Hello my lovely messy subscribers,

Hope you’re all well, so glad that you seemed to love the recent stories! I had fun writing them.

Things have gone a little south since then. I’m largely OK, but struggling through some mental health stuff, and it’s affecting my day job somewhat. So I’m asking for a bit of help from friends.

Since I launched this blog I’ve just been so fucking jazzed to meet you all - I never thought I’d find such a cool community of slimy legends. It’s been so much fun chatting, flirting, and collaborating.

If you like the stories but have never reached into your pockets, now would be a lovely chance. A one-off donation, or a super-cheap monthly one, might help me actually keep writing.

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I had some plants to make this a more fully-written themed fundraiser, tying it into a GungeWorld story. But life happens, I guess! So I’m basically just asking you for money right now. The stories, which I’m very proud of, will always be free and not paywalled.

(Also, if you don’t donate, Faye will pop round in four to five business days.)

Thank you so much my sweet custard cuties you are the best

Daisy xxxxoxoxoxoox

Hello my minty humbugs,

Here’s another gooey tale for you. This is another one of those stories that jumped into my head and wouldn’t leave, so I thought I’d better get it out as quickly as possible. Please forgive any typos.

After some more ambitious stories, I think I just needed to retreat to my favourite vibe. A lovely thicc girl and tons of mess. Hope you enjoy!

Prologue

“That sounds really exciting! I’ve never done one of these little skits before. It’s always been the gameshow type thing.”

“Which is a terrible oversight on my part, darling. I should have written one for you much sooner than this. You’ve got such fabulous, funny energy.”

“Aww. Thanks.”

“And I know how much you love being called a naughty slut.”

“Puah!”

Phoebe nearly spat out her drink, and blushed beet-red. She looked up at Alexa’s smug grin.

“Hey… I mean… well, yeahhh…”

“Exactly. So you’ll be perfect.”

“Oh… okay then.”

There was a mildly awkward silence. Phoebe tried to hide her embarrassment. Just hearing those words from Alexa had set her slightly aflutter.

“So it’s all, like, scripted? Do I have to learn my lines?”

“It’s somewhat pre-written, yes. But I’d like to keep some surprised reactions in there - so you’ll have the lines on autocue while we film it, rather than ahead of time.”

“Being surprised is pretty fun.” She was smiling again now, her cheeks glowing.

“Anything else you’d like to know?”

Phoebe pondered. “Anything I should know, like… contractually?”

“It’s all covered under your Main Cast waiver. Just accept the invite - it’s in your inbox. Then I can send you the fee.”

“Yes, you mentioned the fee.” Phoebe blushed again. “It’s very generous.”

“Just like your rack, you fat slut.”

“Puah!”

I: Rude Awakening

The opening shot faded in. Blurry at first, then sharpening to reveal the gorgeous, plump figure of Phoebe, tonight’s protagonist. She was comfortably housed in a plush leather chair, black with sharp silver detailing.

Her eyes were closed, head resting gently to the side, hands inert in her lap. Her wavy red hair spilled untidily down to her shoulders. Her signature accessory, a cute yellow bow - the thing that caught the attention of the Tik-Tok flicking masses - was fastened askance on top.

A thin but firm leather strap was fastened across her torso, just between her soft round belly and her breathtaking bust. The latter was contained - barely - by a thrillingly tight cut-off t-shirt, purple in colour. Her large nipples, already stiffened slightly by anticipation, stood out as clear as day.

Below, a pair of black denim hotpants completed her outfit, hugging her wide juicy hips. Her bare feet were nestled into the seat’s comfortable leg-rest, manicured nails painted scarlet, a few shades darker than her red hair. A twinkling soundtrack of space-age ambience, all chimes and gentle beeps, played at a subtle volume.

Obeying her directions, Phoebe started to stir, pretending to wake up from sleep. She blinked open those big green eyes, and looked around, apparently confused. She brushed her hair from her face, and let her mouth, ringed by scarlet lipstick, hang open curiously.

“Whuhhh? What happened…”

She seemed to notice the tightness around her waist, and her hands sprang to investigate.

“What? Why am I…”

Wide awake now, she cast her gaze around in a panic.

“Where am I?”

welcome ## to the humili-a-tron ## please do not be alarmed

The voice was unsettlingly synthetic. Female, with a mid-Atlantic accent. Its tone was calm, lilting, ever so slightly sultry.

It sounded familiar, but Phoebe couldn’t quite place it. Who did the VO for this?

“What? What’s a humility-tron?”

the humili-a-tron is an advanced multifunctional device ## its primary use is the humiliation of naughty sluts ## who have been very bad and need to be punished

Phoebe continued to act outraged, but that sentence - delivered in that cool, robotic tone - hit her right in the stomach.

She took a breath, then continued to read from the oversized autocue Alexa had set up just behind the main camera.

“Punished? What the - wait - who the hell are you, lady?”

i am an artificial intelligence assistant ## my name is ## slut punishment live operation system helper ## or splosh for short if you prefer ## it is a pleasure to meet you ## please feel free to ask me any questions

“Your name is Splosh?”

that is ## correct ## what is your name

“Uhhh… I’m Phoebe. This is weird.”

She followed the stage direction to take a good look at her surroundings. There wasn’t that much to see, if you weren’t counting Alexa, plus her crew and producers, there behind the fourth wall.

Her chair was seated in a small, blocky sort of alcove, something like a spaceship’s storage closet. There were chrome-coloured pipes and industrial-looking grey boxes all around her. Straight ahead, there was a tall oblong block with a round camera lens and a speaker. Other angles were captured by roving Stagehands with two more rigs.

Hidden from Phoebe’s sight by a sliding screen was her co-star for today. Eve, the cheeky and hilarious comedian-slash-model, was sequestered in a sound-dampened booth. An expensive mic fed into the filters that would make her sound sexy, aloof and robotic.

She watched a monitor to gauge Phoebe’s reactions, and followed her own script, knowing she had license to improvise, as long as she hit the beats right.

welcome ## phoebe ## what a pretty name

“Thanks, I… wait!”

She pointed an accusing finger straight ahead of her. “Is that a camera? Are you recording me?”

that is ## correct

“Well, turn it off!”

i am sorry ## phoebe ## but i do not have access to ## system camera shutdown subroutines

“Then let me out! I didn’t agree to this!”

i am sorry ## phoebe ## but i do not have access to ## slut restraint release subroutines

“Grrrah! You’re useless! At least tell me how I got here, for Christ’s sakes!”

you were selected as a candidate for the humili-a-tron ## due to statistical analysis of your sexual activity ## indicating unusually high levels of sluttiness

The stage directions here just said [outraged gasp], which Phoebe pulled off very well.

“Sluttiness? Shut up! What do you even mean?”

preparing list of illustrative examples

Phoebe frowned.

analysis indicates that your participation in ## group sex ## is in the ## seventy-ninth percentile ## of the population

She gasped again. “So? What the hell does that matter?”

sex on a first date ## eighty-fifth percentile

“I just don’t waste time, that’s-”

group sex on a first date ## eighty-ninth percentile

“I mean, sure, but-”

sucking cock ## ninety-second percentile

“Wait, how do you-”

sucking cock in public ## ninety-fifth percentile

“Wha… !?”

sending a video of you masturbating and squirting to your line manager ## ninety ninth-percentile

“Shut up! Stop it!”

Phoebe gave the quickest of dirty looks towards Alexa behind the camera. That particular example was a true story - Phoebe had shared it unashamedly on a podcast once, but it was still rather devilish of Alexa to include it in the script.

halting list of illustrative examples

“That’s not fair! The video thing was an accident, it only happened one time!

for the majority of people that has happened ## zero times

Phoebe balled her fists and smacked them against her thick thighs in frustration. “Why do you even care? It’s 2026, what’s wrong with being a slut?”

as an artificial intelligence assistant ## i am not capable of making moral judgements ## i am simply here to ensure efficient functioning ## of the humili-a-tron

“Then who wants to punish me?”

the humili-a-tron was designed by ## professor mountjoy ## who also programmed me

“And who’s this Professor Mountjoy? Some kind of… horny mad scientist?”

that is ## correct

“So, he captures girls and punishes them in here. And takes video too, so he can jerk off to it later. Am I right?”

that is ## partially correct

“Partially?”

professor mountjoy ## uses pronouns she her

The bound hottie made a good fist of looking embarrassed. “Oh, I’m sorry…”

that is okay

“But she does still… ah dammit, never mind.”

She left a little space in the scene after that back-and-forth, squirming and glancing around. “I guess it’s not the weirdest thing I’ve ever done,” she muttered, ad-libbing. “Pretty damn close though…”

Finally, she gave a deep sigh, and looked at the camera with a slight wince.

“So what sort of punishment are we talking, then? Is it gonna hurt?”

the humili-a-tron is not designed ## to cause physical pain

“Erm… I guess that’s good? But c’mon, quit beating round the bush. Just tell me.”

are you familiar with ## gunge

Phoebe did a good few seconds of playing surprised. “Er… did you just say gunge?”

that is ## correct

“You mean like… on the TV?”

Phoebe was having fun now, leaning into the scene’s premise of her being unaware of gunge kink. Of course, nothing could be further from the truth.

that is ## correct ## gunge is a colourful gooey substance ## typically made from chemicals such as nastrasol ## that has been featured in many-

“Oh stop, Splosh, shut up!”

Phoebe started to laugh. “I know what gunge is, you muppet! I’m just… confused.”

please feel free to ask me any questions

“Are you actually telling me that my ‘punishment’ is getting gunged?”

that is ## partially correct

She gave an obvious full-body wince at this point, her butt rubbing against the leather beneath. She could feel the scene’s momentum shifting, its first turning point sure to arrive soon.

“Partially?”

The blaring of a klaxon filled Phoebe’s ears, and she yelped in alarm, her hands shooting up in front of her.

Not that soon!

It was a familiar feeling, that firm slosh against her crown, followed immediately by those heavy, wet arcs, gooping and slapping against the plentiful expanses and curves of her squirming form.

“Yee-eee-aah!”

Her high-pitched squeal wasn’t scripted - there was just a certain instinctual reaction to being slathered in gallons of goo.

The slop was pouring from a simple circular hatch above, descending in a thick, cylindrical stream, streaked half-lemon, half-lime. It was high enough to form a pleasing dome of gunge, cascading off her beautiful hair, but low enough to ensure those deflected splatters didn’t travel out too far. That, combined with the gunge’s glossy thickness, meant that serious quantities of gently warm goop proceeded to splat, flow and ooze down Phoebe’s beautiful, heavy body.

