The GPS had stopped being helpful three miles ago, leaving me with nothing but my hand-drawn map and the sound of gravel crunching under my tires. My breakup had left a hole in my life, and my office job was a slow-motion blur of spreadsheets. I needed "excitement." I needed "different." That's why the minute I found the Adventure BnB online I knew I had to dive in and take some time for myself.

As I pulled up the long, winding drive, the cottage appeared. It was beautiful in a lonely sort of way--weathered stone, thick ivy, stillness. I stepped out of the car, immediately remembering I had not brought any luggage. The host's instructions had been weirdly specific: Bring nothing. We provide everything; you just provide yourself.

I slowly walked to the front door, taking in all my surroundings as I approached, but immediately was faced by a laminated sign taped to the front door:

"WELCOME, GUEST! The house is locked, but the adventure, or shall we say fun has already begun. Check the Outhouse out back! Your key to a new life is waiting... if you have the 'taste' for adventure."

I chuckled nervously. A scavenger hunt. Right. Very adventurous. I walked around the side of the property. The outhouse was a sturdy wooden shack nestled against the treeline. I pushed the door open, expecting a dusty shed. Instead, I found a pristine white table illuminated by a single, dramatic spotlight. On the table sat five massive, deep-dish pies. They weren't just any pies--they were piled high with thick whipped cream and a glimmer of yellow custard that peaked around the edges of each one. Next to them was another note:

"HOUSE RULES:
No hands allowed.
The key is at the bottom of one of these five pies.
Dig in, face first.
Don't be shy--the host is watching (metaphorically... probably!)"

I looked at my clean shirt. Then, I thought about my boring desk job, and then my ex for berating me on how boring and reserved I was. I wasn't boring, I was fun.. In my own way.

"Fine," I muttered. "Let's get this show started."

I leaned over the first pie. The smell of vanilla was overwhelming. I took a deep breath and plunged my face into the cream. SPLOSH. Cold custard filled my nose. I rummaged around with my jaw, my chin hitting the crust. Nothing.
I moved to the second pie. SQUISH. This one was even deeper. I was blowing custard bubbles as I searched the bottom with my nose. Still nothing.
By the fourth pie, I looked like a stooge victim covered and dripping in custard and cream. My hair was matted, and a large dollop of custard was slowly sliding down my neck into my shirt. I was breathing heavily, my face dripping yellow goo onto the floor. I tackled the fifth pie with a vengeance, burying my head right to its base. I'm even certain the cream at one point fully engulfed my head. The pie was that deep! I pulled back, gasping for air, a thick mask of custard covering every inch of my skin. I flicked a glob of cream off my eyelid and looked down. Five empty, mangled pie crusts. No key.
"You have got to be kidding me," I wiped a hand across my eyes, finally breaking the 'no hands' rule out of pure frustration.
As I cleared my vision and looked up to curse, I froze. Hanging directly above the table on a thin, shimmering fishing line--barely an inch from where my forehead had been the whole time--was a shiny brass key. Attached to it was a tiny tag that read:

"EYES UP! Rule #4: Always look at the big picture. Now, go inside. You're a mess, and the first 'outfit' is waiting."

I grabbed the key, the cold metal feeling strange against my sticky palms. I was covered in enough sugar to attract every bee in the county, but strangely enough, for the first time in months, I wasn't bored. Never had I ever thought I would be head dunking five comically large custard pies on my weekend getaway, but here I am. Time to get cleaned up, and find out whatever outfit they have supplied me with..

The key turned with a satisfying click, and I shoved the door open with my shoulder. I expected a rustic hallway. Maybe some moth-eaten rugs and a coat rack. Instead, I was staring at a scene from a high-budget, highly-delirious game show. The interior was gorgeous with exposed oak beams, warm amber lighting, and pristine white-washed walls. But the floor? The floor was gone. In its place, stretched wall-to-wall, was a massive, heavy-duty inflatable pool. It was crammed into the reception room touching every single wall. And it wasn't filled with water.

It was a four-meter square sea of thick, glossy pink frosting. The air in the room was warm which seemed to keep the sugary mass glistening and soft to the touch, I imagine. The scent of strawberry sugar hit me like a physical wall.

Bzzzt. A tannoy tucked into the corner of the ceiling crackled to life. The voice was smooth, upbeat, and somewhat flirty?

