams. It was warmer than I expected, like a bath gone too thick, and the sensation was--God--incredible.

I gasped, mouth open in shock and laughter, and instantly got a taste of it. Sweet, synthetic, like bubblegum and custard had a weird, gloopy baby. Lucy yelped too, but she didn't let go. Neither did I.

The slime clung to us like it had intent, cascading over shoulders, slopping between our arms, finding every single dip and curve. I felt it run down my spine, trickle beneath the band of my bra, and ooze slow and heavy between my breasts. Lucy was writhing a little in my lap, squealing half with delight, half with surprise as it coated her from crown to toes.

And oh, it kept coming.

Buckets' worth. Gallons. Like the box above us had no bottom.

It ran down Lucy's back, over her sides, seeping around her waistband, pooling in the dip of her lower back before overflowing and sliding down between us. I felt the squelch of it between our stomachs, the sticky slip of skin-on-skin coated in gunge.

Our thighs, pressed together, got drenched next. It wormed its way into every gap, every fold, soaking into the fabric of our underwear until it clung and dripped with every breath we took.

We couldn't stop laughing.

I felt it drip down the backs of my knees, ooze between my toes. The plastic sheeting below had become a shallow lake of slime, and our feet were now completely submerged. The squish-squelch of it between our toes made us squeal all over again, and I curled mine instinctively, toes coated and slippery, trying to grip the floor as if it would help.

I looked up, blinking through a curtain of green goo, just in time to see another fresh sheet of it slap over Lucy's head like a second skin. It poured off her in thick curtains, and still, still it came.

We held each other through it, arms locked tight, our bodies slick and shivering, not from cold, but from the sheer overload of sensation. Every inch of us was covered, engulfed, drenched. It dripped from eyelashes, gathered in our ears, and crept down our thighs. There wasn't a single dry spot left.

And then, finally, finally it slowed.

The flow eased to a drizzle. A few last gloopy drops plopped down from the edge of the box above, landing with faint, musical splats on our shoulders, in our hair, onto the puddle at our feet.

Silence returned.

Sticky, soaked, and sitting in a shallow swamp of slime, Lucy tilted her head back, blinking through goo, and laughed. Just pure, giddy laughter.

I couldn't help but join in.

We were a mess. A beautiful, ridiculous mess.

And in that green, dripping moment--holding her in my lap, toes squishing beneath us--I had never felt so alive.

Chapter 5: Soaked and Still

We didn't move.

Not right away.

The room was silent now, but buzzing with something deeper. Our breathing. The distant hum of the house. The thick, slow drip of slime sliding from our elbows, our hair, the edges of the stool.

I felt Lucy's arms still wrapped around me, her body warm and slick against mine, every inch of us glued together with green goo. It squelched softly as we shifted, just slightly, like we were afraid too much motion might break the spell.

It was everywhere.

Inside my bra, cupped under my breasts. In the creases of my elbows, behind my knees. My knickers clung like a second skin, soaked through, dripping. Gunge pooled in my belly button. Ran down the inside of my thighs. I could feel the little trails of it crawling down my back, slow and deliberate, making me shiver every few seconds.

Lucy moved just enough to brush a strand of hair--wet and shiny with green slime--away from my face. Her fingers left a sticky path down my cheek, and I turned my face into her palm, pressing a kiss to the heel of her hand. She smiled, soft and gooey and completely unbothered by the mess.

"I can't believe we did that," she murmured, her voice half-lost in the warmth between us.

"I can't believe how good it feels," I admitted, my hands stroking gently over her back, where the slime still slid in slow, thick rivulets. "It's ridiculous. And kind of... amazing."

She let out a breathy laugh. "We are so not normal."

"Speak for yourself," I said, grinning. "I'm extremely normal. I just happen to be covered in four litres of novelty slime right now."

We sat like that, still straddled on the stool, bodies slick and entangled, letting the feeling sink into us.

It was more than the gunge.

It was the closeness. The absurd intimacy of being totally, stupidly messy together. No hiding, no holding back. Just me and her, bare and bold and soaking in the weirdest dream I'd ever had.

Her forehead rested against mine. Our fingers laced, sticky and shining.