She felt her heart thumping as the gunge flowed over and into her tiny top, massaging and smothering her huge breasts as if the garment were barely even there. Her nipples tingled and her shoulders writhed at the sensation. She held her hands to her head - as a professional, she knew that the “helplessly cowering” pose always appealed to the watching fans, but she was also ever-fascinated by the feeling of gunk plastering her glossy auburn hair, the crude ruination of something delicate and pretty.

Lower down, her shorts provided slightly more protection, the slime not immediately soaking through the denim to coat her pussy. But it still pooled there, sloshing about in the curvy V of her lap. Her beautiful fat thighs, wriggling and jiggling, endured splatter after heavy splatter, sloshing down from her head and shoulders, until they were utterly slick with neon gunk. And the chair’s design encouraged the liquid to collect in the footrests, Phoebe’s painted toes splashing and curling in the two slimy little ponds.

Phoebe made quiet flustered sounds as the gunk kept sloshing relentlessly down - Alexa clearly wasn’t starting her off gently. After several long seconds more, she felt the gooey river start to abate. As the last few litres oozed down in a thin stream, she carefully wiped her palms across her face, and exhaled.

She looked down, and had to laugh at the absolute state of herself. Bloody hell. Not starting gently at all, no sir.

She was a hot messy wreck. If the t-shirt wasn’t slutty enough before, it certainly was now - drooping with liquid weight to expose a tempting slimy cleavage, and clinging firmly to the bulge of her tits. Her tummy was totally coated in slop, jiggling with her laughter. And her legs were a disaster zone, so much gunge just sitting there, oozing and dripping. The slow seep under gravity, down over her whole body, gave her butterflies.

your punishment is now ## partially complete

“Right. Hah. Okay.”

She continued to slightly de-gunge herself, wiping her arms and shoulders, not that it did much good.

did you like that ## slut

“Um, excuse me?” Phoebe pointed her gaze at the camera, brows arched, and raised an accusatory finger.

did you like that ## phoebe

She gave a skeptical frown - I’ve got my eye on you, Splosh.

The next line scrolled onto the prompter, prefaced by the direction [trying to seem breezy and cool].

“Hahhh. Well, this is more than a bit weird, I must say,” she began, scooping some goo up from her lap and playing with it, thin dribbles running through her fingers. “But honestly, it’s also sort of… nice…”

good ## then have some more ## slut

“Motherf-!”

The klaxon perfectly interrupted her expletive, and Phoebe was treated to another very generous helping of thick gunge, this time a streaky mix of blue and purple.

The helpless girl squealed and cursed, rocking gently back and forth, side to side in her seat, sending splatters and splashes out at new angles with every frustrated little movement.

As gallons more of the gooey matter clung to her body, her muscles felt heavier and heavier, a beautifully strange and surreal feeling. The padded leather under her back and bum was so slippery now - without the restraining belt, she might be slip-sliding off the damn chair entirely.

Through the loud, embarrassing hail of wet, slimy noises, she heard a little interjection from the machine.

ha ha ha

“Hey! Pluah, you’re… spluh…”

She decided to let the slimy shower run out before trying to give a coherent objection. Finally, once the flow slackened, she was able to breathe again, albeit heavily. She gave another weary face-wipe.

“You’re… glmph… laughing at me?”

that is ## correct

“I thought you were just an AI? What happened to not judging?”

as an artificial intelligence assistant ## i am not capable of making moral judgements ## however ## via my image recognition subroutines ## i am able to visually identify a ## hot slut ## covered in ## messy gunge

“Well, good for you.”

all evidence indicates that this is ## classic british slapstick humour ## therefore i have been programmed to laugh ## ha ha ha

Phoebe wrinkled her nose, and put on a mocking schoolyard voice. “Yeah, harr harr harr.”

There was a slight pause. And then, from an aperture just beside the camera lens, a bright flash of light. It made Phoebe squeak, and recoil, genuinely shocked.

“The fuck?”

processing image ## image processed ## please see left dispensing slot for pictorial evidence of ## classic british slapstick humour

There was a whirring noise near Phoebe’s left arm, which caught her attention. She saw that one of the blocky props close to her seat had a small slot in its top side. Poking out of that slot was now a glossy, Polaroid-style photograph.

She reached out a dripping arm, and took the photo by its corner, obviously knowing what it depicted. Drawing it close in for a look, she had to give a rueful laugh. It was an upper-body shot of her post-gunging self - it had captured a great “extremely miffed” expression on her face.

It was also a rare occurrence to see how she looked covered in slop, while she was still covered in slop. Normally, she’d have to wait for the GungeWorld video to come out. It felt strangely meta. And it wasn’t unwelcome at all - she had to admit, she looked fucking amazing.

“Okay, okay. I suppose that is quite funny.”

you have a good sense of humour ## phoebe ## would you like to hear a joke

She rolled her eyes, and flicked the Polaroid away through the air, trying for nonchalance.

“Why not? Go on then.”

knock knock

“Who’s there?”

interrupting custard pie

Phoebe laughed softly, clenching her fingers and closing her eyes before she responded.

“Interrupting custa-”

Swoosh. Twang. SPLAT!

From a spring-loaded platform, revealed behind a sliding panel, an enormously thick and gooey flan launched itself hard into Phoebe’s wincing face.

“Hrrrk!”

The pie exploded into a starburst of white gunge, instantly leaving a halo of splatter on the chair behind her head. Her face was fully smothered from ear to ear, a bright blob atop the sea of neon goop that was her body. Creamy globs of various sizes began to fall down her shoulders and her quaking chest. Little streaks of yellow, the custard base beneath the cream, dripped down her cheeks, and patches of wet pastry clung to the mass.

“Guh! Pluh…”

Phoebe let her mouth hang open comically, licking her lips. Eventually, she reached up to give her eyes a theatrically weary wipe.

ha ha ha

“Yes yes, very good.” She flicked globs of goo from her fingers. “I think I’m beginning to understand what Professor Mount-”

She was nailed mid-sentence by another sharp splat, this pie emerging from a panel on the other side. With no warning this time, the poor girl was left reeling and spluttering, flapping her hands helplessly.

“Bluhh! You little, spleh…”

Her red hair was now plastered in sticky white muck. Panting, she pawed at her face, and attempted to finish her line, well aware of the lurking danger.

“What Professor Mountjoy is-”

Splat! Another huge helping of cool, whipped gunk slammed into her cheeks. The sweet goo tumbled down in thick heaps, onto her belly and into her lap.

“Pluh… is into.”

Three more fat, gooey payloads launched at Phoebe’s messy face in quick succession, a brutal barrage of stupid, sexy humiliation. The helpless stooge squeaked and flailed, her world becoming a riot of creamy gunge and oozy custard.

“Nyahhh… what the… oh my god…”

She held her hands meekly in front of her, feeling dairy and starch splat onto her palms. Her pulse raced as she tried to breathe easy, still fearing more sudden splatters.

ha ha ha ## get pied slut

“Oi!” she huffed, indignantly. “You’d better watch your mouth, robo-girl!”

i do not have a mouth

“Lucky for you, otherwise I’d give it a slap! I’m starting to think you’re not so innocent.”

i am simply deploying appropriate entries from my ## in-built verbal humiliation libraries

She gave the camera a dirty look. “Hmmm.”

Trying to gather her poise, she did her best to rid her face of the ridiculous sticky matter. Every movement of her body was in some way slippery or squelchy, which made her shudder inwardly. But the show must go on.

II: Getting Saucy

“Are you done, then? Can I go?”

your punishment is now ## partially complete

“Ugh, I should have guessed. So, what next? Seeing as you like slapstick so much. Make me slip on a banana peel? Get my head stuck in a tin bucket?”

i do not have access to ## banana peel or ## tin bucket ## subroutines

“Ha. Shame, I’d like to see those.”

take off your shirt

Phoebe’s shocked-and-appalled face was excellent. “Ex-cuse me?”

you heard me slut ## take off your shirt

She transitioned into a laugh of disbelief. “Oh my god! You’re actually a total pervert!”

i am simply following predetermined punishment protocol ## now take it off ## and show me those fat titties

“Hah! You horny little bitch!”

She smirked at the camera for a few beats, then let her eyes drop, looking at her top, all soaked in gunge and streaked with cream.

“Fuck it.”

Laughing quietly, and with increasing pangs of arousal, she crossed her arms over her chest, and grasped the bottom of her t-shirt. She yanked it up, giving a naughty giggle as her heavy, teardrop-shaped boobs sprang out of it, jiggling temptingly.

As she struggled to drag the sticky top over her head, Splosh chipped in.

no bra huh ## what a surprise

“You!” Phoebe cried, muffled by her arms and shirt. She gave a final tug, and the garment eventually came off, leaving wispy tangles in her creamy hair. “How can you even tell?”

via my image recognition subroutines ## i am able to visually identify ## honking great mommy milkers ## with big juicy nipples

Phoebe simply gawped in response. Then she took a moment, chuckled filthily, and cupped her breasts, gently stroking them.

“At least we know your image recognition’s calibrated right…”

even a game boy camera ## could recognise ## those badonkers

“Splosh! You’re so bloody naughty!”

i am not the one who is ## playing with her tits ## in a gunge tank

Phoebe blushed, but happily. “You actually seem a bit obsessed with my boobs, Splosh.” She caressed their lower curves seductively.

“I reckon you want to gunge these puppies, don’t you? Get them all slimy… and slippery…”

that is ## partially correct

“Ha! Let me guess…”

She lowered her hands, holding them cutely in her lap, her forearms giving her tits a gentle squeeze.

i want to pie them too

“I knew it - yeeep!”

One of the spring-arms, carefully adjusted, instantly flung another sweet flan at Phoebe’s chest. It smacked loudly against her bare skin, merely grazing her left breast, but fully smothering her right.

Phoebe giggled at the sight of fluffy cream splattering up in front of her face. And the cold, sticky hug against her hard nipple made her sigh with delight.

Barely a second later, she heard a mechanical whirr - and her eyes flicked upwards to watch two smooth streams of bright pink slop arc down from the upper corners of the booth, aimed squarely at her tits.

“Eee-hee-hee!”

The lush slop splashed down, and began to coat her magnificent mammaries in a silky, sensual sheen.

Another pie splattered her tits hard, flying in from the opposite side. It stung her sensitive flesh, just a little, just enough to feel good, to feel like punishment.

She had a desperate urge to grope herself, to let her fingers play in all that sexy goo. But, ever the professional, she let the viewers have an unobstructed view for a little while longer. She squirmed and squealed through two more big splattery booby pies, the thick cream exploding and smothering, then washing down into her lap, mixed with pink slop.

It was too much to bear. With a moan of delight, she grasped her tits in both hands, revelling in the wet, sloppy sensation as she massaged herself.

fuck yes ## rub it all over ## like a good little slut

The combination of sensual glop and naughty teasing was driving her wild. She found herself biting her lip, and grunting with arousal as two more fat cream pies smacked into her busily-employed hands.

