The Third Session
Beth sat on the edge of their bed, her mind drifting back over the past few weeks. The first session had been playful, almost silly--a trivia game where she'd "won" and pied Michael instead of herself. She'd been too nervous then, too unsure. The second session had awakened something in her. The feeling of pudding and chocolate against her skin, trapped in those plastic panties, had made her body respond in ways she hadn't expected. She'd pressed those pies into her own tits and nearly lost herself. Nearly. She'd pulled back at the last moment, transferring the mess to Michael, going down on him instead of letting herself fall over that edge.

But now, sitting here in the transparent plastic coverall Michael had given her from the paint section of Home Depot, she couldn't deny the heat building between her thighs. The way the material felt against her bare skin. The anticipation. She wanted this. She was terrified to admit it, even to herself, but she wanted to be covered, filled, overwhelmed.

Why am I so nervous? I asked for this. I specifically told him I wanted to be slimed in cake batter. That was MY request. So why does my heart feel like it's going to pound out of my chest? Maybe because I've never been pied before. Never had an orgasm from just getting messy; Michael always finished what she couldn't. What if I can't let go? What if I freeze up again like last time? Also, last session had pushed me more, was he going to try to push me over the edge and I won't be able to? But god, the thought of all that batter sliding down my body... okay, that helps. That helps a lot. I WANT that. I just need to remember that I want it.

"Beth?" Michael's voice pulled her from her thoughts. He stood in the doorway, his own coverall hugging his tall frame, a knowing smile on his face. "You ready?"

She nodded, but her stomach fluttered. "I still don't know what you have planned."

"That's the fun part. I know you've been holding back, and I've got a lot of mess planned. So, I'm going to try to persuade you to fully embrace this. If that's what you want." he clarified, "After I try to convince you, you can decide this is too much and get me messy instead. Either way, I'll be having the time of my life." He walked over and produced a black blindfold. "Trust me?"

She did. Completely. The initial weight in her stomach lightened slightly knowing she has an out. She let him tie the fabric around her eyes, plunging her into darkness. His hand found hers, warm and steady, guiding her down the hallway. Her other hand trailed along the wall, counting steps until she knew they'd entered the bath room. The air smelled sweet, sugary, and something else--something that made her mouth water with anticipation.

"Stop here," Michael said. His hands found her shoulders, positioning her. She felt a chair behind her knees. "Wait--don't sit yet."

What is he doing? The anticipation was maddening. She heard him moving, the rustle of something, then his hands were at her zipper, pulling it down slightly.

"Lift your hips for me."

She obeyed, and felt something cool and soft being positioned inside her coverall, right at her crotch. It was substantial--thick and heavy. The smell reached her: chocolate, vanilla, something fruity. Cake. A whole cake, positioned so when she sat, her pussy would press directly into it.

"First persuasion," Michael whispered in her ear. "Sit down for me, Beth."

Oh god. Oh god oh god. There's a cake. He put a CAKE in my coverall. I can feel it hovering there, inches from my pussy, and I know when I sit down I'm going to sink right into it. The filling is going to ooze between my legs, the icing is going to spread across my lips, and I'm going to be so dirty before we even really start. My heart is racing but... I want it. I want to feel it. I want to know what it's like to have my pussy covered in cake.

She lowered herself slowly, feeling the cake compress beneath her. The pudding and jam filling oozed out, squishing against her folds, the thick icing spreading across her sensitive skin. She couldn't help it--she ground down into the mess, feeling it fill every crease, every inch of her.

"Something in your hands," Michael said, pressing two cool, round objects into her palms. Pies. She could feel the cool whip topping, the weight of the pudding beneath. "Here's how you tell me what you want, Beth. If you want to be the brave one tonight--if you want all the mess to be yours--you know what to do." He pulled apart the jumpsuit, exposing her large tits.

He wants me to pie my tits. Like last time. But last time I couldn't do it--I couldn't let myself fall. I was so scared of how much I wanted it. And now? Now I have cake smashed against my pussy and I'm sitting in pudding and jam and I'm so turned on it hurts. But I'm still scared. What happens if I do it? What happens if I admit that I want this? What does that make me?