The slime around our feet was deep enough now to coat our ankles. My toes wriggled in it again, and I could feel hers do the same--tiny movements, playful, like we were kids again. Except not. This was different. This was ours.

"I don't want to clean up yet," I whispered.

"Good," Lucy said. "Neither do I."

And we stayed like that. Soaked. Sticky. Smiling.

Wrapped in each other, wrapped in slime. Wrapped in something else entirely.

Chapter 6: One More Fantasy

We were warm, clean, and freshly towel-dried, nestled on the sofa like nothing had happened. Except everything had happened.

The spare room was spotless again--somehow. Between the two of us, a dozen towels, and a lot of laughter, we'd managed to get the slime cleared away and ourselves showered. Twice. I was still pretty sure I'd find a bit of green goo behind my ear tomorrow.

But now the lights were low, the room smelled like lavender body wash, and Lucy and I were curled up under a blanket with a glass of wine each, legs tangled together.

The quiet felt nice. Not empty, just full in a different way.

I watched her over the rim of my glass, hair damp, skin glowing, that tired-post-laughter softness in her face. She looked at me like I was the most fascinating thing she'd ever seen, which felt unfair, because I was thinking the exact same thing about her.

"So," I said, swirling the wine in my glass, "I told you my weird fantasy."

She raised an eyebrow, teasing. "You did."

"And you built a whole contraption to make it come true."

"I did," she said, feigning modesty. "Because I'm amazing."

I nudged her knee with mine. "But you never told me yours."

She froze just slightly, that telltale flicker in her eyes that meant I'd caught her off guard. Then she smiled, shy and amused.

"I didn't think you'd ask."

"I'm absolutely asking," I said, grinning. "Fair's fair."

Lucy bit her lip, looking at her wine like it might give her courage. She took a sip. Then she looked at me with that twinkle in her eye again.

"Okay. You ready?"

I nodded solemnly.

"I've always kinda secretly wanted a pie to the face."

I blinked. Then burst out laughing.

She threw a cushion at me--not hard, more like a giggly how dare you swat. I caught it and hugged it to my chest, still laughing.

"No, no, I'm not judging!" I said, holding up a hand. "It's just--that is so you."

Lucy rolled her eyes but couldn't help smiling. "It's stupid, I know. But like the mess, the surprise, the silliness. It's always looked fun."

"It's not stupid," I said softly, scooting closer. "It's adorable. And now I have to make it happen."

She gave me a suspicious side-eye. "You're going to make it way too dramatic, aren't you?"

"Oh, absolutely," I said, raising my glass. "Whipped cream, proper tins, dramatic music, the works."

Lucy clinked her glass against mine.

"I can't wait," she whispered, grinning.

And that was it.
Two girls, one fantasy at a time.
And a whole messy, magical life ahead.

And another:

The cake had been perfect.

Three tiers of soft sponge layered with thick clouds of whipped cream, the scent of vanilla still hanging in the air like a whisper of sweetness. It was meant to be the centerpiece of tomorrow's charity bake sale -- but fate, apparently, had other plans.

I'd just stepped out of the shower, still flushed from the heat, water droplets tracing lazy paths down my skin. I didn't bother dressing -- I was alone, warm, and deliciously unbothered. The air felt cool against my bare body as I wandered into the living room, still damp and content, lost in that soft after-shower haze.

I didn't think. I just moved.

And sat.

Splorch.

The moment I sank down, it hit me -- cold, yielding, and oh-so-soft. I gasped, instinctively shifting, only to feel the rich, creamy mess spread under me with a slow, indulgent squish. My thighs pressed together around it, the sensation startling and strangely thrilling.

I lifted myself slightly and looked back.

The cake -- my beautiful creation -- was crushed, completely flattened beneath me.

But instead of panicking I laughed. A warm, breathy sound that slipped from my lips like a secret. The cream clung to my skin, cool and smooth, seeping into every contour as I moved again -- just a little. The sponge gave way beneath me, and a slow, delicious chill crept across my bare thighs, spreading upward, outward, everywhere.

It felt wicked. Silly. Good.

