A Cure for Cleanliness

Laura and I stood together in the hall of our student flat. She turned her head and looked up at me, brown eyes wide in her pretty face, framed by its bob of dark hair, and a catch in her voice betraying both nervousness and excitement. "I still don't think we'll get away with it" she said. "Of course we will", I said, "it's rag week - students get away with anything in rag week". "But, I like being clean ", she tried one last time, putting on a wheedling voice. But the twitch of a grin betrayed the pretence of this protest. I let my eyes drop from her pale oval face down her slim figure, half concealed under the loose pale blue cotton pyjamas she was wearing with, I knew, nothing underneath, down to her slim white feet over hung by her pyjama trousers, bare toes curled up against the rough texture of the doormat. "Well that's just the problem, isn't it", I said. "Come on, let's go" and, fitting my actions to my words I opened the front door.

This bit of play between us had its origins a couple of days previously. We were both students, sharing a small flat, and had been living together for the last couple of years. I'd had a stressful day writing an essay, and Laura, who seemed to have nothing to do, had been seized by one of her intermittent cleaning urges. I kept being interrupted as she hoovered, dusted, polished and tidied. Finally, in the evening, she insisted she washed herself and we'd both had a bath together. As we fitted ourselves around each other in the confines of the tub I'd nearly disappeared under the mountains of grapefruit scented foam. "Oh my God you have a complete obsession about cleanliness", I teased. She knew she'd been irritating me and had replied with mock coquettishness, "Ooh, I think perhaps I do. Clean house, clean sheets and lovely clean me". She extended a pale leg straight up from under the bubbles and began to soap it, working downwards from her pink toes, which she waggled cheekily when she saw I was gazing at them. "Dear oh dear", I said, "we'll have to try some therapy for that obsession then". "Oh doctor ", she'd replied," what would you recommend? ". I put on a formal voice, trying to ignore her other foot, which under cover of the bubbles had worked its way to my groin and was gently massaging what it had found there." The conventional treatment of obsessions is what's called implosion therapy, which involves exposing the patient to exactly the thing that she fears "." Gosh, doctor ", she replied," but that would mean you'd have to make me all dirty. I wouldn't like that, and what if anyone saw me? ". She lowered the leg she had been soaping into the water and her foot it joined its companion between my legs. ." Well", I said, "I'm afraid there's nothing for it. In a case as advanced as this we'll have to act soon and decisively. Tomorrow night we'll have a therapy session and cure you of this obsession. In the meantime, I'll just have to make the best of you clean". I soaped my own hands and sat up, reaching forwards to rub her slippery chest while her feet continued to work their magic between my legs.

It could have been dismissed as foreplay idle chat, but I was excited by the idea and, when I brought it up again the next morning, Laura's protests were very much of the play variety. And so it was that we stepped out into the late afternoon warmth, Laura dressed only in loose cotton pyjamas and bare feet, myself in tee shirt, shorts and sandles with a small backpack over my shoulders. Laura looked anxiously up and down the street, self conscious in her night attire despite my reassurances that no one would care. I clasped her hand, feeling the tremble of nerves in her arm. But she followed as i led the way onto the pavement and we started walking down the road. A couple on the other side of the street glanced across at us then continued their conversation and I felt Laura relax a little. Her bare feet made no noise on the paving stones as we walked on in nervous silence. A young man came round the corner in front of us and I felt Laura stiffen again. But he gave only a brief glance as he passed us and walked on. "Right," I said as his footsteps faded behind us, "as I thought, no one seems too bothered by your unusual clothing. Which, might I say, you look extremely attractive in. But, while exciting, this isn't going to help you with your cleanliness problem. So what we're going to do is walk down to the river. Each time there's no-one about I'm going to pour something from my backpack over you. You're going to get dirtier and dirtier, particularly underneath those very clean pyjamas of yours, and we'll just have to hope that doesn't attract any more attention!" The street had emptied and Laura was padding beside me seeming more confident about the whole scheme. "Ooh", she said flirtatiously, "but you surely wouldn't get these nice clean pyjamas of mine messy"? "I'm sorry", I replied, "it's the only hope for a cure in a case as advanced as yours." "Well then", she went on, "there doesn't seem to be anyone around, perhaps you'd better make a start".