“Mph…”

The arcs of slime finally petered out, and the pie-flingers stayed quiet. Phoebe gave a slightly disappointed moan, but still felt warm and fuzzy, more than ready for her next gooey, kinky punishment.

And a good thing too. The klaxon blared, puncturing the quiet once again.

slime shower time ## ha ha ha

“Waaah-ha-ha-ha!”

The horny, topless hottie laughed helplessly as another plentiful helping of gunge was sloshed wantonly over her head. She held her hands in front of her, palms up, enjoying the feel of the pinky-orange slime splashing over them, running through her fingers. Her slippery legs wiggled against each other, and her flushed, tingling chest heaved slowly up and down, steadily caressed by a slimy river.

Once the latest tank was finally expended, the slightly breathless girl gave another theatrical wipe of her face, flicking goop off her hand rather pointedly.

“Thanks Splosh.”

you are welcome ## phoebe

Having started out grey and utilitarian, the Humili-A-Tron was now looking much more cheerful. Great splashes of colour were slathered over the blocks and pipes surrounding Phoebe, and the floor was a shallow, rainbow-hued swamp, steadily oozing further and further out from the gloppy, gooey figure in the punishment chair. She couldn’t help but giggle naughtily at the sight.

Another line of the script rolled onto the prompter. She noted the direction: [exaggerated and sarcastic]. In preparation, she put on a pout and readied her sing-song voice.

“I wonder, I wonder, I wonder,” she began. “What-ever could be next? Surely not a load more custard pies and sloppy gunge. There’s just no way there could be any more of that.”

are you familiar with ## bukkake

Phoebe genuinely stiffened in her seat, her eyes going wide and her mouth hanging gently open.

Behind the camera, Alexa drank in the reaction greedily. That surprised you, didn’t it darling?

“Erm… erm…” she stammered. There were no lines on the prompter.

bukkake ## is a sex act and genre of pornography ## in which multiple males ejaculate ## usually onto the-

“Yes!” she cried, shutting up the cool robotic voice. “Yes, I know what it means. But you don’t mean… I mean, are you hiding some… you’re not…”

i do not have access to ## a bunch of guys with hot ready loads ## phoebe

“Ooo-kay…”

however ## with the use of simple technology ## i am able to create ## a suitably accurate simulation

“...oh.”

She realised exactly what was about to ensue, just as she heard two clunky noises from her left and right, then a steady whirring.

“Mmmh!”

The two rubber cocks were long, thick, and heart-stoppingly realistic. Phoebe watched them emerge from the walls, flicking her eyes from one to the other as they slid steadily towards her. They were mounted on sturdy steel rods, at slightly unequal angles.

One was a peach tone, the other brown, both with darker, bulbous heads and large balls. She could pick out the bumps of veins, and what seemed like a light glisten of sweat. Her heart was absolutely pounding. She let out little nervous squeaks, involuntarily.

phoebe ## are you okay

“Um… this is making me a bit nervous, actually!”

The dildoes came to a sudden stop, each a foot or so away from her, and utterly blatant in their intent. One’s upraised head was angled towards her face, and the other, slightly lower, had her slimy tits in its sights.

really ## that is strange

“What do you mean?”

my research indicates ## you have plenty of experience ## getting cummed on

Phoebe was aghast.

ninety seventh percentile

“Augh! Fuck off! I’ve certainly never done whatever…”

She gestured vaguely with her hand, trying not to actually touch the obscene devices.

“Whatever this is supposed to be.”

well guess what slut ## you are about to

Phoebe grimaced, squirming in her seat. “I mean… I guess I’ve seen some videos…”

why am i not surprised

“Hmph!”

Extremely unhelpfully, the script at this point just said [Improvise].

Gingerly, Phoebe lifted her right hand, and gave a gentle stroke to the shaft of the darker cock, the one threatening to spill over her chest. It was slightly lubed, and surprisingly warm to the touch.

Splosh didn’t seem to be offering any encouragement. So she just continued, a bashful look on her face as she curled her fingers around it. Trying to be soft and seductive, she started to gently rub up and down, twisting her hand, varying her stroke.

With that one safely in hand, she took a deep, nervous breath, and decided to address the other one with her mouth. She leaned forwards, having to strain a little, her back and bum slithering against the leather seat.

Giving a little moan, she kissed and teased the helmet of the thing, employing lips and tongue with supple firmness. Soon, she opened wider, and placed her lips at the top of the stiff column, then started to draw them back and forth.

Working slowly and sensually, Phoebe shivered inwardly, marvelling at the length and thickness of these two monsters. A little faster now, a little firmer.

ha ha ha ## ha ha ha

Her growing sense of horny reverie was rudely shattered by the robotic laugh. Phoebe, outraged, clumsily withdrew her mouth from the upper dick, and harrumphed in annoyance.

“What? What’s so funny?”

they are not real ## phoebe ## there is no need to ## physically get them off

“But I… I thought…”

you saw a thick cock and thought ## that belongs in my mouth ## you thirsty whore

“You… you fucking bitch! What was I supposed to do, then?”

how about ## you sit there and take your cum shower ## like a good slut

The first volley of white slime arrived without further warning.

“Gmmmph!”

Phoebe jerked in her seat and screwed her eyes shut, as she felt a warm wave of fake spunk splattering against her left cheek.

It squirted under high pressure, and was definitely unrealistic in volume. She could immediately feel this was the biggest, sloppiest facial she’d ever taken - and what’s more, it wasn’t stopping.

A second splurge of clammy gunge hit her, streaking across her face from top to bottom. And she felt a heavy gush against her tits too, splashing across their top curves, tracing enticing little drippy trails through the sheen of pink slime they were already covered in.

Her stomach churned, filled with a dark variety of slutty, submissive pleasure. She kept her eyes shut, and only opened her mouth to take little, gaspy breaths - trying to avoid snorting an embarrassing cum-bubble from her nose. Her hands writhed and squirmed in her lap. The realistic smell of it was making her head spin.

The toys angled themselves subtly back and forth, ensuring an appropriate amount of Phoebe’s face and chest got streaked with the cock-goo.

oh yes ## good slut

“Mmmf…”

After a little while - after the toys had dispensed a couple of dozen thick spurts each - the lower one decided to raise up, clearly deciding that her tits were painted enough. It took a moment to realise, but when she registered that she was now getting a long double facial, Phoebe squeaked in discomfort.

Her squirming in the slimy seat became more pronounced, and her breath shortened. It was so fucking dirty, this merciless slathering in fake spooge, so deliciously fucking degrading. She could barely summon coherent thoughts other than cumslut, cumdumpster, cumrag…

The rain of sticky slime stopped as suddenly as it had started. Phoebe felt herself exhale in relief. But she still sat there obediently, eyes closed, just sitting in the moment. All she could hear was her own breath, and the soft music humming away in the background. The familiar scent, and that telltale texture, dripping down her cheeks and chin… it was so much filthier, more fiercely sexual, than any normal gunging. It felt incredible.

Her reverie was interrupted by that familiar rude smack of cold cream, square in her face. And it was immediately followed by a loud volley of splurge.

The naughty toys had decided to give up any semblance of realism. The steady pulse of pearly ribbons was replaced with an all-out twin gush of cummy, lubey goo, splattering hard all over Phoebe’s shocked face. As they did so, the pie-flinging arms gave her a short, sharp barrage, six of the best in total, all delivered in quick succession right to the poor girl’s spluttering mush. Phoebe bucked in her seat, limbs jerking and flailing, as she gasped for breath.

ha ha ha ## get creamed bitch

After the last pie hit, the sticky white slime gushed for a few more seconds, before finally ceasing. Phoebe snorted, panted, and softly whimpered, seriously shocked by the cruel escalation.

Before she could gather the sense to wipe her face, she saw a bright flash through her closed eyelids, and heard the whirring of a device beside her. Oh, fuck you, she thought.

image processing ## image processed ## please see left dispensing slot

Phoebe made annoyed noises as she pawed at her spunky, slimy face, just so she could obey the instruction - she knew she had to. Once she could see again, she sighed, and reached down to take the polaroid that jutted from the slot.

She looked down at the photo, and stifled a shocked giggle. “Jesus…”

It was quite the scene, and certainly a step up in scandalousness from the previous picture. Her face, shoulders and bare tits were smothered and dripping in sticky, pearlescent slop. A drip hung from the top lip of her open mouth. She was the very vision of a hyper-debased bukkake cumslut. But she was also still infrequently adorned with smears and globs of creamy custard-pie filling, enough to add that element of clownish, slapstick embarrassment too.

hashtag new profile pic ## el oh el

That also got a laugh out of her. “Erm! Well, maybe on the right dating sites, heh heh…”

III: All the Way

Phoebe tried to gather herself. After seeing the silly photo, the sharpest pangs of humiliation in her stomach had been just a little blunted. She made weak efforts to de-spunk herself, still enjoying that clingy, enveloping sensation.

take off your shorts

This elicited a raised eyebrow, but it was hard to be entirely surprised. “Yeah, I thought that might be coming. Ah… not easy though…”

The restraining strap was still snug around her torso. She had some latitude to swivel and scooch her bum about in the chair, but the process of unbuttoning those denim shorts, and trying to drag them down her thick thighs, was very yelpy and undignified.

any time this week ## would be great

“Oh shut up! If you hadn’t made me so bloody sticky…”

Eventually, Phoebe managed to kick the clammy garment onto the floor. She took a breath to compose herself, uselessly tucking her slathered hair behind her ears. The cute little bow was somehow still sitting there in her locks. (Phoebe had long since researched the right clips and adhesives to use under heavy gunge assault.)

She sat up straight, hands resting on her thighs.

“There you are then. Got me all on display, huh?”

scanning local environment

“Um… what?”

scan complete ## scan confirms presence of ## extremely wet pussy

“Ack!”

Instinctually embarrassed, Phoebe squeezed her legs together, planting a hand into her crotch, eyes wide. “Oi! You can’t say that to a lady!”

good thing you are a slut ## not a lady

“Nnnh!”

There had been no lines on the prompter for a while. There didn’t need to be - the girl’s affronted yelps were utterly genuine.

now spread your legs ## and show me ## that juicy pussy

“F-f-f-what!?”

you heard me ## slut

Phoebe was quivering with anticipation. She gave a meek and defeated look towards the Humili-a-tron’s camera, the closest thing available to making eye contact. She rested her hands nervously on the chair’s slimy arms, and let her thighs spread wide, her bare feet nestling in the outer corners of the slimy footrests below.