I wriggled, hips shifting with teasing little movements, not entirely innocent anymore. The cream spread farther, sticky and sweet, slipping across my skin in the most intimate ways. The absurdity of it, mixed with the undeniable sensation, made my breath catch.

There was nothing between me and the cake now -- nothing to stop me from enjoying every ridiculous, sensual second of it. I let myself move freely, the mess molding to me, embracing every curve with a decadent touch.

Another laugh escaped, breathless, as I leaned back into it, surrendering to the moment. It was stupid, and delicious, and somehow... thrilling.

And I wasn't ready to clean it up just yet.

Trip Around the House

I could hear the House Party theme tune playing behind my ribs.

It was silly, I knew. I wasn't really an audience member. I was in on it. But that didn't stop my heart from skipping with every sudden burst of canned laughter, every spin of the cameras across the crowd. The energy in the studio felt alive -- thick, charged, like static before a storm.

I was sitting halfway up the left side of the audience risers, legs crossed, one booted foot tapping absently on the step below. They'd dressed me for impact -- thigh-high boots, tight denim shorts, and a little white vest that clung like a second skin under the lights. When I first saw the outfit in the dressing room, I'd smirked. "Subtle," I'd muttered to the mirror. But now, sitting here, surrounded by real audience members, I felt that delicious mix of exposed and powerful. I knew I looked good.

But I also knew I wasn't going to stay clean.

That thought alone made a slow, thrilling heat curl through my stomach.

They'd told me just enough to get my imagination ticking. "You'll be part of a skit," the producer had said. "Pretend to be shocked. Just go with it. You're going to get messy." He'd smiled in a way that said very messy. No more details than that.

Now Noel was pacing the stage, microphone in hand, playing to the crowd. I could barely hear him over the pounding in my ears. I felt like I was waiting at the top of a rollercoaster -- breath held, muscles tensed, knowing I was about to drop but with no idea exactly when.

And then... he looked at me.

Right on cue.

Our eyes met, and the corners of his mouth curled in that way only he can manage -- mischief and charm rolled into one. He pointed. My turn to act.

I gasped -- surprised! -- then covered my mouth with one hand as the other was seized by Noel. He raised it high like I'd just won a prizefight, and the audience erupted. My cheeks flushed. Maybe it was all pretend, but the attention was real.

He led me down the steps. I walked carefully, boots clicking, each step echoing louder in my mind than it probably did in real life. I could feel the cameras on me -- feel every inch of skin that wasn't covered, and even the ones that were. My shorts had never felt so short. My vest clung a little tighter with every breath.

"What's your name, love?" Noel asked, handing me the mic.

"Abi," I said, voice light, almost breathy. "From Brighton."

"Ooh, Brighton. Don't mind a bit of sea and spray, then." He winked at the audience. They laughed.

I smiled back, but inside, I was tumbling forward already. The nerves were shifting into excitement. I was here. It was happening.

They led me to the ride -- a strange waltzer car plonked down in the middle of the set. It looked silly and spooky all at once, like something out of a haunted fairground. I climbed in, shorts riding up, the vinyl seat cold against my bare thighs.

Noel pulled a huge lever with a theatrical grunt.

The car lurched, and I was off.

The ride began gently -- teasing. First, a ridiculous feather duster swung out of nowhere, brushing along my cheek and neck. I jumped, giggling, already so keyed up that the tiniest touch made me twitch. Then came a gust of air from below, blasting up between my legs. I let out a gasp -- a real one this time. The air was cold, sharp, and it sent a shiver through me that didn't stop at the surface.

Smoke curled across the floor, hiding what was ahead. Music swelled -- some whimsical, eerie tune that seemed designed to keep my nerves on edge. The walls wobbled, and props sprang to life: a grinning skeleton, a cackling painting, a hidden puff of glitter that rained down like fairy dust.

Each corner we turned, I braced. Was this it? No -- not yet. The anticipation was maddening, but in the best way. My skin felt electric. Every little bump and spin of the car rubbed the seat beneath me -- slippery now with the faintest sheen of sweat and nerves. I was biting my lip without realizing it.

By the time we slowed, I wasn't acting at all anymore.