I didn't need asking twice. We paused and I slipped off my backpack, putting it on the ground just in front of Laura's bare feet, which looked incongruously pale against the dusty grey of the paving stones. Reaching into the bag I pulled out a jar of honey and twisted the lid off. Laura's eyes didn't leave the jar as she swallowed nervously. I glanced up and down the street, but we were still alone. I pulled forward the elasticated waistband of her PJ bottoms and tipped the jar forwards. A glistening wave of golden honey began to flow over the dark triangle of her pubic hair and she gave out a sudden involuntary intake of breath as it oozed between her legs. The jar empty, I released her trousers, recapped the jar and dropped it back into my bag. But looking up I could see from Laura's fixed expression and distant, wide-eyed stare, that the honey was still making its sticky way over her private parts and down the inside of her thighs. Just a little, so far, had soaked through the material and you'd have to look fairly closely to see the darker shiny patch of material between her legs. "So how's your first bit of dirtiness feeling", I asked. Laura blinked and refocused on my face. She raised her eyebrows playfully and commented "Mmm, slightly like I wet myself but slightly nice too. Definitely sticky. Does it show?" I reassured her that there was nothing particularly obvious, then reached for her hand and led the way onward. Her steps were slow at first, doubtless as she grew used to the feeling of sticky fabric clinging to her thighs, but soon we picked up the pace and were passed by another person, an old lady who undoubtedly saw us but clearly chose not to look.

The street falling quiet again it was time for another jar of honey from my bag. This time I had Laura face away from me and I poured the golden stream inside the back of her trousers, enjoying the view of her firm round buttocks turning shiny under their coating of sugary varnish. We walked on, and still seemed to be avoiding attention despite the fact that Laura's PJ bottoms were now clinging stickily to her slim legs, dark patches staining the fabric, particularly around the crotch where the honey had soaked through.

The next time we stopped I directed my attention to her top half. Pulling the shirt forward off her chest I directed the sticky flow across her front, being sure to coat each rounded breast despite the honey's tendency to pour straight down her cleavage. Her stiff nipples stuck immediately to the fabric and, as I let it rest back against her chest there was no hiding the fact that she was braless. Despite that, and despite one more jar down her back, people continued to do no more than glance at us as we strolled along the street. However, I wondered if this was now more out of politeness than anything else as Laura now looked distinctly disheveled, her pyjamas clinging tightly to her slim form, showing multiple dark glistening patches where the honey had soaked through the material.