“Hnnn-gggh…”

you seem uncomfortable ## phoebe

Finally, she noticed some text scroll onto the prompter again. Just a couple of lines, but something she could hit without thinking too hard.

“Of course I am!”

why is that

“Because you’re obviously about to splat me in the pussy! Why wouldn’t I be nervous!?”

that is ## incorrect

The klaxon blared once again.

“Ahhh, you fucking-!”

Another glossy cascade of streaky, yellow-orange slime fell from above, gushing and oozing down Phoebe’s quivering, sensitive body. She felt frozen there, legs spread and arms heavy, as she was slathered all over in the silly, slippery goop once again.

She hadn’t been entirely wrong about the gunged pussy - it was just a little more indirect. The smooth flows over her round belly and the top of her thighs led down into her crotch, giving a wet and warm massage to her ravenous slit. She gasped inwardly.

It was over soon enough. Phoebe remained there, still and breathless, for a long few seconds. Then she spluttered out a bashful little laugh, and wiped her face, that beautiful embarrassed smile spreading across her lips again.

“Such a sneaky bitch…”

Splosh let the girl marinate there for a while, letting out little giggles every time she registered the absolute sight of her.

i have some good news ## phoebe

“Ha! Forgive me if I don’t believe you.”

your punishment is now ## almost complete

“Define almost.”

professor mountjoy has designed ## a final challenge

“Oh great. What now, I have to pie myself or something?”

please see right dispensing slot ## for challenge equipment

That whirring noise sounded once again. Phoebe, still pawing gunge away from her upper body, looked to her right.

Instead of a thin photo-slot, a wider gap had opened in this nearby box. From below, a small platform raised up, filling the gap. Perched on it, plain and inert, was a sturdy white wand vibrator.

Phoebe snickered. Well, I do rather like those.

please take your equipment

“With pleasure.” She reached out and took it in hand, instinctively thumbing the “+” button. But nothing happened.

“Hey! It isn’t working!”

the equipment will activate ## when the challenge starts

“Hmph. So the challenge is… make myself cum? Gotta be something like that, right?”

that is ## partially correct

“Getting real sick of that phrase now!”

you will have ## three minutes ## to achieve climax

“Riiight…”

if you succeed ## you will be released from ## the humili-a-tron

“But…”

if you fail ## there will be ## a final punishment

Well, that was in line with her expectations, at least.

She was still reading off the prompter - its next line was prefaced by [sad and nervous]. She followed as best she could - taking a pause, then a big exaggerated sigh, and putting on her best cow-eyes.

“Oh dear…”

is there a problem ## phoebe

“No, it’s just… I don’t know if I’ll be able to do it.”

my slut analysis ## predicts otherwise

“Pah! Just because I’m a slut doesn’t mean I cum quickly!”

Phoebe had a brief moment of extreme self-awareness - what a fucking absurd conversation to be having. But she was also starting to pick up the intention of this bit of the script.

“I need to start nice and slow and soft. Otherwise I might not cum at all.”

in that case ## it will be an exciting challenge

“Mmm… I mean, I hope I can do it…”

are you ready to begin ## phoebe

She shook her arms, got a steady grip on the vibrator, and nodded determinedly. Her task was clear now, and it was another impish trick from Alexa.

Because they both knew that stuff about “slow and soft” was total bullshit. After all this time being restrained, degraded, and slathered with sexy muck, Phoebe was a firecracker ready to explode. She desperately wanted to crank that vibrator all the way up, jam it between her legs, and thrum herself hard until she was seeing stars and crying to God.

But she had to hold out. Three long minutes without the climax she craved.

Because it would hardly be satisfying to avoid the final punishment, would it?

the challenge will begin when the ## trifle ## is released

Phoebe’s heart leapt. “Trifle!?”

trifle is a layered dessert of english origin ## the usual ingredients are-

“Oh, shut up and give it to me!”

Splosh gave it to her.

IV: Challenge Accepted

A very large circular panel opened in the roof, just in front of the overhead gunge-pipe. And out of it, carefully propelled for maximum impact, fell a vat of trifle roughly the size of a golf cart.

“Nyeee-eee-eee!”

There was no need for a klaxon - the raucous squelch that ensued was enough of a herald for the beginning of the challenge.

Phoebe screeched in true messy-slut delight as she felt the thick, heavy wave of sloppy, sweet gunk splattering mercilessly over every exposed inch of her body. Her legs bucked and her shoulders writhed, and she barely kept a hold of her device - which was now softly humming in her hand, as Splosh had promised.

The stuff smelled amazing - commingled scents of jelly, custard, cream and sponge immediately tingling her synapses. But it felt even better. Outrageously heavy, a blanket of silly sloppy nonsense, so varied in texture and sensation. She smeared her left hand over her chest and belly, rubbing the mounds of cakey sludge against her electrified skin. She barely dared to use her right hand, the one holding the wand. It was too tempting.

“Fuck…”

Every little movement was filthy and delicious. She felt a particularly cold and wobbly glob of mess slide from her belly right into her crotch, and her arm twitched in desperation, wanting to thrust itself down there. Restraining herself, she settled for stroking her hips, teasing and readying herself. Her mouth had fallen open, hot breaths escaping irregularly. The twinkling ambient music had been replaced with a steady electro pulse, matching her heartbeat.

Phoebe now allowed herself to use her toy with a little more purpose. She traced its rumbling tip slowly across the side of her neck - even that gentle tease had her moaning, bringing her other hand up to grasp at her sticky, matted hair.

She shivered in delight as she brought the wand lower, down towards her chest. Groaning loudly, she cupped one slimy breast in her left hand, enjoying its heft. At the same time, she buzzed her right nipple with the vibrating tip. It made her gasp for breath.

“Unhhh, oh god…”

With a press of her thumb, she turned up the vibes, moaning as she felt them intensify. She stayed in this teasing loop as long as she could.

two minutes ## remaining

“Hnnn, fuck…”

It was such torture, knowing how close she was to an overwhelming release, and having to keep her distance. But she knew the reward for success would be incredible. To finally cum while getting a climactic gungey splattering - it was intoxicating to think about. She tried not to think too hard about it.

She let her right hand sink down, resting the vibrator’s head on her leg, almost daring herself to resist going further. She hungrily squeezed her mammoth sloppy breasts, playing with her nipples, squealing in delight at her own naughtiness.

A little part of her was surprised, perhaps disappointed, that there had been no sneaky slime showers or pie volleys to help her on her way. Though a serious quantity of trifle slop still clung to her bare skin, softly massaging her as it slid downwards under gravity. Purring with pleasure, she reached between her splayed legs, and scooped up a good mound of sweet glop, while she ran the wand up and down her inner thigh. She lifted up her sloppy handful and slapped it onto her upper chest, letting it tumble down over her heaving bosom. Again, she scooped and self-splatted, writhing and panting in her restraint.

one minute ## remaining

“Yes, god yes - oh FUCK!”

That exclamation was in response to a rather targeted intervention. The double gunge-gusher, the one that had earlier been used to slather her knockers, came to life again - just aimed lower.

Warm pink slime was suddenly splashing right between her legs, immediately coating her thirsty cunt in a glossy coat. The horny vixen spasmed and screamed, driven wild by the silky, sensual feeling of the goo - and the sheer kinky rudeness of finally being gunged right in the pussy.

The feeling was amplified several times when another overhead hatch opened, and propelled a thick, sloppy custard pie at the same target. As the cold, creamy payload burst against her snatch, Phoebe gave a strangled cry of intense arousal.

“Holy fuck yes, please, yes…”

Gunge continued to spill forth, splattering and slathering, sluicing the thick cream and custard into the valley between her legs. It was taking all of her willpower not to stick the vibrator under the stream, and finally massage her hard, yearning clit. For as long as she could, she tried to focus just on the joyous caress of slime against her vagina - and the wonderful, intermittent bursts of shocking pleasure when a fresh flan smacked hard into her lap, every five seconds or so.

thirty seconds ## remaining

“Jesus christ, I’m gonna… ngh, fuck, fuck…”

She had to relieve some pressure. With the vibrator still buzzing away against her thigh, she reached between her legs with her free hand, and began to touch herself, two fingers running up and down her lips, gunge splashing wildly against the back of her hand. It made her exhale with pleasure, so close now, so close. As she began to play with her clit, another sticky, custardy treat thudded into her crotch, burying her fingers. She smushed and rubbed it all over, gasping in pleasure.

fifteen seconds ## remaining

“Ah, ah, ah, unh, ahhh…”

Phoebe thumbed the vibrator as high as it would go, and followed her other hand downwards.

“Ahhh-uhhh! Fuck, fuck, fuck…”

Her eyes were screwed up, and her mouth hung open wide, though she was still barely able to catch her breath. Her legs quaked, and her shoulders hunched. Her back tried to arch, but instead she simply strained against the tight band that held her in the chair.

five

Another pie splattered her pussy. She wailed in anticipation, the wand’s head pressed hard against her clit.

four

“Oh fuck, oh Jesus…”

three

It felt like her universe had shrunk, everything collapsing towards her aching, desperate pussy.

two

“Haaa-aaa-aaah…”

one

“Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck…”

zero ## challenge failed ## final punishment activated

“Yes, yes, yes - AAA-AAAH!”

The first crackling wave of orgasm ripped through her nervous system just as the klaxon sounded. And this time, it didn’t just signify a sloppy slime shower. It signified everything.

The gunge came, of course, great silky gallons of it, purple and blue, cascading over her beautiful red hair and down her heaving shoulders.

It was joined by pies. The hatch that had been flanning her vibrating cunt not only continued, but sped up, pie after sloppy pie burying her wanking hands in cold, sticky cream. And the previous flingers re-activated too, launching two brutal barrages into her breathless face and her enormous, quaking tits.

The helpless slut spluttered and gasped, shuddered and squirmed, squealed and moaned, as she was obliterated by the merciless hail of slop. On top of this demented, degrading gunge-assault, the cheeky sex toys spraying her face and tits with yet more hot and sticky fake cum - well, they barely registered to her.

Phoebe came, hard and long, overwhelmed and fighting for dear life under the utter plastering being inflicted on her. It was so ludicrous, so unnecessary, so absolutely filthy. It was fucking mind-blowing.

She had no idea how long the splattering lasted, or indeed her climax. All she knew was that at some point, nothing gungey seemed to be smacking her in the face any more. Every muscle in her body felt both sore and warm. Her heart felt like a shaken-up champagne bottle. And her dripping, quivering pussy felt like it was bathed in golden sunlight.

And then somehow, god knows how, as the satiated slut quietly moaned in her seat - another titanic trifle obliterated her from above.

“Guuu-aaah!”

Its heavy, sticky mass smothered her body, its outer remnants splattering loudly all over the chair and her mucky little stage-set.

