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 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!

This "Jake and Lila" series of stories is a little different, though. 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.

Happy reading!

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I sat in the audience of After Hours Insanity, the notorious adult-only game show known for pushing boundaries, my heart pounding with a mix of excitement and nerves. The prize--$1,000--was a tempting sum for a night's entertainment, but the real thrill came from the show's reputation for chaos and unpredictability.

We audience members weren't just spectators--we were potential contestants, randomly selected by the host to step into the spotlight, adding an element of thrilling randomness to the proceedings. The catch? Losers faced severe penalties, the details of which were whispered about in hushed, titillated tones, but never fully revealed until it was too late.

The studio lights blazed to life, bathing us in a kaleidoscope of neon colors, as the host--a flamboyant man in a sequined suit--strode onto the stage, arms outstretched, basking in the roar of the crowd.

"Ladies and gentlemen, in the studio and watching at home, welcome to After Hours Insanity!" he boomed, his voice amplified through the speakers and beamed out to millions via the live broadcast. The audience around me erupted in cheers, their excitement palpable, tinged with a hungry edge that made my pulse race.

"This is the only game show known for really pushing boundaries, where the stakes are high, the challenges are wild, and the penalties are--well, let's just say, unforgettable!" The crowd cheered louder, some whistling suggestively, their eyes gleaming with anticipation, and I couldn't help but feel a shiver of both dread and exhilaration.

The host grinned wickedly, pacing the stage as he continued, "For our first game of the day, I'm looking for a brave volunteer to take on a physical challenge--a test of strength, agility, and sheer determination--for a chance to win a cool $1,000 cash prize!"

The audience buzzed with excitement, hands shooting up around me, eager to be chosen, while others shrank back, wary of the risks. I felt a flutter in my stomach, my slim-fitting tank top clinging to my frame and my glossy gray leggings shimmering under the studio lights, marking me as someone who might stand out.

The host's gaze swept over the crowd, sharp and predatory, and I swear I felt it linger on me, a flicker of recognition in his eyes. "Ah, yes," he purred, his voice dripping with delight, "you, sir, in the athletic-wear--oh, you look like someone who'd excel at a physical challenge!"

When the host's finger finally pointed in my direction, my heart leapt into my throat. "You, sir, in the blue shirt--come on down!" he boomed, and the crowd erupted in cheers, their excitement palpable as I rose from my seat, a mix of dread and exhilaration coursing through me.

I made my way to the stage, feeling the weight of hundreds of eyes on me, their anticipation electric. A flush crept up my neck, but the thought of the cash prize--and the thrill of the unknown--steeled my resolve. It's just a game show, I told myself, and I'm in control.

As I reached the stage, the host's grin widened, his sequined suit glittering under the studio lights like a disco ball on steroids. The crowd's cheers washed over me, a mix of excitement and something hungrier, making my skin prickle with awareness. I stepped up to the microphone, trying to ignore the hundreds of eyes boring into me, and cleared my throat.

"Hi, uh, I'm Jake," I said, my voice cracking slightly, which only made the audience laugh and cheer louder.

"Jake, Jake, Jake!" the host boomed, throwing an arm around my shoulders as if we were old pals, though his grip was firm, almost possessive. "Welcome to After Hours Insanity, where the fit, the brave, and the foolish come to test their limits! And judging by that athletic-wear--oh, that tank top and those glossy leggings--you look like a man ready to take on anything!"

