(Written in Summer 2014)

Last time, I wrote about how Lynzey and I celebrated our 32nd birthdays, and that she'd promised me something special for mine. Well, I wasn't disappointed, but I'm going to delay writing about that for now and instead mention what we got up to last weekend.

Lynzey has got surprisingly caught up in the whole World Cup fever sweeping the nation at the moment. She's not into football, but she seems to like the atmosphere and the excitement and frustration of getting behind England at the competition. In fact, a few weeks ago, she mentioned that she'd like to have a full England kit, or at least the shirt and shorts. I don't think she was dropping hints or anything, but I didn't think it was an unreasonable request, so I went online and bought her the white shirt and shorts the team will be wearing before they get knocked out on penalties again.

As you'll know if you follow football, England began their World Cup against Italy on Saturday, and Lynzey and I had arranged to meet some friends in our local pub to watch the match. I'd been sat around the house watching the two games on before the England match, while Lynzey spent her usual long time getting ready. It had reached 10:30, so I went over to the bedroom door.

"Half an hour till kick off, Lynz!" I said. "Are you ready?"

"Nearly," she replied. I went into the room and saw that she'd made quite an effort. She still had her dyed red hair, was decked out in her England shirt and shorts, and had painted St. George's crosses on her fingernails. Now, she had her bare feet on the bed and was just finishing painting England flags on her toes as well.

"You look fit!" I said. "As always of course!"

She looked up from her toenails and smiled. "You don't look so bad yourself, stud!" she replied with a sexy wink, even though I was just wearing my standard T-shirt and jeans. "Just need to dry these off and then we're ready to go."

She blasted her toes with a hairdryer for a few minutes and slipped on a pair of flip-flops. "D'you think I look a bit mad?" she asked, as she stood over at my side.

"You look cool!" I said, putting my arm around her. "I like a girl in uniform!" I slapped her arse playfully (she was asking for it wearing those tight football shorts) and we went out the door towards the local.

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Unsurprisingly, the pub was heaving. We couldn't get a seat, so we had to stand in front of the big screen that had been specially put up for the match. It was hot and sweaty, but there was a great atmosphere with people rushing to get their drinks in before the game began. A few people had tried to get England chants going, and there was even a blast of songs like 'World in Motion' by New Order and 'If the Kids are United' by Sham 69, which we both appreciated given our punk backgrounds.

Then, Lynzey leant over to me and whispered in my ear. She said, "after the match, I want you to mess me up in my England kit!"

I laughed. "I'm sure that can be arranged!" I replied. I put my arm around her again, aware of how cool it is that she's saying these kinky things and it's only me who can hear them.

As for the game, you'll either know how it went or you won't care. England went behind, equalised straightaway, but then went 2-1 down and couldn't find a way back, despite a valiant effort. The most interesting moment as far as I'm concerned was with about ten minutes to go, when a man staggered past us with a full pint of beer in his hand. The bloke was hammered, and looked like he was going to either fall over or drop his drink at any moment, but he had his eyes on the screen. Just as he walked past us, England misplaced a pass, and the man threw his arms out in frustration. In his drunken state, he hadn't realised that his pint was still in his hand, and he accidently threw the contents of it right, as luck would have it, into Lynzey's face.

The man put his hand to his mouth in shock, realising that he'd just thrown a pint into a pretty lady's face. He obviously didn't know my Lynzey though! She shut her eyes for a bit as the beer dripped down her face, then started laughing.

"Oh fuck, I'm so sorry!" he spluttered. "Y'alright, love?"

"I'm fine!" she laughed. "That was quite refreshing!"

"I'm really sorry! Can I here, you go." He handed Lynzey a beer towel to dry herself off. "Let me get you a drink as an apology."

"No, no, it's fine!" Lynzey said. "It was funny!"

"C'mon, I insist! What's that, vodka and coke? I'll get you another." He went back to the bar, since he would have to get himself another drink anyway, and came back with a vodka and coke for Lynzey.

"Ah, thanks!" she said. "But there was no need, I didn't mind getting the pint thrown at me!"

"She's a legend!!" the man said to me. "What a keeper, you've done alright with her!"

"Thanks, I know!" I said, and kissed her on the cheek. The man went away to join his mates.