"Welcome to my Adventure BnB, or well, to give it its full formal title, the Messy Adventure BnB!" I am glad you made it inside, and I can see you sampled each of my pies earlier... There is certainly more where that came from! You are now my guest for the next four days, and we have so much fun and excitement planned ahead for us!"

I stood there, cream-coated and gaping, as the voice continued.
"But first, I need you to make your way to the door directly in front of you. This leads to the downstairs bathroom where you can clean yourself up. There is also a nice change of clothing I'd like you to get dressed into. From there, more fun awaits! Oh, and good luck getting to the bathroom!"

I looked at the door across the room. It was maybe thirteen feet away. Between me and a hot shower lay a two-foot-deep abyss of thick soft and likely tasty pink frosting.
"Four days of this?" I started to laugh--a bubbly, hysterical sound. "Okay, Host. You want a show? Let's go."
I slowly stepped over the blue rubber rim, having to effectively straddle the wide inflated pool edge before my foot met the frosting, and for a second, I thought I might stay on top. Then--schloooop--my leg vanished up to the knee. The suction was incredible. The feeling was surprisingly incredible too. I tried to take a second step, lifting my back leg with a grunt of effort. The frosting didn't want to let go. My centre of gravity shifted, my front foot slid on the slick plastic bottom of the pool, and my world tilted.
"Oh no--"
FLOP.

I didn't just fall; I performed a full-body belly flop into the pink depths. I went completely under. For a moment, the world was silent and smelled intense. I scrambled, my hands sliding uselessly against the bottom, before I managed to plant my palms and heave my head upward.
I resurfaced. I was a disaster. The cream pie remnants from the outhouse were now replaced with a thick coating of pink frosting. It was in my ears. It was inside my shirt, and I'm sure I could feel it making its way into my jeans. I looked exactly as you can imagine, a human-esq figure of frosting proportions.

"Very graceful!" the tannoy chirped.

I didn't respond. I couldn't. If I opened my mouth, I'd be eating my way to the bathroom. I began a slow, agonising crawl, dragging my frosting-heavy limbs through the pool of mess, until my hand finally slapped against the cool wood of the bathroom door. I managed to finally pull myself up and climb onto the pool edging, straddling again while trying not to slip back into the depths below. I turned the door knob. I made it.

I stood in the bathroom doorway, dripping pink globs onto the pristine white tiles, and realised I was not how I started. I looked down. My favourite jeans? Gone. My socks? Swallowed by the abyss. My shoes? Likely resting at the bottom of the pool like sunken ships.
"Great," I muttered, wiping a streak of strawberry goo from my collarbone. "I'm down to my underwear and a shirt that currently weighs fifteen pounds."
The bathroom was a sanctuary. I peeled my frosting clad shirt and underwear from my body, revealing what areas of my body were left intact. It was not a lot. The steam from the walk-in shower felt like a literal hug. I spent twenty minutes scrubbing, before finally seeing my own skin again. I bagged up my sticky remnants, feeling a strange sense of liberation. I had come here for a change, for an adventure and excitement, and I had certainly got what I ordered--literally.

Then, I saw it. The gift-wrapped box on the counter. I pulled the red ribbon and revealed what was waiting for me. Inside, resting on a bed of tissue paper, was a crinkly, jet-black material. I lifted it up, and the bathroom light caught the shine of high-gloss PVC. It was a French maid outfit--the full kit. Ruffled white apron, a tiny lace headpiece, and a dress so shiny it could probably be seen from space. A note sitting beside the box read:

"Please find your outfit until further notice. Now make your way to the kitchen, first door on your left. Have fun!"

"You've got to be kidding me," I said to the mirror. But the mirror didn't argue back.
I stepped into it. The PVC made a rhythmic creak-squeak sound with every movement. It was tight, absurd, and entirely ridiculous, but I had to admit--the craftsmanship was surprisingly high-end. I adjusted the lace headpiece, took a deep breath, and turned the handle to leave.

I stepped back out of the bathroom, the PVC of my new "uniform" let out a sharp squeak with every move. The pink sea was still there, shimmering under the warm lights. I looked at the kitchen door. It was much closer to this side of the reception room, requiring only a short trek through the sugary swamp.
"Fool me once, pool," I muttered, hitching up the hem of the black glossy skirt.
I stepped back in. Schloop. The sensation was just as bizarre the second time, but I was a veteran now. I kept my knees high and my centre of gravity low, shuffling through the thick strawberry sludge. I managed to reach the other side without a single slip, though by the time I reached the kitchen door, the bottom half of my white stockings and the hem of the PVC dress were heavily soaked through. I pushed open the kitchen door and stopped.