The crowd whistled and clapped, their excitement feeding into the electric atmosphere, and I felt a flush creep up my neck, both flattered and flustered by the attention. The host released me, stepping back to gesture grandly at the stage, where a series of props and equipment had been wheeled out--a mat, a set of lines marked on the floor, a pull-up bar, and a sit-and-reach box, all gleaming under the neon lights.

~~~~

The host loomed over me, his sequined suit glinting menacingly under the lights, and his voice dropped to a low, gleeful growl. "You only passed two out of four tests, my friend! That little stunt? Doesn't count! The money's not yours, Jake, and instead, you're probably not going to enjoy what's waiting for you!"

The shock hit me like a punch to the gut, my breath catching in my throat, my mind reeling as the reality sank in. I could feel the weight of the audience's eyes on me. I'd been so close--inches away--and now, because of my own desperate gambit, I'd lost it all.

Almost instantly, the host's demeanor changed, the happy-go-lucky showman vanishing as if a switch had flipped. His grin twisted into something darker, sadistic, his eyes gleaming with a cruel delight that made my skin crawl.

"Oh, Jake," he growled, his voice dropping to a low, menacing purr that sent a shiver down my spine, "You thought you could cheat your way to victory, didn't you? But rules are rules. It's time for your punishment -- and it's a doozy!"

He paused for effect, letting the tension build, then bellowed, "You're headed straight to our Ultimate Torture Machine!" My heart sank, plummeting into my stomach like a stone, the words echoing in my mind -- Ultimate Torture Machine. I'd heard the whispers in the audience, caught the glint in the host's eye whenever he mentioned those "infamous contraptions," but now it was real, and it was happening to me.

The host's grin widened, his sadistic glee unmistakable.

"But first, Jake," he said, his voice dripping with malice, "strip off all that clothing -- tank top, yoga pants, everything! Our audience demands a show, so you're going in naked!

The crowd went wild, their cheers turning into a relentless chant--"TAKE IT OFF! TAKE IT OFF!"--their voices rising in unison, a wall of sound that pressed down on me like peer pressure dialed up to eleven.

I pushed myself to my feet, my legs shaky from the sit-and-reach, my tank top soaked with sweat, my leggings clinging to my thighs, and I felt a flush of heat creep up my neck, my pulse pounding in my ears. Strip? Everything? I thought, my mind reeling, dread pooling in my gut. Hearing it laid out like this -- ordered to bare it all in front of a live audience, with that chant hammering at me -- hit me like a punch. But then, beneath the dread, something else stirred--curiosity, a strange, inexplicable pull toward whatever this "Ultimate Torture Machine" might be. I'd made it this far, pushed through exhaustion and fear, and part of me wondered what awaited, what could possibly live up to that name.

Resignation settled in, heavy but steady, and the crowd's relentless "TAKE IT OFF! TAKE IT OFF!" chant, their unbridled enthusiasm, pushed me forward, like a current I couldn't fight. I signed up for this, I told myself, swallowing hard, my hands trembling as I reached for the hem of my tank top. No turning back now.

I pulled the tank top over my head, the damp fabric peeling away from my skin, and tossed it aside, the cool studio air hitting my bare chest, raising goosebumps. The crowd's chant grew louder--"TAKE IT OFF! TAKE IT OFF!"--a deafening roar that drowned out my racing thoughts, and I kicked off my sneakers, then hooked my thumbs into the waistband of my glossy gray leggings, hesitating for a split second before sliding them down, stepping out of them along with everything else. The spotlight burned against my skin, every inch of me exposed, his voice booming over the chaos.

"There he is, folks! Jake in all his glory, ready for the the crowd took over with a chant, derisive and aimed at my very exposed ego: "Ultimate! Torture! Machine!"

My heart thudded, a mix of dread, curiosity, and resignation swirling in my chest as I stood there, naked under the lights.

Two assistants in sleek black uniforms emerged from the wings, their faces impassive, and gestured toward a hulking, shadowy contraption at the back of the stage--the Ultimate Torture Machine, its silhouette menacing under the flickering neon. I took a deep breath, the air cold against my bare skin, and started walking, the crowd's excitement propelling me forward, my fate sealed. What the hell is this thing? I wondered, my steps faltering but steady, the thrill of the unknown tugging me toward it despite the sinking in my heart.

My breath caught in my throat as I turned to face it, a futuristic, dystopian nightmare of gleaming metal and complex machinery looming ahead, its sleek, intimidating design sending a shiver down my spine.

Five full-sized sheet cakes--chocolate and vanilla--perched on mechanical arms, aimed directly at the seat where I was headed, their creamy, crumbly forms glinting ominously under the stage lights. I knew what they'd do: smash into me with sticky, messy force, plastering my face and body in batter and icing.

My heart pounded with fear, each cake a looming blow to my dignity, and I could already imagine the impact, the crowd's jeers amplifying my dread.

But the rest of the machine filled me with an even deeper unease, its mysteries gnawing at me. Nozzles and jets protruded from every angle--some pointed at my crotch, others at my buttocks and face--sleek and metallic, their purposes hidden. Would they spray water, oil, something sticky, or worse? The uncertainty twisted in my gut, my mind racing with visions of cold, scalding, or gooey blasts hitting my most sensitive spots.

Above, a large bucket hung suspended, its bright, opaque surface concealing its contents--water, paint, or something thick and slimy? I couldn't tell, and the not-knowing sent a cold sweat breaking out on my forehead, my imagination spinning with terrifying possibilities.

Six swiveling cannons, positioned at chest height, above, below, and behind, bristled with colorful liquids or gels, their futuristic design and pressurized nozzles hinting at chaos I couldn't predict -- harmless, painful, or utterly humiliating?

My fear spiked, a visceral knot tightening in my chest. I took a slow, nervous walk toward the machine, each step heavy with apprehension, the crowd's jeers and cheers a relentless tide behind me. "Go on, Jake!" some shouted, while others laughed, their excitement fueling a confusing mix of dread, arousal, and curiosity in me.

My legs trembled as I approached the seat, my eyes darting between the cakes I dreaded, the mysterious nozzles, the enigmatic cannons, and the ominous bucket -- each a promise of overwhelming, unpredictable chaos. I hesitated, my heart racing, before reluctantly lowering myself into the chair.

The restraints clicked into place--arms fastened to the armrests, ankles to the legs--and a surge of panic gripped me, mingling with a twisted anticipation. I was trapped, exposed, and utterly vulnerable, my naked skin prickling under the lights, my mind swirling with dread about the unknown messes coming, yet strangely excited by the intensity of what lay ahead.

Part 4: Public Humiliation in the Ultimate Torture Machine

The host's voice boomed over the speakers, cutting through the tension. "Ladies and gentlemen," he announced with a wicked grin, "let's give this man the messy fate he deserves! On the count of three!"

The audience erupted, their voices rising in unison: "One two THREE!" Each number slammed into me like a hammer, my dread spiking to a fever pitch, my palms slick with sweat as I braced myself in the restraints.

Then, with a deafening hum, the machine roared to life, and the first cake -- chocolate, heavy and sticky -- slammed into my face, splattering across my cheeks, nose, and eyes. I gasped, stunned, my vision blurred by batter and icing, the crowd roaring with delight as I flinched under the messy assault.

Humiliation flooded me, naked and pelted in front of hundreds, but the chair's gentle vibration buzzed against my loins, sending tingles through me, and I felt a confusing jolt of arousal despite the chaos, my body responding even as I squirmed in embarrassment. And this was only the beginning.

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