As soon as she recovered from the shock, Phoebe started to giggle.

“Bluh, bla-ha, ahaha, ah-ha-ha-ha-haaa…”

She wiped her face wearily, still laughing, flapping her arms weakly, defeated and delighted. She only laughed harder when Splosh took another candid picture for her.

please see left dispensing slot for ## souvenir portrait of a punished gunge slut

Phoebe took and admired the polaroid, immensely satisfied. She felt like her beautiful, fat body had been used as the canvas for an erotic masterpiece.

commiserations phoebe ## on failing your ## final challenge

“Yeah, ha ha. Oh well. What a terrible shame. Poor me.” She was beaming.

however ## biometric sensors indicate ## you did achieve climax eventually ## so congratulations ## i suppose

“Heh. Sensors are working, that’s for sure.”

She sighed and purred for a while, stroking herself softly, enjoying the sensation. Soon, she saw that the autocue had given her another line. Rolling her eyes, but game and willing, she gave her head a flirty little tilt, and batted her eyes towards Splosh’s camera.

“So Splosh, tell me. How do you think Professor Mountjoy would grade my performance?”

predicting assessment outcome

“I’m waiting…”

outcome predicted at ## ninety nine percent probability ## your assessment grade would be ## d

Phoebe feigned shock. “What? How? After all that, she’d give me a bloody D?”

the d stands for ## dunk

The shock was no longer feigned.

“Wha-”

Once the floor panel started sliding away, revealing a softly rippling yellow surface below, she just had to laugh.

“Ahh, right. Sure. Of course.”

The tall box that supposedly “contained” Splosh was housed on the sliding panel, so the mischievous AI ended up sequestered off to the side. And now, fully revealed in front of Phoebe, there was a healthy-sized vat of thick gunge in the studio floor, its nearest edge right under her chair’s footrest.

ready to make a splash ## phoebe

“I suspect it’s gonna happen even if I’m not.”

that is ## correct

“Thought so.”

Once again, the gunge-klaxon hooted. Phoebe wasn’t exactly surprised to get showered in yet more gunge at this point, though she did instinctively yelp and squirm. A lovely mixture of magenta and orange gushed over her pretty head and down her lush, plump curves.

She felt the tight band beneath her breasts suddenly snap open, sliding away smoothly into the body of the chair. Welp…

get dunked ## slut

The seat snapped forwards, and squealing with laughter, Phoebe plunged into the gunge.

Splosh’s camera clicked and flashed as she did so, capturing a riotous moment of colourful splatter and bodily momentum. Phoebe was too busy to retrieve it, of course, but it’d be another nice souvenir for later.

For a moment, all was swishy and silent after she went under, landing on her knees at the base of the pit. With a deliberate care, born of much gunk-dunking experience, she slowly got to her feet and emerged from the surface.

She was slightly perturbed to find that she was still being showered in slime - the overhead pipe having simply moved forward when she did. It made her squeak and splutter, having to cower and use her hands just to catch her breath.

The beautiful stooge stood there helplessly, letting out a weary laugh and raising her hands up out of the slime, palms-up in the classic “why me?” fashion. The swishing surface of the gooey pond lapped at the underside of her breasts, as the goop from above flowed over that lovely plump pair, swaying gently with Phoebe’s giggles.

Eventually, the gungey torrent was shut off. Weak, dripping, and dream-headed, the messy maiden slowly raised her hands, giving her face a decent wipe, sighing and smiling.

Something caught her eye, and she looked towards the prompter. Ha. Cute.

She turned to her left, towards the silent box that was Splosh. She raised a gooey, dripping finger, and pointed it accusingly, with a devilish smirk.

“You,” she said, “are a very naughty robot.”

V: Behind the Curtain

“And scene!” shouted Alexa.

The crew began to applaud - less emphatic than a full audience ovation, but certainly appreciated by Phoebe, wallowing down there in her slimy soup. Alexa was applauding too, striding confidently towards the gunge-pit - not too close though. She caught Phoebe’s gaze.

“Brava, darling - that was spectacular, I must say.”

Phoebe smiled, suddenly feeling bashful. The boss tended to have that effect. “Ah, thank you.”

“Did you have fun?”

This got more of a laugh. “Ha! That would definitely be a yes. I mean, very weird fun, but yes.”

“Very weird fun is what we’re all about. So mission accomplished, I’d say.”

Phoebe shrugged her agreement, cheerfully.

“So - did you figure out who your co-star was?”

This intrigued her. Truth be told, Phoebe had a suspicion of which GW cast member had been voicing Splosh. She wasn’t sure, as those audio filters obscured it quite well. But the slight American twang she detected… surely?

“I think I might have… was it Eve?”

“Shall we take a look-see?”

Alexa gestured behind her, towards the panel that was hiding the robot-girl. It slid slowly away, blind-date style, until Phoebe could see…

She was right! The perky New Yorker gave her a flirty, smiling wave from her little sound-dampened booth. She looked a lot more comfortable than Phoebe had been at any point that day - dressed in a casual blouse, jeans and trainers, her dark hair let down over her shoulders.

hello phoebe ## it was me ## the whole time

“I knew it! Had to be someone with a dirty mind.”

Eve just winked, lasciviously.

“By the way - you are an evil, evil cow, and I will have my revenge.”

Eve continued to vamp, glancing meaningfully towards Alexa as she did so.

i am not evil ## phoebe ## i simply execute the protocols ## created by professor mountjoy

“Ha ha ha. You can drop the act now, babe! Secret’s out!”

but it is fun

“Oh, I bet. Can I be the robot next time?” she laughed.

Alexa cut in. “Who knows? Perhaps there’s a sequel in the offing. For the moment, let’s wrap this up. Eve - can we just do a couple of quick extra takes? We weren’t 100% sure on the best version for some lines, so if we get them now, we can drop them in as needed.”

Eve shrugged and nodded - sure. She turned to the last page of her script, as Alexa instructed.

Phoebe thought it a little strange that she was just being left to soak naked in the gunk dunk, rather than extracted, swaddled in towels, and led to the showers. She caught Alexa’s eye.

“Won’t take a moment,” Alexa whispered. And then she winked.

Phoebe quietly cocked her head, intrigued. Eve leaned into the mic, and started to work through the alternate lines.

pegging femboys in the ass ## ninety-sixth percentile

Phoebe let out a snort of laughter.

“Yeah, pretty funny, but we worried the list was getting too long,” Alexa explained.

“And I guess it’s more dommy than slutty…”

“Perhaps. Anyway, we’ve got it now. Next please Eve.”

phoebe ## you are covered in slime ## and you look extremely silly ## are you embarrassed

“That one’s fun!”

“Yes, that could go in. Next one please?”

have you ever been gunged naked ## phoebe

Phoebe wavered her hand in the air, indicating ‘meh’.

“Yeah, probably not. I think there’s just one more, Eve.”

Eve looked puzzled for a minute, then flipped over her page, finding the last one. She read it out, carefully and professionally.

what kind of dumb slut ## would sit in a booth ## in a gungeworld studio ## and think she is...

Eve frowned, ever so slightly.

...safe?

There were two sudden movements. Eve’s radio mic swung away from her lips, its mounted arm pivoting outward, tucking behind the left side of the booth. At the same time, a clear perspex screen, a few feet high, swung around from the right side, covering the front of the booth, clicking firmly into place against the other edge.

Phoebe immediately understood. She clapped with glee, jiggling excitedly in the gunge. Eve’s mouth hung open in horror, and she glared at Alexa.

“No. No, no, no.” Without the mic, her sexy robot glamour was gone.

Alexa grinned. “Oh yes.”

“You said it wouldn’t be-”

“Shush. What I said doesn’t matter a butterfly’s fart. You’re Main Cast now, Eve. Which means I do what I want with you.”

Eve’s fists were balled in frustration, and she was shaking her head. Phoebe was already heckling. “Gunge her! Gunge her! Gunge her!”

“Shut up! This is not okay.”

Of course, all the usual GungeWorld protocols remained in place. Eve could safeword herself right out of there, if she chose to. The door that had slammed across the booth was small enough to hop over, easily, and run away.

But she knew she’d just been well and truly got. And when you get got, you can’t worm your way out of it. There are unwritten rules. She felt utterly trapped, and her stomach swirled with nerves.

Alexa put on a teasing, sing-song lilt. “Time for a little game…”

Eve winced to hear clunking and whirring noises above her. She looked up, cowering meekly - then yelped to see three solid metal pipes, protruding from the ceiling and all pointing down into her enclosure. One hovered above each shoulder, angled slightly inwards. The last one was just above and behind her head. They were easily six inches wide.

“This game,” began Alexa, deeply enjoying Eve’s frustrated wriggling, back and forth on her little stool. “Is very, very simple.”

Eve shuddered. Somehow, even the word simple sounded like a threat, the way Alexa said it.

“In just a moment,” the host continued, “these pipes are going to start covering you in… now, what’s the right word… in a fuck-ton of slime.”

“Nyaaah!”

That definitely was a threat. No, worse - a promise.

“You may well squeal, darling. It’s going to be an absolute cunt of a gunging.”

Phoebe was grinning from ear to ear, watching Eve look more and more panicked with every second. This was going to be some delicious, ice-cold revenge.

“No, please…”

“Of course, with that in mind, you’ll probably want to stop the gunge as soon as possible, won’t you?”

“Yes! How do I stop it?”

“Well, maybe you can figure that out for yourself.”

“Oh c’mon! That’s not fair!”

Phoebe was cackling, so excited for the action to begin, and absolutely loving the tension.

“Hmm. I suppose I could give you a clue.”

“Please!”

“Alright then. Here’s your hint, Eve: if you’re still wearing clothes, then the slime still flows.”

Hardly a brain-stretcher. Eve winced at the nude, sloppy humiliation she now knew was coming her way.

“Good luck!” said Alexa cheerily, and smacked the side of the booth, quite hard, with her flat palm.

There was no further teasing, no countdown, no warning. Eve let out a blood-curdling screech as three thick streams of powder-blue slop began to gush over her.

They were not only thick, but fast. There was some serious pumping pressure at work here - the poor, squealing lass was getting absolutely blasted. And the level of splatter was frankly ludicrous. The gunge sloshed upwards as it bounced off her head and shoulders, huge gouts of slop leaping out of the small booth and slathering the floor all around. (Alexa had sharply retreated to a very safe distance).

Phoebe was agog. She clasped a hand over her mouth, shocked and sympathetic to witness Alexa’s cruel, gooey creativity. But she wasn’t quite sympathetic enough to stop laughing, either.

“Aaagh! Aaagh! Aaagh!”

