I've written numerous What Would You Do tribute stories, envisioning a spinoff where a wilder version of the show somehow finds its way to late night TV.

This "Jake and Lila" series of stories is inspired by the show, but different. Jake and Lila are heterosexual strangers who bond over a chance connection on a new TV show, and whose relationship grows over time. It is a long-term story that covers their deepening relationship, from how they met to their growing WAM fetish, and how they act on it in public and private.

Because of the depth of their story, it's not practical to create male-only and female-only variants of these posts as I have with past stories. Any individual story in this series could feature one, both, or neither of them getting messy.

This is the latest installment, the full version of which is posted on my Patreon (patreon.com/Hooliham). I hope you'll consider becoming a patron today -- it's only $3/month!

Happy reading!

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Part 4: The Private Home Game

Tomorrow's the day when our pie, cake, messy war blows up, and the thrill in my chest is a live charge.

Jake and I are in the kitchen, the counter a sprawl of boxes, buckets, and bottles, tallying our arsenal. We're expecting a mess that bring us to our knees, probably literally. 48 pies, each topped with a hefty swirl of whipped cream, creamy peaks over gooey fruit and pudding fillings.

Six chocolate sheet cakes, frosted and dense, plus four vanilla and berry ones, soft and crushable.

I point at the three 5-gallon buckets of slime: green, blue, and red goo.

He hefts the syrups: two quarts of chocolate syrup, one quart of caramel, plus a tub of marshmallow fluff. I nod, adding the sundae kit -- two quarts of melted vanilla ice cream in the fridge, a can of whipped cream, a shaker of rainbow sprinkles -- toppings for a brutal penalty.

We review the ground rules. "The plan is to use mess as punishment, like After Hours Insanity. Five challenges, at least one loser in each game.

"First is a ring toss. One of us sits on a stool, holding a peg on our head. The other person tosses ten rings. Most on the peg wins.

"Next is a balance challenge. Balance a book on your head, walk in a straight line. If you fall off, you're done."

"Then, build a tower. I've got a stack of random junk. We take turns stacking, and the person who builds the tallest tower without it crashing down wins.

"Fourth is a round of cornhole. Most points wins, loser gets pied.

"And finally, an obstacle run. We're gonna crawl under chairs, hop over a broom, first to the end wins, loser becomes a human ice cream sundae."

"But wait -- I have one more layer. For the grand finale, whoever loses more games is the 'ultimate loser,' and earns all the leftover mess. Every pie, cake, slime, syrup, sundae scrap we haven't used, smashed, thrown, dumped on them, they get it all."

Jake's eyes widen, then he laughs, "Jeez, you're a savage!"

I nod, stepping closer, voice dropping, "And one extreme twist for the loser. They'll be handcuffed, AND they'll get a ball gag in their mouth."

His jaw drops, a flash of shock, then intrigue, and I feel it: my heart racing, a raw rush I've never voiced, a kink sparking in me, me taking the lead where he's usually guided. He tilts his head, "Ball gag? Damn, Lila, where's this coming from?"

I smirk, bold now, "From me! You've led plenty, now I'm leading you."

He pauses, then grins, slow, "You're a fiend. I'm in, but you're dreaming if you think it's gonna be me with the gagged and the handcuffs."

With the ground rules set, the air crackles with tension and anticipation. But there's a whole night of sleep ahead, rest that, let's be honest, neither of us will be getting. Alas, we try.

The knock jolts me awake. It's sharp, insistent, and cuts through my sleepy haze. I blink, groggy, the clock glowing 9:00 a.m., my head still fuzzy from last night's buzzing dreams of pies and slime. I stumble out of bed, tugging a rumpled T-shirt over my shorts, my hair a wild nest. I shuffle to the door, disoriented, half-expecting a delivery guy. I swing it open, and there's Jake, grinning, eyes bright, practically bouncing with enthusiasm, holding a tray of coffees and a pink box of donuts.

"Morning, candy queen!" he chirps, voice a jolt of sunshine. I blink again, brain catching up, a slow smile tugging at my lips.

"Jake? What are you?" I mumble, voice thick, but he's already stepping in, setting the goods on my counter like he owns the place.

"Fuel for the war," he says, popping the box open to reveal glazed donuts, shiny and sticky. Steam curls from the coffee cups. My chest warms. He's here. This kind, caring man I adore, surprising me bright and early, setting the day right.

"You didn't have to," I say, grabbing a coffee, the heat seeping through the cup, waking me up.

He winks, "Had to. It's a big day! Can't have you half-asleep when I bury you in pies."

I laugh, sharper now, the fog lifting, and snag a donut, the glaze sticking to my fingers. "Oh, look at this," I tease, holding it up. "Sticky already? What's next, sneaking glaze into the war lineup?"