Then I saw it -- the fireplace.

It loomed ahead, comically grand, with stone-effect pillars and a giant wooden mantel. The flames weren't real, of course -- just flickering lights and clever design -- but it still felt like crossing into something final.

Noel was standing just outside it, grinning like the devil himself.

"Oh, she's done so well," he said, mock-doting. "But no one escapes Crinkley Bottom without a proper welcome."

The audience whooped. I looked up -- and saw it. The nozzle.

I didn't even get time to react.

A klaxon screamed.

Then it hit me.

The first splash was like a slap -- cold, thick, and unstoppable. The green gunge hit the crown of my head, then red, then purple, all at once. It was like being in the middle of a fruit smoothie explosion. It poured down my face, into my mouth, over my chest. My vest darkened instantly, turning semi-sheer as it clung to me like glue.

I laughed -- half from shock, half from sheer release.

I felt it ooze instantly into my vest, soaking it, dragging it down against my skin until it clung like glue. My shorts were drenched. Gunge poured into the waistband, slid between my legs, and gathered where the seat met my thighs. I shifted instinctively, and felt it move -- thick, squelching, a slow rush of sensation that was impossible to ignore.

It kept coming, heavier now, finding every curve and crevice. It slithered beneath the edge of my shorts, oozed between my thighs, pooled around my hips. I shifted slightly, the sensation impossibly intense -- wet, sticky, and warm now from my own body heat. The seat beneath me squelched with every tiny movement.

My hair was plastered to my neck, strands sticking to my face. Gunge dripped from my lashes. I blinked through the rainbow mess, mouth open in disbelief and glee. Every drip that tickled down my neck, every slow movement of slime between my thighs, every breath that pulled the wet fabric against my chest -- it all added up to something strangely electric.

I looked down.

I was wrecked.

And I couldn't stop grinning.

Every part of me buzzed -- from the coldness of the first drop, to the slow, creeping warmth as it settled against my skin. Between my legs, the mess moved with every tiny twitch. It tickled. It slipped. It made me laugh, from somewhere deep in my chest.

I'd never felt more ridiculous.

Or more alive.

This was an early one. The final chapter is surprisingly suggestive for Chatgpt.

Sweet Splatters of Charity
I stood in the wooden stocks, my wrists resting loosely in the hand holes, my pulse quickening with excitement. I knew I looked good--my black bikini hugged my curves perfectly, showing off my toned stomach and the smooth curves of my chest. My long legs, tanned and glistening in the sun, stretched down to the black high heels that gave me just a little extra height. I shifted slightly, feeling the warm breeze brush over my bare skin. But my attention wasn't on how I looked.

It was on the table beside me.

It was covered in custard pies. Dozens of them. Some piled high with thick, golden cream, others gleaming with a smooth, velvety white topping. Just the sight of them sent a delicious shiver through me. I knew what was coming. Any second now, one of those pies would be thrown straight at me. Maybe it would smack me right in the face, splattering everywhere. Maybe it would hit my chest, exploding against my skin, sending warm, sticky custard oozing into my cleavage. My breath hitched at the thought.

The crowd gathered, laughing, jostling for their turn, waving cash in the air. And then--

SPLAT!

The first pie slammed straight into my face. For a split second, the world disappeared behind a thick wall of warm, creamy custard. I gasped, but all I tasted was sweet vanilla as the pie smothered me completely, filling my nostrils with its rich scent. The soft cream clung to my skin before slowly beginning to slide, heavy and thick, down my cheeks, dripping off my chin in sticky ribbons. I giggled, wriggling my fingers in the stocks, feeling the custard seep into every little crease of my face.

Then came the next one. SPLAT!

This one hit me square in the chest. I let out a surprised gasp as the pie exploded against my skin, the impact sending a delicious shudder through me. The creamy topping collapsed instantly, smothering the upper curves of my breasts in a thick, silky coating. The sensation was exquisite--cool and smooth at first, before it slowly began to melt against my warmth, turning thick and heavy as it seeped between my breasts.