"Second persuasion," Michael announced.

Before she could react, something thick and cool poured over her head. It was heavy, viscous--cake batter, she realized, green and smooth, flowing down over her face, her neck, cascading inside her coverall, running between her breasts, pooling at her waist and mixing with the cake already crushed against her pussy. The sensation was overwhelming--every inch of her skin was being touched, coated, claimed.

CAKE BATTER. This is what I asked for. This is what I told him I wanted, and he remembered, and now it's happening--it's all over me, in my hair, running down my face, inside my suit, mixing with the cake between my legs. It's so THICK. I can feel it moving, slow and heavy, covering everything. I asked for this. I wanted this. So why are my hands shaking? Why do I still feel like I might bolt from this chair? Because it's real now. It's happening, and there's no going back.

Her hands tightened on the pies. She wanted to. She wanted to so badly. But something held her back. Nervousness. Fear of how much she wanted this.

"Last persuasion," Michael said, and she felt him step behind her.

The honey was different--thicker, slower, warmer somehow. It poured down her spine, trapped between her skin and the plastic coverall, a golden river that crept downward with agonizing slowness. It reached her ass, pooled in the small of her back, continued its descent. The sensation made her arch involuntarily, pushing her breasts forward, her body begging for more.

The honey is so slow. It's like being touched by a thousand fingers, all moving at once, all sliding down my body with nowhere to go. I can feel it pooling, filling, pressing against my skin from behind while the batter covers me from the front. I'm trapped between two rivers of mess and my body is on fire and I'm so nervous but I'm so HORNY and I can't think straight anymore. Fuck it. FUCK IT. I can't fight this. I don't want to fight this.

She slammed both pies into her tits.

The impact sent shockwaves through her body. The cool whip exploded against her chest, pudding filling spreading inside her coverall, coating her breasts completely. Her nipples hardened to painful peaks beneath the mess, and a moan escaped her lips that she couldn't contain, "I want more."

"Gladly," Michael said, and she heard the satisfaction in his voice.

He guided her hands to the armrests, and she felt the cold metal of handcuffs clicking around her wrists. Not too tight--she could still move her hands, could still touch herself if she wanted--but she couldn't leave the chair. Then she felt him at her ankles, wrapping them with duct tape, securing them to the chair legs, spreading her wide open. More duct tape above her knees, sealing the coverall tight so nothing could escape.

Oh god. Oh god oh god. I'm restrained. I can't leave. I can't escape. What did I just agree to? The pies--I pied my tits and now I'm handcuffed to a chair and I can't move and there's mess everywhere and I don't know what's coming next and I'm so scared but my pussy is throbbing and I can feel the cake and batter and honey all moving against me and I want MORE but I'm terrified of wanting more. The duct tape at my knees feels air tight, I want him to fill this coverall until my pussy is complete covered, submerged in a pool of mess. What is wrong with me? Why can't I just enjoy this? Why does part of me still want to run away?

The blindfold came off, and Beth blinked in the light.

Her jaw dropped.

On the table beside her were arranged twenty-two pudding pies, each topped with a mountain of cool whip. Three large buckets of green cake batter sat next to nine buckets of various sweet messes--rice pudding, tapioca, cherry pie filling, oatmeal, and more. Each one different. Each one waiting for her.

Twenty-two pies. TWENTY-TWO. And all those buckets and buckets of mess and I'm trapped in this chair and I can't move and all of that is for ME. That's all going on me. In me. Around me. I can't breathe. I can't think. I've never been pied before--never had a real pie in my face--and now I'm going to take twenty-two of them? Plus all the other mess? Plus what's already on me? I'm going to drown in it. I'm going to be completely unrecognizable. And the worst part--the part that makes me want to cry--is how wet my pussy is right now. How much I WANT to drown in it.

Michael stood before her holding one of the pies and a large container. "Fruit cocktail mixed with custard," he said with a grin. "Sixty-four ounces."