Eve was so utterly gobsmacked that she couldn’t even think straight at first, much less start trying to remove her clothes. She just flailed, and cowered, and screamed. She was soaked, drenched, completely slathered within a couple of seconds. But the goal here wasn’t efficient gunge-coverage: it was total slapstick humiliation.

“I wonder if she figured out the clue?” said Alexa, to a nearby camera. “She’s just sitting there right now…”

That seemed to spur Eve into action somewhat.

“Gyaah! Shit, fuck, ass!”

Still squealing in embarrassment and frustration, she leaned forward and crossed one leg over her knee, tugging off her shoe as the relentless, sloppy rain drummed against her back. Phoebe liked that the slime was slightly translucent - it gave the scene a nice, shimmery look.

Off came a slime-soaked sock, then Eve switched feet. “Fucking… spluh, fucking bitch!”

If she’d been expecting to get messy, she would have gone barefoot, as was the sensible option - nobody liked walking on squelchy socks. But she hadn’t, so she didn’t, and so here she was - taking more time, and gallons more slime, than she wanted.

“Ah, looks like she’s got the gist! But she’s still got a way to go…”

“Pbbbt, bleh - I know! You fucking asshole!”

Alexa pulled a face, as if to rebuff the insult. Then she glanced sideways at a camera, nodding her head towards the riot of splatter in the booth. “I mean, fair.”

Down in the gunk dunk - which suddenly seemed like a luxurious and relaxing place by comparison - Phoebe cheered Eve on, only half-mockingly. “Get ‘em off! Get ‘em off!”

“I’m, glbbb, trying!

Eve cursed herself for wearing a buttoned blouse. She fiddled and fretted, her mortified panic making fine motor control really fucking difficult. Eventually, she managed to open the front and shrug it off to the floor. Her plain black bra came next, after some frantic groping. The feeling of her firm tits immediately getting slathered with thick wet gunge made her shudder deeply.

“Woo! Slimy boobs!” enthused Phoebe.

It was onto the trousers, and Eve once again cursed her own sartorial choices. Skinny jeans soaked with gunge - a very difficult proposition. She stood up from her stool and unbuttoned the fly, still squirming and spluttering under the unbelievable slop-shower. Then she just yanked them down as hard as she could, taking her knickers with them. She had to push and wriggle to stop them clinging to her calves, and eventually kick them off, frantic and frustrated.

“Stop! I’ve done it, please!”

She sat back down, head in her hands, waiting for the rushing, gushing gunge-blasters to stop drenching her. To her great horror, they didn’t. Her naked body was pelted with gallons more slime, making her skin blush and tingle.

“Splah, what the fuck! Turn it off!”

“Sure you aren’t forgetting anything?” replied Alexa.

“Whuhhh?”

Eve looked down at herself, confused. Then she spotted it - the woven, decorative bracelet around her left wrist. She yelled in frustration as she yanked it off, and cast it to the floor of the tank.

“That’s an accessory!”

She banged her fists against her legs, praying for an end to the sloppy torment. And finally, a second or so later, mercy arrived.

After the constant cacophony of splatter, the silence felt immense. Eve took huge, gasping breaths, staring at the floor, utterly exhausted. She winced to hear Phoebe applauding and teasing her.

“Well done babes! Got there in the end, eh?”

“Guhhh…”

All sense had been knocked out of her. She cleared her eyes, still breathing heavily and shivering with embarrassment.

“Yes, she did indeed,” concurred Alexa. “Fair’s fair. I think we’d better let you out of there, Eve.”

The bedraggled, naked girl flapped her arms weakly. “Th… thanks.”

“Let’s just scooch you over here first.”

“Um - what?”

Mechanical noises whirred beneath her. Eve went wide-eyed once again, horrified to realise that the floor panel below, which held the booth and her little seat, had risen up and was moving of its own accord.

Moving towards the gunk dunk.

“Oh, you complete and utter…”

Phoebe hooted with delight. She was going to have company! Deliciously, she noticed the overhead pipe that had so badly slathered her was moving too, soon hovering over the other edge of the pit. And she also noticed something hard, nudging gently into her flank.

She looked down. It seemed that the vibrating wand, which she’d let fall between her legs after cumming her brains out, had been dunked along with her. And as it turned out, it floated. How wonderfully convenient, thought Phoebe, grabbing it and hiding it sneakily behind her back. Grinning, she looked up at the miserable, frustrated Eve, whose little cubicle had just parked into place, above the edge of the gunge.

Eve couldn’t stop her legs from bobbing up and down nervously, and her hands twisted in her lap. She couldn’t bear to meet Phoebe’s eyes - she just stared into the swirly, multicolour surface of the goo.

“Any words of welcome, Phoebe?”

The big girl giggled. “Hmm. Let me think. Oh yes! Get dunked, slut!”

The klaxon cut over Eve’s nervous squeal. It quickly turned into a wail of defeated displeasure, as the pipe above unleashed its glossy, sloppy river over her unfortunate head. Pink and orange, thick and sensual, the warm goo slithered down her pert, slim body, making her spasm and writhe, the sensation familiar but always, always strange.

After a few very slimy seconds, the perspex panel of the booth swung back open, and her stool jerked forwards, propelling the girl towards her sloppy fate. Phoebe’s cheer of triumph, as she watched the screeching hottie fly down into the goop, was very loud.

Eve got the exact same treatment as Phoebe - the overhead dispenser tracking her movement, so she was immediately drenched further when she emerged from her dunking. She flapped and swore, helpless and pathetic under the unrelenting gungey rain.

Then she stiffened in shock. Because, suddenly, a hand was grasping her butt. And a plump body was squeezed against hers. And oh, oh my, there was a tongue in her mouth.

The kiss was sloppy in more ways than one. It was wild and wanton, Eve’s mind so addled that she just matched Phoebe’s assertive, hungry energy. They firmly massaged each other’s lips and tongues, only pausing for little snatched breaths, or to splutter out some of the thick, gently sweet gunge - because make no mistake, it was still gushing down, right over Eve’s head.

Eve’s heart was pounding like a jackhammer. And it spiked further when Phoebe smartly broke the clinch, and forcefully pivoted Eve to face the other way, clasping her arms around her. She felt the humming of the vibrator against her belly, which made her moan in delight. And the feeling of Phoebe’s giant, sloppy tits squishing against her back was incredible.

Before she enacted her next plan, Phoebe gave a lusty shout, raising her voice above the relentless splattery, squelchy gunge-noises.

“Keep it going! More gunge for the robo-slut!”

Eve keened in humiliated pleasure, a powerless sloppy mess. She surrendered herself entirely to Phoebe, her previous domination entirely turned on its head.

Her partner in slime raised the buzzing wand to Eve’s right breast, circling it around her nipple. With the other hand, she groped, pinched and teased the other breast. She was very satisfied by the gaspy, high-pitched moans of pleasure that ensued.

There was more teasing to be done. As she played the toy around Eve’s chest and belly, she leaned forward, kissing and nuzzling the girl’s neck - and getting plenty of slime over the face for her trouble, but she didn’t mind a bit. She raised her mouth to her paramour’s ear, and spoke in a hot whisper, only slightly interrupted by slime.

“Look at you - splf. You’re absolutely covered in gunge! Puah, do you know how silly you look? Are you embarrassed, you messy fucking slut?”

Eve couldn’t respond with anything other than horny groans, the verbal teasing having its intended effect.

Phoebe had been gradually intensifying the vibrations. The wand was nearly at max power, and she was tracing it in teasing arcs, close to Eve’s hungry, tender pussy.

“Do you want it, Eve?”

“Unnnh! Oh fuck, spluh, I want it, I want it…”

The wand’s head brushed against her slit, running down one side. Eve squealed breathlessly.

“Mph… are you gonna cum for me? Are you gonna cum nice and loud, you filthy fucking slut?”

“Yuuu-aaah! Mmmf, yes I will I will…”

“Good girl…”

Phoebe maximised the vibration, and started to massage Eve’s cunt.

The overwhelmed lass cried out in pleasure, and felt her legs buckle. Phoebe had to hold her up as she fucked her, stroking the vibe up and down Eve’s trembling labia, and giving firm bouts of pressure to her twitching clit.

“Oh, uhhh, fuck, uhhh… splfff!”

Eve was already on the verge of cumming. In a way, she’d been getting off since the start of this whole scenario. It had been pretty damn sexy to watch Phoebe get splattered, and the naughty script made it even hotter. Though it was Alexa’s sneaky trick that had really got her motor running, even before the enormous strip-gunging commenced. She might have been pleading, pouting, and cursing her fate, there in the booth. But she’d also been really fucking wet.

She got louder, just as Phoebe had commanded. The skilled employment of the toy was driving her physically wild, shaking all over, gasping and yelping, eyes rolling back in her head. And the fact that she was still - still! - getting drenched with gallons of gunge, every second, was such delectable debasement.

“Fuck! Haaah, hunnnh, I’m gonna, oh Phoebe, fuck I’m gonna cummm…”

Phoebe held the wand hard against Eve’s clit, and savoured the moment. She felt Eve’s muscles tense and clench in her embrace, a fierce climax rippling through her body.

“Aaa-aaa-aaah! Unf, guhhh, fuck, ohhh, oh-oh-ohhh my goddd…”

Eve had practically turned to jelly, weakened and insensible. Phoebe cradled her drooping, fucked-out friend, gradually softening the vibration of the toy, using it more and more lightly, bringing her down from the clouds with a smooth landing.

“Fuck… Phoebe, holy fuck…”

The gunge-shower finally relented, now that Eve had attained her messy climax. It was quite a relief. The blissed-out brunette tried to gather herself, to regain control of her muscles again. It wasn’t easy. But she could always lean on Phoebe, who was tenderly kissing her slimy neck and shoulders.

After some time, Eve turned around again, a bashful smile on her face. Phoebe’s grin was more knowing, more self-satisfied. They shared another kiss, this one a little more soft and tender. Eve sighed happily.

Alexa had been observing the scene with much satisfaction. She addressed a nearby camera, the two canoodling sloppy sluts behind her in the shot.

“Aww, what a sweet ending. They kissed and made up.”

The two girls turned to watch this outro, giggling girlishly, flushed and happy, chest-deep in the lovely, sensual gunge.

“I do usually find that after a good orgasm, it’s much easier to forgive and forget.”

More laughs from down in the gunk dunk.

“That’s all we’ve got time for today. But hasn’t it been a spectacular little show? Folks, let’s all show our appreciation. And give our lovely sluts a hearty, well-deserved, round of…”

She paused.

“...custard pies.”