It was a chef's dream. A massive, airy space with vaulted ceilings, high-end copper pots hanging from the beams, and a long-stretching marble island right in the centre. It was suspiciously quiet.

Bzzzt.
"Welcome to your kitchen!" the Host's voice chirped through the ceiling speaker. "A plethora of treats, snacks, drinks, and goodies can be found here, anytime you need. But first, let's get you some lunch... or shall we say, earn your lunch! To beat this challenge and get your hands on a triple chicken and cheese toasted sandwich, you'll need to complete your first round of 'Maid Duties'!"

I looked at my shiny black sleeves. "Of course. Maid duties. Because I'm a maid."

"Your first task is simple: find five gold stars. You need all five to unlock the lunchbox. Two are here in the kitchen. Three are in the walk-in pantry. Good luck, and remember: NO HANDS!"

I started with the fridge. It seemed the most obvious place to hide something in a kitchen. I was right, staring directly back at me was the first challenge. A sliding base moved towards me as I opened the door, atop sat what can only be described as those tubs that people use for taking ice baths in their garden. Star Number One was written on the side of the transparent tub. The tub was completely filled like a gargantuan, heavy chocolate and cream trifle. There were layers of sponge, thick chocolate pudding, and mountains upon mountains of whipped cream.

"Okay. No hands. Must be heads first. Got it."

I leaned over the tub. The smell was heavenly--rich cocoa and vanilla. I took a breath, scrunched my eyes shut, and dunked my head directly into the centre of the trifle. My head sunk beneath the surface, then soon my shoulders, and then my chest and finally my waist. I could only imagine what the image from above must have looked like with the PVC skirt now falling down my back, and white filled knickers on full show. Cold cream and dense chocolate pudding filled my nose and mouth as I rummaged around blindly. The suction was intense. I had to resurface for a breath before plunging straight back in once more. Finally, I felt my teeth click against metal. I clamped down and yanked my head back up. My face was completely unrecognisable, a mask of chocolate and cream. I cleared open my eyes and proudly spat the first star onto the counter.

I found the second star location... or so I had thought. I opened a small cabinet door, expecting a result. Instead, a pressurised plume of thick, bright blue slime blasted me in the face and chest, perfect against the glossy black PVC of my dress. Slime oozed its way down pulling cream and chocolate pudding further into the uniform and over my bare skin. "Hilarious" I muttered sarcastically, wiping the slime from my white apron.

At last, I found it. On the central island sat a towering, elaborate cream cake. It was perfect, layered with confectioners' cream. This would have been the obvious place to look, but I figured it would be too easy, or so I thought. The second star was pressed into the top cream layer. But as I leaned in, teeth-first, the tannoy buzzed.

"Ah-ah-ah! Rule change! This particular star is a 'Weight-Based' unlock. The cake must be sat on and squashed... completely... before the star is officially yours."

I looked at the cake. I looked at my already disaster-of-a-dress. Then, I looked at the bathroom, knowing another shower was inevitable. I took a deep breath, performed a flawless 180-turn, and sat directly into the centre of the cake. It flattened instantly. The confectioners' cream, which was much softer than expected, exploded in all directions. It oozed up around my dress, and reached areas I never thought possible. My mind started to race. The sensation was cold, squishy, and incredibly loud. I sat there for a moment, embedded in the ruins of the dessert. I felt... mischievous. I reached around to my lower back, peeled the flattened star from where it was stuck to my knickers, and stood up, leaving a deep indentation in the messy mass of sponge. Two stars down.

I turned toward the walk-in pantry. It was just a door, but I knew what lay beyond it would be worse than the trifle and the cake combined.I took a deep breath, and pushed open the pantry door.
The PVC of my dress was so slick with various messes that I practically glided toward the pitch-black doorway.

"Host?" I called out, my voice muffled by the now plastered state of my face. "A little light for the maid?"

Bzzzt. "A maid should know their way around a dark corner! Use your intuition... and maybe your luck."