He reached for her coverall, pulling the front open, and she watched as he pressed the pie directly against her pussy, the pudding and cool whip mixing with the already-crushed cake. Then came the fruit cocktail--chunky, cool, sweet--pouring into her coverall, sliding down her stomach, pooling at her crotch, the pieces of fruit pressing against her most sensitive areas.

I can feel every piece of fruit. Every single chunk of fruit cocktail is pressing against my pussy lips, sliding between my folds, mixing with the cake and the batter and everything else. And the custard--it's so smooth, so thick, coating everything it touches. It's COLD against my skin but I'm burning up inside. I want to close my legs but I can't--I'm taped open, spread wide, completely exposed. I've never felt so vulnerable in my life. I've never been so turned on in my life.

Her hands were free enough to reach the nearest pies; clearly placed there by design. She grabbed two, one for each breast, and pressed them hard against herself, feeling the mess spread, feeling her nipples ache, feeling the orgasm building and building--

"Michael!"

She came harder than she ever had in her life, her body convulsing in the chair, and at the peak of it, she felt two pies slam into either side of her head, the cool whip and pudding coating her face, her hair, everything. The orgasm intensified, wave after wave crashing through her as the mess continued to stimulate every inch of her.

I did it. I finally did it. I had an orgasm in mess. And it was--it was INCREDIBLE. All that fear, all that nervousness, and the moment I came it all just... disappeared. The pies hitting my head while I was coming made it even better--like the mess was rewarding me for finally letting go. I feel different now. Lighter. The fear is still there somewhere, but it's quieter. My body knows what it wants now. My body isn't scared anymore.

Beth slumped in the chair, breathing hard, her body still trembling. The mess inside her coverall shifted with every movement, reminding her of how thoroughly she was coated.

"That was just the beginning," Michael said, picking up one of the cake batter buckets.

Beginning? BEGINNING? I just had the most intense orgasm of my life and there's still so much mess left. The table is still covered. He's still holding that bucket. And I'm still trapped in this chair. But I don't feel as scared now. I feel... excited. Anticipating. What else is he going to do to me? How much messier can I get? How many more times can I come?

The green batter poured over her head in a thick, continuous stream. It was heavier than the first time, thicker, and it flowed like slow-motion lava down her face, over her shoulders, inside her coverall. She felt it fill every space, pressing against her already-messy skin, adding layer upon layer of sensation.

"How does that feel, baby?" Michael asked, leaning down to kiss her batter-covered cheek.

"Dirty," she breathed. "So fucking dirty. Don't stop."

It's so heavy. The weight of all this batter on my head, my face, my body--I can feel it pressing down on me, filling every crease and crevice. My hair is completely matted. My face is covered. I can barely see through the green coating on my eyelashes. And it keeps moving--sliding, shifting, reminding me that I'm absolutely FILLED with mess. I've never felt anything like this. I've never been so completely covered in my entire life.

He smiled and reached for one of the buckets--cherry pie filling, thick and red and chunky with fruit. He pulled her coverall away from her chest and poured it in, the cold fruit sliding down between her breasts, over her stomach, joining the chaos of mess already there. The cherries pressed against her skin like little fingers, each one a point of stimulation.

"Look at you," Michael murmured, fondling her breast through the plastic, the mess squishing beneath his palm. "You're incredible."

His hand on my tit through all that mess--the pressure, the way the pudding and cherries and everything else squishes between his palm and my nipple--it's almost too much. Every touch is amplified by the mess. Every movement sends waves of sensation through my body. And the cherries--they're like little tongues licking me everywhere. I can feel each one individually, pressing into my skin, rolling against my nipples, sliding down my stomach toward my pussy.

He moved behind her, and she felt him pull the coverall away from her back. Rice pudding--thick, creamy, slightly grainy--poured down her spine. It was denser than the honey had been, heavier, and it filled every inch of the back of her suit, pressing her forward, making her hyperaware of how completely she was being enclosed.