"You enjoyed that, didn't you?" I said to Lynzey with a smile. "I know you!"

She giggled, "well, it's a good warm-up for later."

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We walked home straight after the match. We'd had a few drinks and Lynzey's England top was soaking from the beer showering she'd had. I always got pretty randy after a few drinks and, during the short walk back, all I could think about was the splattering I was going to give my girlfriend.

We got in through the door and Lynzey took her flip-flops off straightaway. Lynzey is almost always in her bare feet in the house, mainly because she knows I like it and always seems to want to do what turns me on. It makes practical sense not to wear shoes or socks when you're about to get gunged as well I suppose. We went into the living room and decked it out with plastic sheeting (always the most boring bit of WAM!) before we were ready to begin. I sometimes like to have Lynzey sit down while I pie and gunge her but I decided, on this occasion, to make her take it while standing up.

"OK, Lynzey," I said, picking up a custard pie with a floppy, pancake-type base. "Time to get pied for England!"

She raised her right hand to her head and performed a salute. "For queen and country, let me have it!" she said.
I threw the pie right into the middle of her face and enjoyed the satisfying splat sound it made, not to mention the burst of custard that squidged out at all angles upon impact with the face. Impressively, she held the salute while the pie base stuck to her, only dropping it once it peeled away from her face and fell to the floor. As soon as it did, I put a hand behind her head and smushed her with a gooey chocolate cream pie.

Lynzey slowly cleared her eyes with her second and middle fingers and licked her lips in that slow, sexy, wholesome way she always does. "Oh yeah! Take your frustrations out on me, Mike. I know you're wound up that England lost!" Lynzey was clearly up for this patriotic pie-in-the-face session, so I kept up the intensity with a lime, coconut cream, banana cream and blackforest gateaux to the face in quick succession. Lynzey gasped and panted sexily and submissively. I came up behind her with a whipped cream pie and, in one swift move, yanked her England shorts down to her ankles and rubbed the pie into her face.

"Well well, what a mess you are, Lynzey!" I tutted. "A disgrace to the shirt!" As I was saying this, I lifted her pie-splattered England shirt slowly over her head and left her in just her white bra and knickers. I pulled a sopping wet sponge out of a bucket of cold water and smeared it all over her face in a way that cleaned her up but still felt like a punishing and humiliating ordeal. Then, the full, cold bucket went over her head.

"Brrrrrrrr!" Lynzey shivered, her nipples hardening against the lining of her bra. I did her a favour and loosened its strap, causing the bra to fall to the floor and her breasts to be exposed. She knew what was coming next she was about to get slimed from above in just her knickers! I lifted up a bucket of thick, chunky red slime and tipped it slowly over her head. Lynzey felt it and closed her eyes, opened her mouth and looked up into the gunge.
"Gleurgh!" she went as the mess slopped all over her face. It was a more sexy noise than "gleurgh" but that's the closest approximation I can think of. She kept looking up and the gunge flowed off her chin and down onto those two bare breasts. When it was finally empty, she started giggling, which gradually turned into a loud, hearty laugh. She jumped on me, wrapping her arms and legs around my body and forcing me to the floor.

"Oh, I can feel your rock hard cock, babe! I want it!" she said. She pulled down my jeans and boxers, slipped out her own knickers and went top-to-toe on top of me. She forced my broomhandle-hard penis into her vagina and started to bounce up and down. Her feet were close to my head, and she curled her toes revealing those sexy painted nails. There was still a bucket of custard within her arms reach, so she grabbed it, put it between my feet and started dunking her head into it while riding my cock. In and out, up and down, this was fucking fantastic! She left her head in the bucket for five or more seconds before pulling it out, whipping her hair back and showering me with custard.

"OHHHHHHHHHH!" she cried. I had a great view of her arse and, luckily enough, a couple of cream pies within arms' reach. SMASH! Right into each of her buttocks. Then I ran my fingers down the crack of her arse, which I know really turns her on.

"Fuck yeah!!!!" she screeched, as her body shook with orgasms. I came too, shooting my load right up her. Lynzey panted and gasped a few times before collapsing, face down in the custard bucket once more.

"Full time!" I laughed, slapping her arse playfully. "Time to hit the showers, babe!"