I stepped into the abyss. It was dead silent. I reached up, my gloved fingers brushing against several thick, braided cords dangling from the ceiling. I grabbed the first one and yanked.
SPLAT.
A heavy, lukewarm bucket of classic yellow custard inverted directly over my head. It was thick enough to create a rhythmic thwack-thwack-thwack as it hit the floor around my boots. I wiped a gap for my eyes.
"Rope two," I growled, pulling the next cord with a vengeance.
POP! A cloud of gold confetti exploded around me, sticking instantly to the wet custard.
"Star number three found!" the tannoy chirped.
I moved to the third rope. I pulled. Silence. I waited for the slime or the glitter, but nothing happened. Then, a mechanical whirr ignited from the shadows. Before I could even blink, a rapid-fire sequence of cream pies launched from hidden spring-traps. Splat! Splat! Splat! They hit with pinpoint accuracy--one to the face, two to the chest, and one square in the crotch.
I stumbled back, gasping, as white cream began to slide down my PVC apron. No star.
I pulled the fourth rope, desperate to end this. More confetti rained down, and I felt the small, metallic weight of the fourth star land in the crook of my elbow. One more.
The fifth rope felt different--heavier. I gave it a sharp tug.
Suddenly, high-pitched, whimsical circus music began to blare from hidden speakers. For a split second, a bright strobe light illuminated the room, and I saw them: dozens of nozzle-like apertures built into the walls, all aimed directly at centre-stage. Me.
"Wait--"
PHUT-PHUT-PHUT-PHUT!
It was a total wipe out. Multicoloured whipping cream--neon greens, vibrant pinks, and electric blues--jetted from the walls in a high-pressure crossfire. It hit me from waist level to head level, spinning me around in a dizzying, sugary hurricane. It didn't stop. For two solid minutes, I was the target of a rainbow-coloured firing squad.
When the nozzles finally hissed into silence, the circus music died down, replaced by the sound of heavy, colourful cream sliding off my body and hitting the floor with a wet glop. I was unrecognisable. I wasn't a person anymore; I was a human sundae.

Bzzzt.
"Congratulations! You've shown true dedication to the craft. The final star is yours, and more importantly... lunch is served!"

Behind me, in the kitchen, a motorised click echoed as a small hatch on the island slid open. A perfectly toasted, golden-brown triple chicken and cheese sandwich sat there, looking remarkably out of place in the disaster zone.
I trudged back into the kitchen, my PVC dress squeaking under the weight of five gallons of cream. I sat on a stool--which immediately became a slip-and-slide--and picked up the sandwich with two fingers.
"I think I'm really getting into this now." I said aloud, taking a bite that was roughly 40% chicken and 60% neon-green whipped cream.

I took a final, contemplative bite of my neon-green-tinted sandwich, when I felt my eyes drifting toward the architectural ruin of the cream cake I'd sat on earlier. It felt like a waste to leave it there. If I was going to look like a bakery explosion, I might as well know what the explosion tasted like.

Bzzzt. "Go on, have a bite," the Host purred. "Everything here is yours. But... for my fun, please: no hands."

I didn't even hesitate. I leaned down and buried my face into the wreckage of the sponge and confectioner's cream. It was delicious--rich, airy, and far better than anything I'd ever bought at a grocery store. I came up for air with a mouth full of cake and a fresh layer of white cream plastered over my nose.

"Right," I mumbled through a mouthful of sponge. "What's next? I'm ready for the shower of a lifetime."

"Not so fast, my messy marauder! A maid's work is never done. Please make your way through the swinging doors at the rear of the kitchen. It's time to help clean up the Dining Lounge for our next... 'event'."

I stood up, my PVC dress making a sound like a wet suction cup releasing from the stool. I pushed through the doors into the Dining Lounge. It was magnificent--and a total disaster. A grand mahogany table was flanked by ten elegant leather chairs, each one topped with a perfectly formed, overflowing cream pie like a fluffy, creamy white pillow. The table itself was a graveyard of desserts: half-eaten trifles, slumped mousses, and tarts that looked like they'd been put through a blender. On one side of the room I could see 3 stainless steel silver trolleys, each with three shelves laden with more multi-coloured cream pies, decorative sheet cakes and what looked suspiciously like cherry pavlovas. But the floor was the real kicker. It was a smooth, slightly inflated surface that gave way under my feet with a suggestive squish.

"The goal is simple," the Host's voice echoed. "Clean the room. See that waste chute at the far end? All the leftovers must go in there. But remember: YOU are the cleaner. No mops, no buckets. Use your body to clear the decks. Only then will the bathroom door unlock."

I looked at the ten chairs. I looked at the table. I looked at the trolleys. I looked at the floor. "I'm the squeegee," I realised. "I'm a human squeegee."