Now I'm covered front and back. The mess is pressing against me from every direction. I can feel it against my stomach, my chest, my back, my ass, my thighs. There's no part of me that isn't touched by it. The rice pudding is so thick, so substantial--I can feel the individual grains of rice against my skin, adding another texture to the symphony of sensations. I'm being buried alive in sweetness.

Six pies remained from this round. Michael picked up two and pressed them slowly, deliberately against her tits, one after the other. The pudding oozed out the sides of her coverall, and she watched it happen, watched herself be covered, and felt another orgasm building.

"You like watching yourself get messy?" Michael asked, his voice low.

"Yes," she admitted, her voice barely a whisper.

I do. I like watching it. I like seeing the pies press against my tits, watching the pudding spread, seeing myself disappear under layers of mess. There's something so dirty about it, so forbidden. I'm not supposed to enjoy this. I'm not supposed to want this. But I do. God help me, I do.

Two more pies, these pressed against her inner thighs, the cool whip spreading inside her coverall, the pudding sliding down to meet the mess at her crotch. She moaned, her head falling back.

"You like that?" Michael asked.

"I love it," she admitted out loud for the first time. "I fucking love it."

I said it. I actually said it out loud. I admitted that I love this. And it's true--I DO love it. The pies against my thighs, so close to my pussy, the pudding sliding toward my most sensitive areas--I want more. I want ALL of it. The fear is almost gone now, replaced by hunger. Pure, desperate hunger for more mess, more sensation, more of whatever Michael wants to give me.

The last two pies of this round were delivered to her head--one pressed slowly into her face from the front, the other from behind, Michael's hands covering her completely in sweet mess.

I can't see anymore. The pie in my face has covered my eyes, my nose, my mouth. I'm breathing through the pudding and cool whip, tasting it on my lips. The other pie is pressed against the back of my head, and I'm completely encased. I'm a mess. I'm HIS mess. And I've never felt more beautiful.

The second cake batter bucket came without warning, pouring over her already-coated head. The new layer mixed with the old, creating a thicker, heavier coating. Beth felt the weight of it, felt her hair matted against her skull, felt it running down inside her coverall, adding to the pressure.

"That's it, baby," Michael encouraged. "Take it all."

More batter. MORE. It's mixing with everything else, creating this thick, heavy shell around me. I can feel the weight of it on my head, my shoulders, my entire body. Every time I breathe, the mess shifts. Every time I move, I can feel it sliding against my skin. I'm so full of it--inside my suit, outside my suit, everywhere. And I still want more. How is that possible? How can I still want more when I'm already so completely covered?

Tapioca pudding was next--different texture, small beads that rolled against her skin as Michael poured it into the front of her suit. Each bead was a tiny point of sensation, thousands of them moving against her stomach, her breasts, sliding down to her crotch.

"It's different," she gasped. "I can feel each--each little--"

"Good different?"

"So good."

The tapioca beads are like nothing I've ever felt. They're small, round, and they ROLL against my skin. Every movement shifts them, creates new points of contact. It's like being touched by thousands of tiny fingers all at once. They're sliding down my body, collecting in the creases of my hips, pressing against my pussy, and I can feel EACH ONE. How can something so small feel so intense?

Oatmeal came next, poured down her back. It was thick, almost solid, and it settled heavily against her skin, warm and comforting and dirty all at once. The texture was unlike anything else--substantial, filling.

The oatmeal is so HEAVY. It's not sliding or flowing like the other messes--it's settling, pressing, filling. I can feel the weight of it against my back, my ass, my thighs. It's warm and thick and it makes me feel so FULL. Like I'm being packed in, sealed in, preserved in sweetness. The texture is so different from everything else--grainy and soft and substantial all at once.

Two pies to her tits again, and she watched herself accept them willingly now, pressing her chest forward to meet them. Two pies to her crotch, pressed inside her coverall, the pudding mixing with everything else already there. The sensation made her grind against the chair, seeking more pressure, more mess.

"Someone's eager," Michael observed with a grin.

"I can't help it," she moaned. "It feels too good."