The six Pie-o-Matics emerged so fast, from their hiding place at the gunk dunk’s edge, that Phoebe and Eve’s open-mouthed gawps of disbelief were only visible for about a second. Then their shocked faces were covered, plastered, smothered repeatedly, by two outrageous triple-barrages of flans, every one piled high with sticky cream and rich custard.

As the poor sluts got their final humiliation, frozen in place and spluttering helplessly, cool pies exploding again and again over their hot cheeks, Alexa gave the viewers a cheery wave goodbye.

“Oh, aren’t I just the worst…”

Fin

Hello my beleaguered bonbons,

Here is the conclusion of poor Jimmy’s trip to GungeWorld. I won’t spoil anything. Perhaps Faye will show mercy and make him a cuppa.

Thank you so much for the lovely comments on Part One - I’m thrilled that it’s chiming with so many readers. You’re such gluttons for punishment, and I love you for it.

(Boring note: if you leave a Comment please remember to hit Like as well! Ugh, I hate sounding like a YouTuber.)

Also - if this story and its messy protagonist didn’t quite float your boat, I’ve got another one to be published soon, which is very much more girly. I’m just doing final edits, I think it’s really good.

Huge props, once again, to the anonymous reader who built this story with me. Please take a moment to quietly thank them - they really, erm, deserve it.

Continued from Part One - you should definitely read that first!

IX: Rice Rice Baby

Jimmy was already rolling further down the track towards another doorway. He could see what looked like tiled surfaces on the other side.

“Sally’s Sludgy Swimsuit,” announced Faye. “Viewed thirteen times.”

Jimmy now knew for certain what he was in for. In that video, Alexa had dressed Sally in a devilishly tight one-piece, then proceeded to fill the garment to bursting with gallons of cold rice pudding, pumped from a hose. Even though swimsuit-filling didn’t top Jimmy’s list of favourite messy scenarios, he liked this one for the delicious interplay between the two wives. Alexa was at her domineering, taunting best, revelling deeply in Sally’s squirming discomfort and lumpy, ruined appearance.

Now, Sally was going to get her chance. The room Jimmy’s cart rolled into was a simple blue- and white-tiled changing room with a few wooden benches, and a small video screen playing the clip in question, just like before. The lithe, pale brunette was standing in the middle of the room, holding a nozzle that connected, via tubing, to a hefty metal drum. With her other hand, she waved a calm hello to her neon-clad victim.

The cart clunked to a stop, and Sally took up position beside it, so that Jimmy could see her.

“You must be Jimmy then. Lovely to meet you.”

“Likewise, a pleasure.”

“Speaking of ‘pleasure’... thirteen times, huh?”

Jimmy’s face got very hot very quickly. There was something uniquely humiliating about being confronted by women who knew what he’d been doing.

“I could barely watch that video back once. Reminded me of the feeling. Was quite uncomfortable.”

Jimmy figured that even if he was talking to the woman he’d been masturbating to, about the video he’d been masturbating over, compliments couldn’t hurt.

“You took it very well, I thought.”

“I didn’t have much choice! But thank you. Glad you… enjoyed watching.” Her eyebrows said the unspoken bit.

“Now we’re going to see how much you enjoy taking part. Oh, do you like your outfit, by the way? I designed it specially.”

“It’s, erm… a little small?”

“For now!” she laughed, worryingly. “Right then. No time like the present. Let’s get on with it.”

It seemed there wasn’t even going to be a game this time, or pretense Jimmy could avoid a messy fate. Sally stepped back behind the cart, and held up her nozzle, encouraging some noise from the crowd. “Time to fill this filthy fetish freak full as fuck! And I think we’ll start just… here.”

Jimmy felt the cool metal nozzle get tucked into the back of his neck, pointing down. He wondered if its contents would be the same as Sally had endured, or an unwelcome surprise. He tried to stop picturing a can of Heinz Baked Beans.

The nozzle was carefully designed - the button to operate it was a few inches back from the tip, so Sally could press it without sticking her hand right down his top. She didn’t seem in a hurry, though: she was quietly enjoying his squirming. He didn’t know when it was going to come…

Until it did. There was a great sucking, pumping noise from behind him, and he felt a thick stream of cold gunk bursting out of the nozzle, cascading fast down his back. “Ghh-ack!” He twitched and spasmed in his seat at the uncanny feeling.

Sally kept the button held tightly down. Soon he could feel the weight of the gloop tugging at his back. It certainly felt - and smelled - like she was using the same ammunition, cold and lumpy rice pudding.

“A good start… let’s just bring this around…”

She stepped forward and manoeuvred the nozzle around his neck, so that it now pumped down the front of the tight shirt. The watching girls’ laughter rose in volume as Jimmy’s torso swelled in size.

“Ooh, well you do like a big chest, don’t you Jimmy? Hee hee…”

The band around his waist was doing an excellent job of holding in the sweet gunge, and Jimmy was genuinely shocked at how much this top could hold - with Sally seemingly not done yet.

He’d never felt anything like it - his upper body was so heavy, it was starting to mess with his sense of balance. And now the goop was filling his sleeves too, making his arms bulky and leaden. Sally cackled. “It can fit a bit more, I reckon!”

After another ten seconds of steady slop-pumping, Sally released the button and slipped the nozzle out of his neck. She stepped round to the front of the cart to admire her handiwork, and clapped with glee at the sight. Jimmy was blushing bright red, stunned at the sensation of rice pudding swishing around in the outrageously swollen shirt, slowly warming from his body heat.

“Check out Mr Universe!” taunted Sally, alluding to his bulked-out form. “Come on, give us a flex!”

Hesitantly, and making uncomfortable little noises, Jimmy raised his heavy arms and tried to flex as requested. Unfortunately, the motion squished the mass a little too much, and a healthy amount of the creamy gunk sloshed out of the neckhole, splattering his chin and running down his chest. “Grah!”

The audience cheered Jimmy’s gameness, but had to laugh at the messy result. Sally just cooed “whoopsie!” and proceeded to top up his shirt back to its full, humiliating squidginess.

“Where next? Ah yes.”

It was hardly a great surprise when Sally leaned down and tugged at the rear of his waistband. He felt the nozzle slide smoothly inside, between his shorts and his boxers. His worried face kept the crowd entertained.

Sally was close enough to whisper in his ear. “Now Jimmy. Apart from all the sticky slop - do you remember what else my mean old wife did to me in that video?”

He did remember, and his stomach lurched with a terrified thrill. But it was very hard to say it. “Uh, what do you mean?”

“Oh don’t play dumb with me, darling. I’m sure you’d remember - after all, it was something you specifically mentioned on your viewer survey.”

The gunge-nozzle was still quietly waiting. Jimmy felt Sally’s lithe fingers playing gently against the small of his back.

“Begins with a W…”

“Oh, um. Yes.”

She tugged the back of his boxers, just lightly enough for him to feel.

“Say it for me, Jimmy.” A bit more of a tug on the fabric, making him wince. Sally cooed in a sing-song voice.

“Say I… looove… wed-giiies…”

“Ngh! I, uh… I love… w-wedgies…”

His eyes went wide as she gripped the waistband in her fist, and yanked upwards.

“Fuuh-aack!”

A sharp pain shot through his undercarriage as she hoisted him clean off the seat by a few inches. At the same time, she let the pudding start to flow into his shorts, pooling into a thick cushion beneath his hovering arse.

“Nggh! Ow, please…”

“Oh, quiet, you naughty boy. You’ll get wedgied and you’ll like it.”

That was the horrible truth. The wedgie had set his balls and cock throbbing with tension, and the chafing against his taint and crack was the most delicious sort of pain. He could see girls in the front rows gawping, feeling sorry for him. But Jimmy knew they shouldn’t - he deserved this. And if they had a copy of his browsing history, they’d have gotten up on stage and queued up to punish him.

He writhed in discomfort and grunted quietly until Sally decided that his shorts were full enough, and without warning, she let him go. His aching bum splatted down hard into the great swamp of gunge beneath, causing another small explosion round his waist.

“Oh my god,” he whispered, breathing heavily. When he shifted his weight, he felt the gloop swishing around his hips. Sally squirted several more litres into the back of his shorts, and looked down at his bulging bottom half with a smirk. “What a transformation! This boi got cake, as the young ’uns might say.”

Sally wasn’t finished. Now standing right in front of the cart, she smouldered down at her victim, making sure to catch his gaze. Jimmy had a sinking feeling as, without breaking eye contact, Sally reached forward and curled her fingers around the twin waistbands of his shorts and boxers. A shiver went down the boy’s spine.

“And let’s finish here.”

She gave a quick, flirty glance downwards at his bulging aubergine emoji. “Oh look. You’ve already started stretching them out for me. How helpful.”

Bawdy cheers rang out as Sally tugged the waistbands forward, and took a look inside. She smiled, bit her lip, and slid the nozzle in. Jimmy felt it brush against his frustrated, engorged cock, and shuddered deeply. “Ngggh…”

“It’s only fair, Jimmy,” she said calmly. Some viewers might think Jimmy gave her the slightest of nods. “Now buckle up.”

Squissshhh. The cool gunk started to pump into his knickers, and Jimmy felt a debauched thrill ripple through his body.

“Ohhh-aaah-unnnhhh…”

Within a second, the lumpy, cloying mess had enveloped his manhood, massaging his balls and shaft as it swirled around him. He screwed up his eyes, groaning under his breath, his face hot and red.

There was a serious worry here, that the slimy massage of the goo would be enough to make him cum. To make him spill pathetically into his pudding-filled panties, premature ejaculation on a devastatingly public scale.

However, other factors were working against the physical stimulation. The gleeful, leering eyes of the beautiful audience, and the cold glare of the cameras capturing his humiliation for posterity - those would be enough to give anyone a bit of helpful ‘performance anxiety.’

Jimmy let his brain, heart, stomach and cock fight amongst themselves, and shuddered his way through the last squirty, squelchy helping of pud. He felt the pumping finally stop, and looked up meekly at Sally, a delighted glint in her green eyes.

“Wow,” she cooed, as she finally removed the nozzle from his pants. “I think we managed even more than my swimsuit!”

Her assessment was right. Jimmy looked down at himself, trying to stay still, because every movement imparted a humiliating wobble to his form. He truly looked ludicrous, an oozing, low-budget Michelin Man.

Faye waltzed over, coming out of nowhere, her gaze even more mocking than Sally’s. “Holy moly, what a sight you are, Jimmy-boy! How does it feel?”

“Erm… I’m… not sure?” Jimmy replied, unable to meet her gaze. He really had no point of comparison. He could only think of words like ‘uncomfortable’, ‘disgusting’ and of course the obvious ‘humiliating’. On any other Saturday, he might be enjoying half a cider by the local lake right now. Not this utter madness.

“I think you’ve slopped the wits out of him, Sally! You satisfied?”

