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 you can find 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 2: Lila's "Second Date"
A week after ice cream with Jake, I'm back outside After Hours Insanity, my heart thudding like a drum against my ribs as the city's neon hum crackles in the air. His texts--teasing quips about slime, soft hints at wanting more--have kept me tethered, and when he'd pitched this second date, half in jest, I'd agreed, nerves drowned by a restless thrill. I grip the bag with my silver bodysuit -- shimmering, skintight, its cutouts slicing across my hips, the neckline diving low -- a secret rebellion stitched in Ash Hollow's shadows.
Jake is beside me, his grin wide, his own tight gear an echo of our first night. "That's unreal," he says, voice warm as his eyes skim the bag, sparking heat in my chest. "You'll own that stage."
I laugh, a jittery sound, pulling it out. "Or wreck it," I say, but his steady nod steadies me, too.
"You've got this," he murmurs, and with him, I believe it. We slip inside, the studio's roar engulfing us, and I dart to a bathroom to change. The silver hugs me like a second skin, cool and slick, its sheen dancing under the fluorescent lights, a bold mirror to the girl I've buried.
I step out, and Jake's whistle cuts low, his gaze lingering. "Told you," he says, and my pulse surges, Ash Hollow's ghost fading as we stride to our seats.
The host's voice booms, summoning volunteers, and my hand clamps Jake's arm, fingers quivering. "Go for it," he whispers, breath hot against my ear, and it's enough to get me over the hump. My hand shoots to the sky, and before I know it, I hear the crowd's cheers, a tidal wave crashing over me as I find my feet guiding me on stage, the suit's silver glinting, its cutouts framing my hips, my heartbeat a frantic rhythm beneath it. I stand next to a confident, attractive woman who seems to be everything I wanted to be. She has a quiet confidence that I find intimidating, but I try to set that aside, knowing that I will likely have to beat her if I want to win the cash prize, avoid ruining my beautiful silver creation, and the humiliation that comes with it. For a moment, I second-guess myself, wondering whether this was all a mistake.
"A silver siren!" the host crows, his grin sharp and wicked. "Will she shine? Or shatter?"
Jake's shout -- "You've got it, Lila!" -- pierces the din, and I lift my chin, his faith a lifeline in the chaos. The game's an obstacle course -- rope wall, net crawl, balance beam -- I have to conquer it before my opponent does.
Before long, the host says go, and I launch forward, the suit shimmering as I grip the rope, its coarse fibers biting my palms, friction warming my skin as I climb, Jake's pull-up grit in my head. The net's a tangle, rough weave scraping my knees through the silver, Jake's "Keep going!" ringing in my ears.
But the beam is narrow and slick. I teeter, the suit's snug grip no help, and I fall, a sharp yelp escaping as the timer screeches, my rival darting ahead. I fall onto a soft mat, forced to start the beam over again, all while my opponent extends her lead.
The crowd explodes, "Punish! Punish!" a pulsing chant, and my gut lurches. They're actively cheering for my failure. I try not to let the chants get to me, but my opponent is ahead, so impossibly ahead.
I successfully navigate the beam on my second attempt, but by then, my counterpart has already completed the course.
Out of breath, I feel failure's sting. But at the same time, Jake is clapping, his grin unwavering, and I latch onto that tiny piece of positivity as the host bellows, "where is she going, audience?"
The call receives its response, "Ultimate! Torture! Machine!"
Unlike Jake, I'm not forced to strip; my suit stays, its silver a brittle armor as I'm led to the machine, its steel arms and nozzles gleaming like a predator's teeth. I'm strapped in, arms pinned to the rests, ankles clamped tight--the fabric stretching, a taut whisper against my skin, my creation teetering on the edge. My breath snags; this is mine, born from hidden stitches, and its ruin feels like peeling away my soul.
Jake's in the crowd, hands shaping a heart, and I lock onto his eyes, terror and longing a churning storm. I've craved this chaos, but not like this, not losing what I built.
The audience counts -- "One two THREE!" -- and the machine growls to life, a low, menacing hum vibrating through my bones.
The first cake is chocolate, and it crashes into my face with surprising force, a dense, wet slap of cold batter splattering my cheeks, oozing into my eyes with a gritty sting, the rich cocoa scent flooding my nose. I gasp, a sharp intake drowned by the crowd's roar, as it trickles down, seeping into the bodysuit's silver, a dark stain blooming across my neckline, the fabric clinging heavier.
The second cake is vanilla...
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