I'm pressing INTO the pies now. I'm not just accepting them--I'm chasing them. My body knows what it wants and it's not asking permission anymore. The pies against my crotch--god, the PUDDING against my pussy--it's mixing with everything else, creating this incredible sludge of sensation between my legs. I can feel my orgasm building again, slower this time, deeper, like it's coming from somewhere inside me that I didn't know existed.

The last two pies of this round were smashed simultaneously against her ears, the sides of her head completely encased now. She could barely hear through the pudding and cool whip, everything muffled, her entire world reduced to sensation.

"Michael, please--" she begged, not even sure what she was asking for.

"Please what?"

"Make me come again. Please."

He kissed her, his tongue tasting the mess on her lips, and she came from that alone, her body shaking in the chair.

He kissed me through the mess. His tongue pushed past the pudding on my lips and tasted me, tasted all of it, and I came from that single intimate act. He's not disgusted by the mess--he's ENJOYING it. He's enjoying ME, covered in all of this. And that knowledge is almost as erotic as the sensations themselves.

The third cake batter pour was the heaviest yet. Beth felt it cascade over her, adding another thick layer to her already-encased body. The weight was substantial now--she could feel the mess pressing against her from every angle, trapped inside her coverall with nowhere to go.

"One more round," Michael said, his voice thick with arousal.

One more round. I can do this. I WANT to do this. My body is so heavy with mess now--I can feel it pressing against me from every direction. The coverall is stretched tight, filled to capacity, and I'm moving in a shell of pudding and batter and pie filling and everything else. I'm barely Beth anymore--I'm just a vessel for all this sweetness. And I love it. I love every second of it.

The last three buckets of sweet mess were oatmeal again, more cherry pie filling, and butterscotch pudding--rich and thick and incredibly smooth. Michael poured them all into her suit, front and back, until she felt like she would burst. The coverall was stretched tight now, filled to capacity, every inch of her skin coated and covered.

"You're so full," Michael murmured, running his hands over her stretched suit. "So fucking full of mess."

I can barely breathe. The mess is pressing against my chest, my stomach, my back--everywhere. Every breath is an effort because there's so much substance filling my suit. The butterscotch is so smooth, so rich, and I can feel it sliding against the oatmeal and the cherries and everything else, creating layers of texture against my skin. I'm a living dessert. A messy, desperate, horny dessert.

Six pies remained. Michael used them methodically--two pressed into her chest, two into her crotch, two smashed against her face. Each one pushed her closer to the edge, each one added to the overwhelming sensory experience.

"Michael, I can't--I'm going to--"

"Do it," he commanded. "Come for me, Beth."

She did, her third orgasm ripping through her, her body arching against the restraints, the mess shifting and pressing and stimulating every nerve ending she had.

Three. I've come three times in mess now. And each one is different--sharper, deeper, more overwhelming than the last. The mess isn't just on me anymore--it's PART of me. Every orgasm is amplified by the sensation of pudding and batter and pie filling pressing against my skin. I don't know where I end and the mess begins.

Beth slumped in the chair, utterly spent, her body still trembling with aftershocks. The coverall was stretched tight, filled to the brim with every kind of mess imaginable. She could feel it against every inch of her skin--cool in some places, warm in others, thick and thin and chunky and smooth all at once.

"One more thing," Michael said, his voice low.

One more? What else could there possibly be? I'm already so full, so covered, so completely overwhelmed. I don't know if I can take any more. But I also don't want it to stop. I don't want this feeling to end.

He released her wrists from the handcuffs, but left her ankles secured to the chair. Then he reached for the last three buckets--the final sweet messes she hadn't even realized were left. Butterscotch, chocolate pudding, and a thick vanilla custard.

"Your suit is going to be completely full," he told her, pouring the first bucket down the front.

The pressure increased as the mess had nowhere to go but against her skin. The second bucket went down her back, and she felt herself being compressed from both sides now. The third bucket he poured slowly over her head, watching it fill every remaining space.

I can't move. The suit is so full that I can barely shift my weight. Every inch of me is pressed against mess--there's no empty space left, no clean skin, no escape from the sensation. It's like being hugged by sweetness from every direction. I feel safe and dirty and loved and completely overwhelmed all at once.

