Author's Note

It's been a long time since I've written anything like this, but hopefully I've improved in the months I've been gone. I think first person present works much better for this kind of thing, so I'll be using it going forward. As such, it didn't feel right to continue Abbie and Leah's story, so here's a new one.

Hope you enjoy!

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I bolt the bathroom door with a shaking hand. It's time. I can finally live out the fantasy that's hounded me for years. Am I strange? Probably, but who cares. It's time to get messy.

Supplies lie on the bathroom counter: pies, sauces, a tub of frosting, and a bucket of thick, gluey green slime I mixed the minute Jess left for her friend's house party. Over the thrum of the bathroom fan and the faint gurgle of the radiator, I can almost hear the food calling to me, pleading to cover me. My hands shake. The sweet, dairy aroma of the pies fills the tiled room. Irresistible.

I lift the first pie: a graham cracker crust six inches in diameter, topped with a goopy layer of custard and a pile of pearly whipped cream. Drips stain my fingers as I heft it. It's heavy--I almost lose my grip. Its sweet aroma fills my nose as I raise it towards my face, the sweetness of peace lilies on a bright April morning. The pile of cream shifts, and a blob plops onto the plastic sheet lining the floor. Should I do this? It feels so naughty. These clothes would be ruined. What if Jess comes back early and sees me?

A bead of sweat wells on my forehead. No. I can't back out now. All this work would be for nothing. If she saw me, she'd be too drunk to remember anyway come morning. I take a deep breath, and thrust the pie into my face.

Cream envelops me like a soft blanket. The thick, cool mush squidges and squelches over my skin, wrapping me in a sticky embrace. Bliss. I open my mouth and let the dessert pour onto my tongue. The flavour is divine: better than Mum's brownies, than Anya's lemon drizzle, than Aden's lips on that cold October evening. Something churns inside me, and I twist the pie around and around, smearing its contents over every inch of my face. Drops of cream and custard patter onto my pink t-shirt and roll inside the neckline. Still, I keep smearing until, finally, no skin is left untouched. Content, I pull the crumbling crust away from my face and look in the mirror.

Wow.

My face is a white mask, Not a hint of makeup shining through the layer of dessert. My hairline's splattered, and so, somehow, are the white tiles behind me. A drop of cream plops onto my shoulder. My denim jacket muffles the sensation, but it's sure to get far heavier by the time I'm done. The cream speckling my chest has already made my shirt sticky. I can't imagine how it will feel after a pint more.

I pick up the next pie, this one filled with strawberry pudding, and splat it into my face. Fairly satisfied with my facial coverage, I smear this one up over my fringe until the crust rests on top of my head in a sticky pool. I massage the goop into my hair like shampoo and crumble the crust into tiny pieces. If only regular shampoo felt this good. The strawberry filling drips over my ears and soaks into my jacket's shoulders, almost like a massage.

Hair a gluey mass, I move onto my next choices: two chocolate pies with domes of cream almost half again as big as my previous selections. A pie sandwich. I heft one in either hand, take another deep breath, then smash the desserts into either side of my face. So much cream--a dairy ocean. I smear and swirl and massage until my head is a blob of gloopy pie, and chocolate pudding's slopped all over my shoulders. The sound of the glop squelching around my head sends shivers up my spine and stokes a fire inside me.

Fuelled by the flames, I grab one last pie, spare a last thought for my clothes, and slam it into my chest. Cream erupts over my shirt and neck, turning the fabric sticky almost instantly. I smear the stuff in circles, rubbing it into the material until my top's saturated and my boobs are plastered. The grip of the sticky fabric clinging to my skin is heavenly. Beyond heavenly. More.

I save my last pie for later. Instead, I lift the bucket of slime over my head and pour. It comes slowly at first--a light trickle grazing my hair. Before long, the flow picks up, and a viscous curtain slops over my face and down the back of my head. Delighted by the cloying sensation, I tip my head back and let the flow directly fall on my face. This stuff's even more sticky than the pies. Within seconds it's running down my neck and oozing inside my shirt. I tilt the bucket to either side, ensuring my shoulders and arms get good coverage. As I thought it would, The denim gets much heavier than my top; it's clinging to my arms within seconds, threatening to drop off my shoulders. The front of my shirt's completely soaked now; a quilt of goo at least an inch thick smothers it.

The bucket empties too soon. I shake out the last drops of slime, then wipe my eyes. The figure staring back at me in the mirror is unrecognisable. She's the same height as me, she's wearing the same skirt and tights, but that's all. Her hair's a chunky mass, her face is painted white and yellow and green, features buried, and her top's a sticky, gloopy mass of cream and slime, with a jacket almost as sodden.

She's beautiful.

Slime crawls down my back. The heat between my thighs has only grown in intensity, and I don't think I can keep it in check for much longer. I take a bottle of chocolate syrup and squirt the few parts of my top and jacket that aren't already soaked, then move down to my skirt. Before long, the garment's a sticky, brown rag, and it's clinging to my legs. I squirt the remainder of the bottle into my mouth, splattering my lips and nose in the process, and indulge myself with the rich flavour.

Keep going. Completely trash yourself.

I grab my second-to-last item, a massive tub of robin-egg blue frosting. I consider pouring it, but that would be boring. Instead, I set it back down, then scoop out two giant handfuls. I lower them to my legs and squidge the sticky stuff over my tights, relishing the putty-like texture beneath my hands. It soaks through almost instantly, and the material adheres to my skin. I lather on handful after handful until my tights are gummy blue rags and my legs feel like they're coated in glue.

It's suddenly feeling much warmer in here. My clothes are sodden and heavy, and they're too restricting. Time to do something about that. I cast off my denim jacket and drop it in a sticky heap on the floor, then peel off my top with a glorious sucking sound. My bra hasn't escaped the mess; the purple's gone almost entirely green. Next, I fumble for my skirt's zip and drop it to the floor, then begin the long, futile attempt and removing my tights. Screw it--they're ruined anyway. I tear them away with a satisfying rip, leaving me standing in my underwear.

The last pie calls to me, and I thrust it into my crotch with the loudest splat of the night. I grind the pie until my pelvis is covered, then shove my hand into my knickers. Dropping to my knees, I scream as orgasm racks my body.

When I come back to Earth, I'm lying on my back on the sticky plastic sheeting, my jacket resting under my head. I look down at myself. I'm plastered in cream, slime, chocolate, and custard, and I don't know how I'll ever clean it up. My clothes lie around me, equally sodden, and the bathroom's a mess. Still, what I've just done is one of the best experiences of my life. It's easily worth the clean-up.