I could feel it sinking deeper, trickling lazily into my cleavage, gliding over every inch of my sensitive skin. A slow, sticky stream curled around the inside of my bikini top, pooling beneath the fabric, making my skin tingle. I wriggled slightly, savoring the sensation as more custard dribbled lower, sliding down the curve of my stomach in warm, gooey streaks. The contrast between the creamy mess and the warmth of the sun sent a shiver through me.

More pies flew. One struck the side of my head, sending a wave of custard trickling down my neck. Another splattered wetly against my thigh, leaving a sticky trail as the custard slowly dripped downward. And then--squish--a stray glob landed right between my toes.

I curled them instinctively, feeling the thick, gooey texture squelch between them, seeping into every little gap. My high heels were now coated in the mess, and every little movement sent another wave of custard oozing beneath my soles. It was oddly thrilling, the slick warmth of it contrasting against the cool air.

I giggled, completely lost in the moment. The crowd whooped and cheered as more pies flew, each one splattering gloriously across my skin. Dripping from head to toe in custard and cream, I let out a delighted laugh.

This was the most fun I had ever had at a charity event.

As the last pie splattered against my thigh, the crowd erupted into applause, and I couldn't help but grin through the sticky mess coating my face. A moment later, the wooden stocks were lifted, and I carefully straightened up, my body still dripping with thick custard. I took a tentative step, feeling the slick cream squish between my toes, making my heels slippery beneath me. With deliberate, graceful movements, I walked toward the cleaning area, aware of every pair of eyes still locked on me. The warm custard clung to my skin, dripping in slow, lazy streams down my legs, my stomach, and deep into my cleavage.

At the cleaning station, a volunteer grinned as he lifted a hose. "Ready?"

I nodded, biting my lip as the first blast of cold water hit me. A sharp gasp escaped my lips as the icy spray crashed against my chest, instantly sending a thrilling jolt through my body. The pressure forced the thick layers of custard to slide away in creamy waves, revealing more of my skin with each passing second. I arched my back slightly, letting the water cascade over me, trickling between my breasts and down my stomach in rivulets that sent shivers through me.

Turning slowly, I let the water rinse the mess from my long legs, the sensation of cool liquid against my warm skin making every nerve tingle. My heels were still slippery, so I lifted one foot at a time, flexing my toes as the custard was washed away, leaving only the slick shine of water against my tanned skin. I ran my hands through my hair, pushing back the drenched strands as the last of the cream was rinsed away, leaving me glistening in the sunlight, my black bikini clinging tightly to my body.

I gave the crowd one last playful smile, shaking out my wet hair before stepping away, completely refreshed but still tingling from the incredible experience.





And then Chatgpt prompted me to keep going:

Chapter Two A Sweet Surprise

Freshly cleaned and still glowing from the experience in the stocks, I strolled barefoot across the event area, my black bikini clinging to my damp skin. My long legs still glistened with the occasional drop of water, and my heels, now rinsed of custard, clicked softly against the wooden boards of the charity fair's stage. The energy in the air was still electric, the crowd chatting and laughing after the messy spectacle I'd just been part of.

I spotted a table near the edge of the event, covered in refreshments and, at its center, the prize centerpiece--a massive, beautifully decorated cake. It was meant to be cut up and given to the guests at the end of the event, but in my relaxed, carefree state, I wasn't really paying attention as I stepped closer. I just needed to sit for a second, let my legs rest after all the excitement.

And then--squelch.

A gasp left my lips as a thick, creamy softness enveloped me from below. My heart skipped a beat, my body freezing in place. The realization hit almost instantly--I had just sat, full weight, onto the giant cake.

For a moment, I was too stunned to move. The feeling was incredible. The thick, whipped frosting spread instantly, squishing between my thighs and coating my bare skin in a cool, velvety layer. The sheer softness of it against my body sent an unexpected shudder through me. I shifted slightly, and the sensation deepened--custard oozed into my bikini bottoms, thick and slow, seeping between my cheeks, wrapping around me in a way that made me suck in a breath.

I bit my lip, my fingers gripping the edge of the table as I processed the sheer, messy indulgence of it. The warmth of my skin made the frosting melt slightly, turning it even softer, more liquid, trickling into every little crevice. It was thick and sticky, clinging to me, coating every inch of my lower body in a smooth, creamy embrace. A shiver ran up my spine as I shifted again, feeling the custard trapped beneath me squelch and spread, pressing further against my most sensitive areas.