"Here's the deal," Michael said, stepping close. "You can be released once you have one last orgasm. Without touching yourself."

Without touching myself? How am I supposed to--my hands are free but he said I can't use them. How do I come without touching myself? The mess is already everywhere, already pressing against my pussy, but it's not enough, I need MORE friction, more pressure, more--

His hand found her hair and yanked her head back. His other hand wrapped around her throat, not tight enough to hurt, but tight enough to remind her who was in control. The combination of sensations--the mess pressing against her from every direction, his grip in her hair, his hand on her throat--sent sparks through her body.

"That's it," he encouraged. "Use the mess. Let it make you come."

Oh. OH. His hand on my throat, his fingers in my hair--the combination is electric. And the mess is shifting inside my suit, pressing against my clit, stimulating me with every tiny movement. I can grind against it. I can use the weight of all this mess to fuck myself without touching anything. The pressure of his hand on my throat makes everything sharper, more intense. I'm so close already.

She began to grind against the chair, feeling the mess shift inside her coverall. Every movement stimulated her, the pudding and pie filling and cake batter and everything else pressing against her most sensitive areas. Michael's grip tightened on her throat, his other hand releasing her hair to fondle her breast through the plastic.

"That's it," he encouraged. "Use the mess. Let it make you come."

I'm grinding against nothing and everything. The mess is moving with me, inside me, against me. Every shift sends waves of sensation through my body. His hand on my throat makes me feel owned, claimed, PERFECT. I'm so close--I'm right on the edge--I just need a little more--

"Michael--I'm--"

"Come for me, Beth. Now."

Michael produced a massive pie, hidden behind her from the whole session--three feet wide, made in a garbage can lid, layered with chocolate and vanilla and butterscotch and topped with a mountain of cream. Beth's eyes widened as she saw it, the knowledge of what comes next pushing her over the edge. The orgasm began to crash through her, and at that exact moment, He slammed it into her, the impact sending the orgasm spiraling to heights she didn't know existed.

THE PIE. THE GIANT PIE. It hit me at the exact moment I started coming and the orgasm EXPLODED. The weight of it, the size of it--I was engulfed in cream and pudding and layers of flavor and my body was already convulsing and the impact made it SO MUCH MORE. I couldn't breathe, couldn't think, couldn't do anything but come and come and come while the mess pressed against me from every direction, inside and out.

When she finally came down, Michael was already cutting the duct tape, releasing her ankles. He helped her stand, the mess shifting dramatically inside her coverall, making her gasp.

"Michael," she breathed, grabbing his arm. "I need--I need you to--"

"What do you need, baby?"

She pulled him close, her messy hands leaving prints on his still-clean coverall. "Fuck me. Right now. I need you inside me."

He didn't hesitate. He pulled her against him, kissing her hard, tasting the mess on her lips. His hands found the zipper of her coverall, pulling it down, letting some of the mess escape as he freed her body. His own suit followed, and then they were skin to skin, the mess between them, sliding and squishing as he lifted her onto the nearest surface.

"Tell me what you want," he growled against her neck.

"You. Inside me. Now. Make me yours."

He entered her in one thrust, and Beth cried out at the sensation--the mess still coating both of them, the slip and slide of it, the absolute filthiness of what they were doing. He fucked her hard, just the way she needed, their bodies sliding together in the sweet mess.

"I'm close," she gasped. "I'm so close--come with me--"

"Together," he promised, his rhythm becoming erratic.

They came at the same moment, their bodies tensing and releasing together, their voices mingling in cries of pleasure. Beth felt every pulse, every wave, and knew that this--this messy, dirty, perfect connection--was exactly what she'd been craving all along.

As they lay together afterward, covered in cooling pudding and pie filling and cake batter, Beth turned her head to look at Michael.

"I think," she said softly, "this is definitely my kink now."

He laughed and pulled her closer, pressing a kiss to her messy forehead. "I had a feeling."