He grins and leans in close. "Caught me. Secret weapon, candy girl. I'm gonna smear it on you when the slime runs out."

I roll my eyes, shoving him lightly, glaze smudging his shirt. "Sneaky," I quip. "You're the one getting buried. Donuts won't save you."

He laughs as he snags a donut of his own. It's perfect, the day's tone bright and playful, our war just hours away.

Late afternoon comes fast. Sunlight slants low through Lila's windows, and our war is breathing down our necks now. "Let's get in there," I say, grabbing a couple of pies. Lila is right behind, hauling two buckets of slime, green and blue sloshing thick against the sides. We tromp into the war room, plastic sheeting shimmering under the ceiling light, a pristine stage itching for ruin. Lila lines up the pies along the wall while I lug in the cakes, setting them on a rickety table, their heft a promise of gooey destruction.

We take turns hauling in supplies, then I drag the stool in, plunking it smack in the middle. "Loser's hot seat," I say, giving it a pat.

Lila smirks, "Your VIP spot, sausage king!" She drops the handcuffs beside it with a clink, her eyes glinting

"Outfits," I say, glass clinking down, and she nods, "Showtime." We split up into our privacy of separate rooms to shed the day and slip into our war gear.

Before we know it, we're back in the war room: me in gray, her in pink and green, with the bright light exposing every inch of our bodies. Her bikini glows, its curves sharp and fearless; my crop top and leggings glint, lovingly stitched by her hands and so skintight. Our eyes meet with energy that is silent and charged. It's go time.


The First Game - Ring Toss
"The first game is the Ring toss," I say, grabbing a tall, wobbly stick to place on my head. Jake snags the ten red rings and steps back a few feet.

"You're up, sausage king," I tease, planting myself on the stool, holding the peg on my head with my hands.

"Better say goodbye to that clean bikini," he retorts.

His anxiety is apparent, though. His jaw is tight, his finger twitch, and it shows in his performance. His first throw sails wide, clattering on the plastic. The second clips my shoulder, dropping limply to the floor. He curses under his breath, adjusts, and lands the third--THUNK--on the peg. His fourth misses, his fifth hits--2 out of 10--and the rest scatter, his nerves winning out.

"Damn it," he mutters, shoulders slumping, and I grin, smug, "Nice try, loser. Your throne awaits."

He trudges to the stool, and I grab the handcuffs, snapping them on his wrists behind his back.

"Ready for it?" I ask, snagging two custard pies, whipped cream quivering, and he glares, playful but tense.

"Bring it." I take pleasure in smashing the first pie square into his face, sending custard exploding across his cheeks and cream down his chin, dripping onto his gray crop top, soaking it yellow. The second hits his chest, sending even more whipped cream splattering, custard oozing over his abs, pooling in his lap, leggings streaked with slop. I step back, grab the bucket of green slime, hoist it high over his head, tipping it slowly. It pours, a gooey cascade oozing over his shoulders, running down his arms, coating his hair, dripping off his nose in neon strings. He shakes his head, laughing through it, "You are so dead, missy!". He's messy, defiant, but locked in place, taking it full-on.

We switch places. Jake wipes slime from his eyes, still processing the shock, as he holds the peg on his head. Now I have the rings. I look at him in his ridiculous state, smeared with custard and whipped cream, drenches in slime, and it revs up my nerves. He's out for revenge, and I know it. My hands shake, the realization of this need to win, to not allow him the privilege. I throw my first ring, and it sails high. The second bounces off his shoulder, and the third misses completely. My stomach is in knots, his messy smirk taunting me, and I miss again, the rings a pathetic scatter on the plastic.

"Oh, Lila," he crows, "you're toast."

I groan. The nerves won, and I'm the loser now, no escaping the mess.

I slump onto the stool, my heart racing, and Jake cuffs my wrists behind me, his slime-slick fingers brushing my skin.

"Payback time," he barks, his voice low, as he grabs two cherry pies, whipped cream piled high, cherry filling peeking red. He wastes no time with pleasantries, slamming the first one hard into my face with what sounds like a half crunch, half splat. Cream smears my eyes, cherry streaks my cheeks, drips down my neck, staining my bikini top sticky-sweet. The second crashes into my chest with a sickening thud whipped cream bursts across my breasts, cherry filling slides over my stomach, pooling at my thong's edge, warm and wet. He steps back, hefts the blue slime bucket and grins. "Hold tight." He pours, a slow, heavy wave splashing my shoulders, running down my back, coating my hair, dripping off my chin in gooey ropes, my bikini drenched blue.

I squirm, laughing, "You're evil!" I'm messy, I'm helpless, but I'm alive. The mess is a rush despite my loss.

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Read the full version (with all five games, and the messy penalty for the loser!) at patreon.com/Hooliham