The crowd had noticed. A few gasps turned into laughter, and soon, applause erupted around me. My cheeks flushed, but not from embarrassment--no, this was strangely thrilling. I lifted my hands, playfully covering my mouth as if in mock surprise, but really, I was savoring every moment.

I slowly lifted myself up, feeling the thick mess stretch and cling before finally releasing me with a wet, deliciously naughty schlop. A cascade of cream and custard dripped from my thighs, trailing down my legs in sticky ribbons. I looked down at myself, my bikini bottoms now completely coated, the once sleek black fabric hidden beneath layers of sweet, golden filling. I gave my hips a little shake, making the mess squish further, and let out a soft giggle.

"Well" I breathed, turning to the laughing crowd with a playful grin, "I guess that cake won't be getting served after all."

The cheers grew louder, the entire fair erupting in amused delight. I knew I should probably be embarrassed--but I wasn't. Not one bit. Instead, I felt exhilarated, my body tingling from the unexpected, sensual pleasure of it all.

And maybe, just maybe, I wouldn't mind if something like this happened again.




The final chapter is surprisingly suggestive for Chatgpt:

Chapter Three A Private Indulgence

I stepped through my front door, still glowing from the day's events. My body felt warm, my skin still tingling with the memory of custard sliding down it, the soft squish between my toes, the creamy weight sinking into my cleavage. Even after a full rinse at the charity event, I could still swear I felt traces of it on me, the ghost of the sensation lingering in the most delightful way.

I kicked off my heels, stretching my long legs as I made my way to the kitchen, craving something sweet before heading to bed. But as I opened the cupboard, my eyes landed on something that made my breath catch.

A carton of custard.

For a moment, I just stared at it. The memories of the day flooded back in full force--pies splattering against my skin, thick cream dripping between my breasts, the way the cake had squelched beneath me, pressing into every curve, making me shudder in a way I hadn't expected. A slow, knowing smile curled at my lips.

I reached for the carton, running my fingers over the cool packaging, anticipation stirring deep in my belly. There had been an audience before--cheering, laughing, watching--but now, I was home. Alone. There was nothing stopping me from indulging in the feeling again, just for myself.

Heart racing, I made my way to the bathroom, flipping on the warm light. I untied my bikini top, letting it drop to the floor, followed by my custard-stained bottoms. The air felt cool against my bare skin, making the contrast of what was to come even more enticing. I stepped into the bathtub, its porcelain surface smooth beneath my feet, before sinking slowly to sit against its edge.

With a deep breath, I opened the carton.

The first pour was tentative, a golden ribbon of thick, silky custard cascading down my collarbone, pooling between my breasts. A soft sigh escaped my lips as the warmth of my skin made it spread, trickling lower, melting over every curve. I tilted my head back, letting another slow stream run down my stomach, its gentle weight sending a delightful shiver through me as it settled into my navel before overflowing, sliding further down.

I dipped my fingers into the mess, swirling it against my skin, savoring the smoothness. My touch became bolder, my hands gliding over every inch of myself, following the slow path of the custard as it coated my curves. I traced lazy circles over my stomach, up my sides, letting the thick, golden liquid guide my movements. My palms brushed over my thighs, pressing slightly, feeling the custard squish and spread between them, the sensation making me gasp softly.

I let my fingers explore further, slipping through the creamy mess, feeling it cling to my skin, filling every little dip and crevice. The warmth, the softness, the sheer indulgence of it sent a slow, lazy shiver through my body. My breath deepened, my skin prickling with awareness as I surrendered completely to the moment.

This time, there were no cameras, no crowds.

Just me, the warm glow of my bathroom, and the indulgent embrace of sweet, silky custard.

And I never wanted it to end.

hi there , good stuff . what prompt did u use to create the NHP story ?

I asked it if it was familiar with the 'trip around the house' from NHP, and it said yes - so most of that was self generated

thanks will give it a try

You can do pics on Chatgpt now.