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 3: The Shower Scene

The hum of my sewing machine fills my tiny apartment, a steady buzz slicing through the quiet of the past few nights since After Hours Insanity. My fingers, steady now where they once trembled, guide silver fabric under the needle: shimmering and slick, a twin to the bodysuit I'd worn into the Ultimate Torture Machine, but this one's for Jake.

It's been days since I stood dripping in that studio, my shell shattered, and the rush hasn't faded. It's flared, a fire in my chest that's kept me sketching, stitching, dreaming. The suit takes shape: a deep V-neck plunging past his sternum, cutouts slashing across the hips, the fit tight and fluid, gender be damned. I snip the last thread, the metallic sheen winking under the lamplight, and grin, imagining him in it, that cocky smirk meeting my challenge, pies and cake smashing against its silver curves.

I text him: "Come over. Made you something. Bring your sweet tooth."

He's at my door in an hour, hair mussed, eyes glinting with that mix of amusement and trust I've come to crave.

"What's this?" he asks, stepping in, voice warm as he spots the suit draped over my couch, silver gleaming against the faded cushions.

I pick it up, holding it out, my pulse quickening. "Your turn," I say, teasing, "to wear something I made. Thought we'd mess it up. Privately, with something tasty this time."

His eyebrows shoot up, but his grin widens, and he takes it, fingers brushing mine, the touch sparking heat up my arm. "You're serious," he says, half-laughing, eyeing the V-neck, the cutouts. "This is crazy."

"Try it," I urge, stepping closer, my voice dropping, playful but firm. "For me."

He hesitates, then shrugs, peeling off his shirt, then his pants, and finally his underwear. I spot his muscles flexing, his skin catching the light. I bite my lip, the sight stirring that old pull from the show. He steps into the suit, the silver sliding up his legs, hugging his thighs, the fabric stretching taut as he zips it, the V-neck baring his chest, the cutouts framing his hips in a way that's both sharp and soft.

"Well?" he says, spinning with a mock strut, his grin sheepish but game, the suit's sheen dancing under my flickering bulb

I giggle. "Perfect!" I say, "bold as fuck, just like I wanted."

He smirks, tugging at the neckline. "Feels like I'm back in the Torture Machine," he says, but his eyes lock on mine, warm, trusting.

"Not this time," I say. "To the bathtub, cutie."

He ambles down the hall, his shapely butt looking irresistible in the tight suit as he walks away. Once he turns the corner, I quickly grab my arsenal from the kitchen: two custard pies and two whipped cream pies, chocolate syrup, honey, strawberry preserves, and a small sheet cake, half the size of those Torture Machine monsters, its chocolate frosting gleaming under plastic wrap.

I join him in the bathtub. "No crowd, just us. Ready to get sweet?"

His laugh rumbles, deep and eager, and he nods. "Hit me." I start with a custard pie, hefting it -- cool, heavy, the yellow filling wobbling -- and hurl it at his chest, a sharp thwack as it slams the silver, custard exploding across the V-neck, splattering his shoulders, the sweet, eggy scent bursting free as it drips in thick, gooey clumps, coating the suit in a sticky shroud.

He gasps, a startled laugh escaping, eyes wide with that Ultimate Torture Machine flash. He grabs a custard pie and launches it back. It smacks my chest with a wet squish, custard splattering my shirt, the cold shock seeping through, its creamy richness filling my nose as it slides down my front, a shiver of memory sparking: those studio cakes, his stunned grin. I laugh loudly and grab a whipped cream pie, flinging it at his face. It hits with a fluffy splat, white froth smashing his features, clinging to his jaw, dripping onto his neck in soft, airy streaks, the vanilla sweetness wafting up as he blinks through it, that cream-jet chaos alive in his eyes.

He retaliates, a whipped cream pie plopping into my face with a light thump, the cold fluff blinding me, coating my lips, the sugary scent flooding my senses as it drips down my chin, a Torture Machine echo igniting us both.

It escalates. Pies spent, bottles squeezed, hands smearing, the air thick with sugar and laughter. I squirt chocolate syrup at his hips, the warm, thick stream hitting the cutouts with a wet splat, cocoa bitterness wafting up as it oozes across the silver, staining it dark and glossy. He flings honey at my shoulder, a golden jet smacking my skin, the floral sweetness sticking, trickling slow and warm down my arm. I lob strawberry preserves at his chest, the tart red jam splattering the custard streaks, dripping in chunky bursts, the berry tang sharp as he grins through the mess.

He grabs my wrist, pulling me close, chocolate syrup from his fingers streaking my cheek, warm and tacky, the bitter richness coating my skin, and I smear honey across his chest, the suit's sheen vanishing under a sticky patchwork, my hands slipping against his warmth, his heartbeat quick under my palms.

"Your turn," I say, grinning, and unveil the sheet cake--chocolate-frosted, smaller but dense--placing it on the bathroom floor. "Sit," I dare, my voice low, charged, and he smirks, lowering himself onto it with a deliberate squish.

The cake crumbles under him, frosting squelching up through the silver, coating his thighs and hips, the suit's seams straining as creamy chocolate oozes, the rich scent flooding the room, his groan half-laugh, half-pleasure as it sticks to his skin.

I pounce, straddling him, our legs tangling, the suit's tatters clinging. Custard melts at his shoulders, whipped cream drips from his face, chocolate pools at his hips, honey and strawberry swirling across his chest, the silver a shredded memory beneath it all. My shirt's a wreck, soaked and streaked, custard and whipped cream blending in a gooey mess, my hands braced on his syrup-smeared chest, the slick warmth sparking a shiver, the air heavy with cocoa, berries, and honeyed heat.

He grins, his hand sliding to my waist, leaving a chocolate smear, the touch firm and electric. "Your dirtiest work yet," he says, nodding at the ruined suit, his voice low, teasing but tender, the cake's sticky weight shifting beneath him.

I laugh, leaning closer, the mess squishing between us, a wet squelch as our chests press, sugary scents wrapping us tight, memories flashing: cakes smashing, cream blasting, us breaking free together. "I made it to wreck it," I murmur.

His grin softens, his hand cupping my cheek, smearing whipped cream as his thumb brushes my lip, warm against the cooling mess.

We collapse there, the floor hard beneath us, the mess drying in tacky patches, chocolate crusting at my collarbone, honey hardening on his thighs, custard and cream slick along my spine, our breaths slowing, the bathroom quiet but for the faint drip of syrup from the bathroom tub's walls.

My chest swells, not with fear but with something fuller. Being tortured with mess on After Hours Insanity feels like the distant past, like we've been bonded by the experience but the humiliation has just fallen away. "Shower?" I ask, voice soft, a dare lingering as I shift, the stickiness binding us.

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