I started with the chairs. One by one, I performed a rhythmic, slapstick routine: Turn, sit, squelch, slide. I backed into the first chair, feeling the pie explode against my PVC-clad rear, spurts of cream and pie filling making its way through every seam, nook and cranny of my ass. I then slid off onto the inflatable floor, dragging the cream with me. By the fifth chair, I was leaving a trail like a giant, sugary snail. By the final pie, I had filled my uniform with enough cream to see me to next week, so I picked it up, a heaving pie crust with filling and cream ready to explode at any second. I smashed it with two hands into my face and rubbed the contents deep over my features, tasting the pie-perfection.

Then came the table. I climbed onto the mahogany surface, the PVC squeaking against the wood. I laid flat on my stomach, spread my arms, and did a "cake-angel" across the length of the table. Trifles burst under my chest; mousses plastered themselves to my apron. I used my entire body to plow the cakes and flans off the edge and onto the slippery floor.

Finally, the trolleys. I stood beside them and pulled the contents one by one onto myself, letting the pastries and creamy delights bury me before I dropped to the ground. I realised at this point I was beginning to purposefully cram as much of the desserts into my maid uniform feeling the mess press against my bare skin from the tight PVC, it was starting to feel like ecstasy.

I was now a mountain of multicoloured goo. I began the big push, lying flat on the inflated floor and using my legs to kick and my torso to shove the massive pile of dessert toward the chute. It was a slow, slippery, hilarious struggle. Every time I tried to get leverage, my hands slipped from beneath me, sending me face-first into a large pile of combined cake, cream and meringue mess. Eventually, with one final, full-body heave, the last of the mess vanished down the chute. The floor was still stained, and I was carrying at least the majority of the mess on my body, but the room was "clear." Click. The far door--the one leading back to the reception pool--swung open.

My "squeegee" duty was done. I stood in the middle of the now-empty dining lounge, breathing heavily. My PVC dress was so caked in layers of custard, mousse, and tart filling that I probably weighed twice what I did this morning. I didn't even want to think about where that floor chute led. (Somewhere deep, somewhere dark, and probably somewhere even messier.)

I trudged back through the kitchen, my footsteps making a heavy, wet thwack-squelch on the tiles. I reached the reception door and there it was: my old friend, the pink frosting pool.
Bzzzt. "Make your way back to the bathroom, get cleaned, and your nightwear will be waiting. A door will lead you upstairs to your bedroom where you can unwind. Enjoy!"
By now, the dignity part of my brain had completely checked out. I didn't just shuffle through the frosting this time. I took a running start--as much as one can in PVC and stockings--and performed a magnificent, Olympic-level swan dive.
I sank into the strawberry abyss, the thick, heavy sweetness pressing against me from all sides. I wallowed for a second, rolling over multiple times for maximum coating, before swimming my way to the bathroom door. The shower was a religious experience. I let the steaming water beat against my skin for an hour, watching the rainbow of the day's "maiding" swirl down the drain. Finally, I opened the new gift box that was on the counter. Inside was a set of light gold silk pyjamas--a short-sleeved shirt and matching shorts. They felt like a cloud against my scrubbed skin.

I found the new door in the corner of the bathroom. I hesitated before entering. No traps. No slime. Just a winding wooden staircase that led to a sanctuary. The bedroom was the height of luxury: a massive super king-sized bed draped in silk bed sheets and duvet, a fridge overflowing with chilled juice and sodas, and a steaming hot pizza waiting on the nightstand. I explored the room, my bare feet sinking into the plush carpet. The TV was a bust--static and silent--and the wardrobe was locked tight. There was an en-suite that had a jet-powered corner tub that looked like it could fit a small car. I'll keep that one in mind for future use.

I climbed into the bed. The sensation of silk pyjamas against silk sheets was pure, friction-less bliss. It was the first time I hadn't felt "sticky" in fourteen hours. I finished my pizza, a bottle of water and reached for the lamp, the tannoy gave one final, soft buzz.

"Goodnight, my guest. Sleep tight... don't let the messbite."

I stared at the ceiling, my mind drifting. Who was this person? Where were the cameras? How did they manage to reset those pie-traps so fast? Did they know I would enjoy this? But the bed was too soft for detective work. My eyes flickered shut, the smell of the forest and the distant memory of vanilla custard lulling me into a deep, heavy slumber.

Day One was over. And if this was just Friday, I had a feeling Saturday was going to be an absolute disaster.

To be continued