The next stop was my last jar of honey. Laura let out a short gasp as I raised the jar over her head, then closed her eyes. The sticky substance slid slowly out of the jar and began to pool on the top of her head, flattening her straight dark hair before gradually slipping downwards, pressing her hair against the side of her head, making a shining wave over her forehead before dripping off her eyebrows onto her cheeks. I increased the flow and it gushed down her nose, dripping onto her chin. She stuck out her pink tongue and licked it off her lips with a grin. "Mmm", she said, "so tasty, it would have been a shame to waste it". "So", I asked, "still feeling clean?" "I'm feeling very very sticky", she replied. "My hair's stuck to my head, my clothes pull at me whenever I move, even my feet are sticking to the ground when I stand still". I looked down as she said this. She was right, honey was dripping off the bottoms of her pyjama trousers and running stickily across her feet before pooling between her toes. Her pale feet were now streaked with dark trails where dust from the pavement had mixed with these gluey rivulets. "Ah", I said, I realise I've made an error. Sticky isn't the opposite of clean, it's dirty we should be aiming for". Laura grimaced as I reached again into my backpack and pulled out a large paper bag. "Uh oh", she said, "what's in that then". I opened the top of the bag and peered in, pretending to be surprised at what I saw. "Oh, it looks like soot. That's certainly dirty, why don't we try that". "What, no, you can't do that". I caught the first hint of genuine protest in Laura's voice. "I'm sorry" I said, trying to sound genuinely regretful, "it's an essential part of the therapy". "Urrrrghhh", she groaned, realising that I was determined to go ahead with the plan, "It's horrible, it'll stick to the honey, I'll be filthy". "You will be very very dirty", I confirmed. "Here goes". She cringed, but bravely stood her ground as I raised the bag of soot. The first shower of black powder coated her hair and face before cascading down her clothes, streaking them black and grey and gathering on the ground around her feet, coating them thickly in inky black dust. I paused and she opened her eyes, wincing in horror at the blackened mess into which she'd been transformed, but I hadn't finished. Pulling forward her top I shook the soot inside her clothes, instantly turning her pale skin black wherever honey caused the powder to stick. Pulling out her waistband I gave her pubes, bottom and legs the same treatment before the last grains of powder slipped from the bottom of the paper bag.

Laura stood still, possibly in shock. The neat, pretty girl in her nightwear who'd left the house with me had been changed utterly, utterly ruined. Her tidy dark hair clung together in ratty, sticky clumps. Her face was black except where her eyebrows, nose or chin had sheltered the skin below from the filthy dust. Her pale blue pyjamas showed their true colour in just a few patches, under her arms and between her legs, where the cascade had failed to penetrate. The rest shades of black and grey, streaked where the honey had run originally down her clothing. She looked amazing! "Oh my God, I can't believe you just did that. What if anyone comes by?" she said. "Err, fancy dress party", I said with a grin. "You're going as a chimney sweep". "Oh, very funny ", was her retort," I can still feel that stuff trickling down between my legs. It almost tickles, but its disgusting, just so dirty! "" Hmm, not quite cured yet, then", I said. "Don't worry, there's still one more thing we can try".

I led the way off the street, down a narrow dirt path which ran towards the canal. This path was little used, and I expected to meet no one. Thus we were both taken by surprise when we rounded a corner and almost bumped into a middle aged man walking his dog. His jaw dropped as he took in the sight of Laura, matted hair, soot streaked face, filthy pyjamas and dirty bare feet. "Blimey", he managed, "you alright, love"? Laura rose to the occasion perfectly, putting on a coquettish smile she blinked her eyes at him," Fancy dress", she said, and tirned sideways to squeeze past him on the narrow path. 'Oh, right ", he managed, and we hurried away from him down the path, barely waiting for him to walk on round the corner before we collapsed in giggles. I took Laura's hand, ignoring it's stickiness, and we walked on in companionable silence, arriving before long at the canal towpath. Laura looked up and down the deserted canal, then turned to look at me, eyebrows raised questioningly. She hadn't seen the small pond the other side of the towpath, which normally took overflow water from the canal but in the current dry weather had dried up and instead was an expanse of silty black mud.

