Can you believe it - I'm dating a music teacher! Not just any teacher but the Head of Music at the University no less. One of the brightest women in the city is dating the guy who looks after the buildings around the campus. I'm living proof that opposites attract.

What can I tell you about her? Well, she's 30 years old, she doesn't drive, she's a bookworm as well as a musician and she wears long pinafore dresses with full-sleeve blouses buttoned to the neck. Sexy? Hmm, it doesn't sound hopeful does it, but get this; she runs and cycles everywhere, she has gorgeous wavy brunette hair and, honestly, she just makes me laugh! Oh, and she wears stockings and suspenders under her dresses. How do I know this? One day last month I pushed open the door to one of the empty lecture halls to check the heating control and there she was, cool as you like, at the lectern waiting for her students to arrive adjusting her suspender clips! Probably the best conversation ice-breaker ever and she was so apologetic about shocking the poor Facilities Management guy like that.

Her flat is tiny but smart inside. Rents are crazy in a student city like this so unless you're on mega-bucks a small flat in the city centre is the only way to go. It's Friday evening and I'm round at her place grabbing a bite to eat before we go to the cinema. I can't find the salt and pepper pots. They're right in front of me, apparently, but I still can't see them.

'Maybe it would help if I polish your glasses' she says. And with that, she carefully removes my specs, sticks her thumb in the open margarine tub and glazes each lens with a coat of fat before carefully replacing them on my head. My comedic instinct is to just sit there and take it before silently looking at her through the opaque glass. I'm flabbergasted. Here's someone else who likes to play with their food?

'Okay' I reply, drawing the second half of the word out into a question.

'Maybe you'd like your lenses sharpening up too'?

'But I can see perfectly clearly' she says. 'There are the salt and pepper pots' and she points to them on the table. One is in the shape of a small rabbit the other is the shape of a squirrel. Genius!

'How was I to know your condiments were kept in two small mammals? I think you need your glasses polishing as a punishment!'

She doesn't disagree. She giggles in fact as I carefully remove the glasses from her head. Oh, how different she looks without her specs because her pretty brown eyes clearly need those big jam jars to let her see properly and then, in a heart melting moment, she goes cross-eyed trying to focus on me meanly smearing the margarine onto her lenses.

Then, she leans forward, sticks her hand into the pot of margarine and rubs her greasy fingers over my forehead and face in retribution. OMG! I'm transformed from heart melting to heart pounding in a second. Is she telling me she's a splosher without telling me she's a splosher?

I nearly blurt it out. Now that would be too obvious and creepy. And what if she isn't a splosher and is horrified? But I can see a spark there. I think I know exactly what she wants and I can almost guarantee that none of her previous boyfriends will have had the faintest clue about any of this. Decision made. We're both sat at the table so I get up, stand behind her and scoop out the contents of the margarine tub with my hand, a proper tennis-ball sized dollop. She closes her eyes, says nothing, and let's me pat it onto the top of her head. 'Just like that', as Tommy Cooper used to say.

She still says nothing. Not a squeak, not a word. I take her silence as consent to proceed, gradually smooshing the margarine down to her fringe then drawing up her wavy locks into a thick greasy bun. With precision I work the whole tub into her hair, shampooing it carefully into a shapeless blob on her head, so satisfyingly disgusting that only another splosher would appreciate its unique style. I wipe the front and backs of my hands of down her blouse sleeves and sit down.

'Done?' she asks.

I nod. She gets up from the table, disappears next door and comes back with a decorator's dustsheet, which she lays under our two chairs and the nearside of the table. Then she throws open the door to the fridge and three cupboards, takes out a box of eggs and sits back down.

'Your turn' she says.

I take a pot of her strawberry jam from the fridge and sit down. She gets hold of the Nutella. I pick a can of custard she takes the other one. I take the mayonnaise she takes the ketchup. Within a couple of minutes we're sat with our modest little arsenals of ammunition and hearts beating out of our chests. At least mine is! I can't quite believe this. If I could have seen her better through my own margarine glazed glasses I might have been able tell what she was thinking, but neither of us wanted this to stop now. We're en route to a mutually assured messing instead of a night at the cinema!

She picks an egg and smacks it so hard on my head that the whole yolk shoots out and lands on the floor. Epic fail! I take two eggs, crack them slightly on the side of the table then crush them into each side of her head just above her ears so that the lovely yolk, white and shell mixes in to her margarine coiffure. She learns quickly and returns the favour with the remaining two eggs. I squeeze the tub of mayonnaise over her head and she does the same to me with the ketchup, ruining my pale floral 'cinema' shirt in the process. We glaze each other's faces, glasses and everything, with thick custard so that we look like two yellow statutes myopically staring at each other. Barely visible to each other we burst out laughing. Then we kiss. And we lick. We remove our useless glasses and run our fingers over each other's heads, clearing our faces and smothering the mixed mess into our hair and skin at the same time.

She has two trifles in clear plastic tubs and generously gives one to me. With hers she upturns it onto my head, twists and smooshes it into my face then pushes the empty plastic tub back onto my head like an amusing plastic party hat. It's just glorious. With my trifle I can't resist this. My head says 'do it'! I undo her front pinafore clips letting the fabric fall down then scoop out the trifle with my hands and smother the sweet handfuls of jelly, cream and custard over her gorgeous tits. Her thin white blouse quickly turns translucent and I keep going, smearing her arms and shoulders with trifle, custard and mayo until it clings to her like an opaque, slimy rag and all the while she squeals in surprise at the sensation of being sploshed somewhere other than on her head.

Then we're kissing again. Properly snogging. Sucking at each other's faces and occasionally coming up for air.

'You're the first man to do this to me' she says. 'I mean properly...properly take me down a peg or two like this. I love it!'

She means it. She lets me empty the pot of jam into a bowl then slather it all over head, filling her ears, nose and mouth. Then, taking my hand she leads us away from the kitchen through to the bathroom accompanied by a pitter-patter of messy droplets on the lino. With its wetroom floor and walk-in shower, the bathroom is the perfect landing strip for our messy fun.

'Before you ask or we go too far, I...I'm on the pill' she says breathlessly before leading me in to the shower and backing up against the shower dials and soap tray.

'Go back for those other things and...and finish me off ' she rasps.

I don't need to be told twice but to save her from an expensive plumber's bill I just come back with the things we can wash down the plughole. But boy do I let her have it.

'Here! Take that!' Tomato soup splatters her from her greasy head to her stocking feet. I step into the shower area and let her have a full jar of cheap, creamy carbonara sauce over the head. I bend her over and pour another jar of bolognaise sauce down the back of her dress. Nutella and syrup topping are smeared and poured over her and finally, finally a wash down with a full litre of cooking oil. What a fucking sight she is. Too gorgeous!

I can't keep my filthy hands off her now, pushing the fabric of her dress up her legs to her waist. And there are those gorgeous black stockings, offset by milky white thighs and a pair of perfect black satin school m'aam panties. She lets me slide one hand into her panties and one into her bra. She's sopping wet and fit to burst. I'm not expecting her to cum so quickly but when she does it's truly explosive. She half falls onto the shower dial, which bursts into life over us to drown out her squeals and whimpers as the last gasps of orgasm drain from her under the warm jets of water.

Now it's her turn to cover me in handprints, urgently tugging my trousers and underwear down and kicking them into the drain. I'm so hard it feels like I'll pierce her belly button, but the standing, slippery, half-dressed, wet sex is a disaster. We're both so turned on and wriggling like a pair of slimy otters that the best I can do is push myself inside her for a couple of strokes before slipping out and decorating her pubes with a creamy premature ejaculation. Oh how embarrassing! Please don't laugh. Next time it will be different. Next time? She doesn't know it yet, but next month I'm overseeing the refurbishment of the changing rooms of one of the University boat houses and, for a couple of weekends at least, I'll be the only one with keys and access to the building. My messy mind is in overdrive already.