"OK", I said, "take off your clothes". Laura looked again up and down the towpath, then nervously did as she was asked. She slowly unbuttoned her top then, with another glance around, peeled it off, revealing her pert boobs, soot blackened on their upper sides, while a black stain down the centre of her otherwise relatively clean flat stomach revealed where sticky honey had coursed down her cleavage before attracting its sooty coating. She put her fingers in the waistband of her bottoms and bent as she pulled them to her ankles, stepping over them to leave them deflated on the towpath as she stood straight, a grubby and divine statue. "Do I get to swim"? She asked hopefully - obviously looking forward to rinsing off her sooty coating, even if only in rather brown looking canal water". "Ah", I replied, "afraid not". I bent down and picked up her pyjamas, balling them up between my hands. She followed my gaze and noticed the muddy pond just as a I tossed her pyjamas across the glistening black expanse. Stuck together and heavy with their sticky, dirty, coating, they landed with a splat a couple of yards away. "So", I explained, "you could just walk home naked but that might be hard to explain. Or you could put those back on". "Oh God", she groaned, "I can't believe I ever let you talk me into this". She extended a smooth, grey streaked leg towards the mud, poking it gently with an already grubby toe. It was soft, and as she brought her weight forwards her foot and then leg rapidly sunk into the black gloop. As it reached her knee she instinctively let it bend, and knelt fowards onto her thigh in the mud, placing her hands down as she did so. The all enveloping mud was too soft, and pulling a black gloved hand out she was forced to reach forwards, stretching out until she was lying flat on the mud, on which she now floated,barely indenting the surface. She pushed forwards with her foot and slid smoothly over the surface, glistening black coated wrinkled soles trailing after her. I watched, mesmerised, as my once clean girlfriend slid across the mud, coating her front in an even slimy black film. Reaching her balled up clothes, she rolled onto her back, resting her hair in the mud and exposing her front, not an inch of pale flesh remaining. She shook out her pyjama bottoms then pulled them over her feet. A brief glimpse of pale toes wiped clean by the fabric before she plunged her feet back into the swamp, coating the outside of the pyjamas as thoroughly as the inside. The same fate awaited the top, and she groped over the front with slippery fingers before managing to do up two of the three buttons. She rolled forwards and half crawled, half swam back across the mud to the bank. As she pulled herself out of the pool I could scarcely believe the apparition I was viewing. It was hard to tell if she was clothed or not under the smooth black coating of mud. Her hair had largely disappeared under an even, glistening coating, and even as I watched she brought a muddy hand up to her forehead and wiped a stray hair back, blackening the top of her face and plastering her fringe to her head as she did so. Gouts of mud dripped off her, landing with a dull splatter around her feet, the shiny shapes of black toes just discernable under their smooth coating. "Wow", was, for the moment, all I could manage. She put her arms around me and I pressed myself against her, heedless of the wet mud soaking through my own clothing. Our lips pressed to each other and my tongue explored the moist warmth of her mouth, tastes of honey, ash and earth mingling between us. "How do you feel" I managed to pull away to ask. "Dirty, sticky, muddy, I've never been so filthy, there's not an inch of me that is clean. Do you think I'm cured?" "Maybe", I ventured. "Then let's go home to bed", she said.

We hurried back through the dusk together, careless now of being seen, but needless of care in streets emptied by the coming of night. Door key fumbles, then pulling each other up stairs and rolling, careless now of clean sheets, into bed, where our slippery bodies slid gratefully over each other as we both released our pent up excitements.

I had one last surprise for Laura. As we lay together in a post coital haze I made the comment "You needn't think you're getting clean now". "Urgh", she groaned, "you really are a nightmare. You really expect me to sleep like this"? "Well, on and off maybe", I said, pulling her close and pressing against her slippery, still mud coated body. And so we both lay under the mud stained, blackened sheets and dozed, woke for more sex, then dozed again. By the time the morning shone it's grey light across our ruined bed we were both as messy as each other. Laura's hair was matted and stuck to her scalp with its coatings of honey, soot and mud. Her sleeping face was a patchwork of cracked mud and soot-blackened skin. I pulled back the covers, stiff with their own coating of dirt. Her naked body was a mess, dried mud flaking off her in places, patches of bare but grey looking skin showing through where the friction between us had rubbed off the surface mud. From her filthy hair to her grimy toes she was a picture of ruined loveliness. I'd never seen a more beautiful sight.

She stirred, woken by my action of lifting the covers. Opening her eyes she looked up at me and smiled. "Wow", she said, "do you think I'm cured? Because if so, it must be time for a shower together". "You know what", I replied, "I think you probably are. That's a great idea!"

Copyright 2025 by Reiver