Sally pursed her lips, as if thinking. Then she quickly raised the nozzle, and aimed one last squirt of rice pudding right over Jimmy’s head. It was a very short slopping - just enough to form a drippy dome over his hair, and to give the audience a laugh.

“Satisfied. Thanks, Jimmy. Now I know why Alexa had so much fun.”

X: Slop Quiz

Faye said warm goodbyes to Sally, and seemed prepared to send him on his way. But first, she did something peculiar. She stepped up to one side of the cart, and located a small hook on its inside that Jimmy hadn’t noticed. She took a pair of mid-sized fabric scissors from a back pocket, and hung them from the hook by one of the handles. Jimmy’s brow furrowed.

“Just in case they prove necessary. Now, onwards!”

The judder as the cart started rolling again made Jimmy’s big new glurge-body quake, massaging his skin minutely. It felt so, so weird. He passed through the next doorway into what seemed like a darkened room - but as soon as he was inside, it burst into colourful life.

This place was done up like a 50s TV gameshow, all kooky angles and primary colours - red and yellow checked walls, shiny white floor. Over a horn-heavy muzak track, he was welcomed by a clipped but friendly home-counties accent.

“It’s time for Naked & Cake-d!” enthused Aoife from behind her podium, pronouncing the last word to rhyme with the first. “The sticky, tricky gameshow that can leave you quite exposed!”

She was a gorgeous, slim blonde with big, nerd-chic glasses, dressed in a tomboyish yellow blazer over an emo band t-shirt, swishy black trousers, and low wedge-heel sandals. While she clacked her cue-cards, and started to quieten the cheering crowd, Jimmy scanned the rest of the set.

As always, there was a video reminder of what he’d seen before - this time, the splattery highlights were playing on a huge wall-mounted screen. It wasn’t too complicated a premise - hot girls stripping off and nailing each other all over with huge, sloppy cakes. Giggling and jiggling. Plus, Jimmy had never seen a pussy-splatting play out on such an enormous screen - he was usually hunched over his laptop. It was quite a sight.

His cart was rolling to a stop beside another beautiful girl - his opponent, obviously. She was in a much more comfortable seat than him, a smart red office-chair. And he certainly recognised her: it was Alianne, the self-assured London lass with light brown skin, black hair in a tight bun, and a truly luscious curvy form. Her bulging chest was clad in a pink GungeWorld t-shirt, bearing the legend CAKE SQUISHER in bubbly yellow writing. She didn’t speak, but offered him a friendly, naughty smile. He tried to return it as best he could.

“And it’s a very special one today! One of our contestants is a superfan of the show - he’s seen every episode, multiple times!”

That was true. GungeWorld had released four N&C videos so far, and Jimmy had released himself over each one, more than once.

The aforementioned cakes were present today, of course. They sat on a big round wooden table between the contestants and the host. Maybe two dozen in total, of various colours, flavours and decorations.

Considering how the day had gone so far, Jimmy accepted quickly that most or all of those were soon to be all over him. What remained to be seen was exactly how harshly he’d get it. And whether the game held other surprises. And whether he had a chance of keeping any of his clothes.

Speaking of clothes, he was rather surprised to still be in his seeping, sludgy previous outfit. He’d been bracing himself for another watery drenching, and maybe a new humiliating shirt slogan, but it seemed not to be coming. They were certainly keeping him guessing.

“I wonder if he’ll enjoy playing as much as he’s enjoyed watching? I think it’s time to meet this filthy fuckboy-”

Aoife did a double take, and looked back at her cue-card. “Sorry, I misread that. This feisty fanboy. Ahem. Please give it up for Jimmy!”

Lots of whooping from the crowd, which the wobbly stooge acknowledged with an embarrassed nod. And it seemed one benefit of keeping his slop filled lycra clothes was to enable some teasing.

“Now Jimmy - I have to say, that really is quite a striking outfit. Where did you get it?”

He had to chuckle at this. “Uh, it’s actually custom made. By an… acquaintance of mine.”

“How fancy! And what’s the, uh… the padding?”

“Pudding, actually. Rice pudding. And very tight lycra.”

“My word. What will these fashionistas think of next? Anyway - welcome to the show. We know you’re a fan, so you’ll know how the game works. Feeling confident?”

Jimmy gave another rueful laugh. “Oh, yes. I’m sure it’ll go great. I definitely won’t lose horribly, and get mercilessly plastered for it.”

Aoife had to bite her tongue and stifle a laugh here, appreciating Jimmy’s gallows humour. “That’s what we like to hear! Now let’s meet your opponent - a big hand for Alianne!”

The sturdy beauty waved and smiled to the crowd, looking relaxed. “Hi Aoife, lovely to be here.”

“Hi darling. And may I say you’re looking lovely too, even if your outfit’s a bit less daring.”

“Thank you. It really shows off… ahem…. my girls, though.”

The host snickered. “I won’t argue there. Fancy your chances in this game, Alianne?”

“Well, Jimmy seems very confident. I’ll give it my best shot, I suppose,” she said, not giving anything away.

“Good good. Now that we’ve met our contestants, a quick reminder how our game works. Each contestant will be asked five trivia questions. Get a question right, and you get to cake your opponent!”

Aoife waved a hand towards the video screen, which now displayed ten rectangular boxes, arranged in two columns. The uppermost boxes had a graphic of a pie on them. The ones below had two pies, then three, four, and five.

“The later the round, the more cakes you get to use! Fun fun fun! But of course, get an answer wrong and there will be consequences. Some of them might leave you with a little less protection from the cakes - and there might be other surprises lurking, too!”

The audience were making the requisite ooh-ing noises, and it was time to begin.

“Away we go with Round 1. The subject this time is mathematics - and we’ll begin with you, Alianne. What is eight squared?”

Alianne seemed to be genuinely thinking - it was easy, but she was double-checking her answer. “Eight squared, so eight times eight. That’s sixty-four, Aoife.”

“Correct! And that means the first cake of the game goes to you! Would you like to pick one out and do the honours?”

“Absolutely,” replied Alianne, rising from her chair. While she observed the selection, she gave flirty glances back at Jimmy. “Hmm… what would he look good in?”

Eventually, she slid her hand under the base of a fruity-looking number - piled high with white cream, red and purple berries, and generous drizzles of syrupy sauce. As she swayed slowly towards Jimmy’s seat, she dipped a finger in its surface and licked it lasciviously.

“Mmm! Tasty. And lucky boy - you’re getting the whole thing!”

She punctuated her taunt with a forward snap of the wrist, and the squidgy mass hurtled smartly into Jimmy’s wincing face. It made a loud slap, and sent streaks of goo in all directions. The crowd cheered Alianne’s perfect execution, while Jimmy spat, and slowly wiped his cheeks and eyes. I’m gonna be doing that a lot, no doubt.

“Never mind Jimmy - now’s your chance to pay her back,” lied Aoife. “Same subject, maths. What is 88 squared?”

Jimmy rolled his eyes, and let out an amused sigh. Right, so that’s the gimmick. Earlier on, the questions were fair but the game was rigged. Other way round this time.

“Hmm, 88 squared,” he mused. “Simple enough.” Though he had no chance, he did a bit of ballpark estimation, trying to spare himself the embarrassment of being wildly wrong.

“I think it’s… 7,164, Aoife.”

He noticed her eyebrows were raised, quietly impressed. “Kinda close! The answer was 7,744.”

“Oh yes, of course.”

“Alas, that means you can’t claim a cake - and I’m afraid there’s also a forfeit.”

The host gestured up towards the board. On Jimmy’s side of the screen, a phrase was revealed in the uppermost box: GO TOPLESS!

“Fairly self-explanatory?” asked Aoife.

“Yeah. Although perhaps easier said than done. Let’s see…”

Jimmy started to address his bulging top. Just lifting his arms made the slowly-thickening rice pudding start to seep out of the looser neck-hole. He tugged at the arms and the lower band, but there was no way he’d be able to drag them over his head with the added stickiness and heaviness.

“Looks like you’ve brought some scissors with you, though.”

He frowned. Obviously there was a reason Sally had hooked them onto his cart, but he’d have preferred not to shred his own clothes. Unfortunately, it seemed like the path of least resistance at this point.

He unhooked the scissors, carefully slipped one blade under the waistband of his top, and snipped. As the elastic was cut, a hefty load of the sweet glop fell out under the pressure, over his lap and down his back. His pained expression was lapped up by the merry, tipsy crowd.

It got a little easier once he’d cut clean through the shirt’s front. He simply had to prise the tight bands off each arm in turn. Once he’d discarded the top, he rolled his shoulders and enjoyed the small relief of feeling less weighed down, though the cold pudding still oozed down his back and legs.

The game hurried on, and Alianne correctly named the capital of France in round two. Soon she was again looming over poor Jimmy, with a big wobbly confection in each hand.

“Doesn’t he have a nice chest?” she asked the audience, who responded with enthusiasm.

Jimmy shuddered as a mass of cool chocolate fudge smothered his right nipple. Alianne gave it a short, firm smear into his breast, then did the same on the other side with a strawberry cream cake. Smiling at him, she licked sweet gunk from her fingers, and re-took her seat.

“And for you Jimmy… what’s the capital of Fiji?”

He had no idea, of course, and his side of the board soon displayed LOSE YOUR SHORTS!

It took a bit of awkward wrangling, and a lot of embarrassing squelchy noises, but he managed to pull the sludge-filled lycra shorts down his legs and kick them off, without using the scissors. Rice pudding was now pooled and streaked all over the seat of his waltzer cart. He looked down at the straining bulge in his tight cotton boxers, once pristine and white, now sodden and beige.

Round three progressed entirely unsurprisingly. A grinning Alianne sandwiched the poor boy’s cheeks in an explosion of salted caramel and custard, before slapping a half-melted ice cream cake right onto his crown. Jimmy shivered and winced, feeling the chill against his hair and the cold drips down his face.

After Jimmy’s next hopeless question attempt, the words GET NAKED! appeared on the screen, to a chorus of applause and wolf-whistles from the ravenous gunge-slut audience. He sighed at the inevitability, while also worrying slightly. What the hell are the forfeits in the last two rounds?

To avoid the risk of slipping and falling, Jimmy stayed seated. His cheeks burned red-hot as he pulled his boxers down his thighs, as casually and quickly as possible, and kicked them off. But he felt like he could hear every leery, taunting comment from the crowd.

“Nice dick, babe!”

“He’s loving it, the little slut!”

“Splat him in the balls!”

Aoife attempted to bring a smidgen of decorum to proceedings. “Ahem. Well, it is the name of the game after all. But a rather one-sided match so far, unfortunately. Alianne, back to you. How do you spell London?”

“L-O-N-D-O-N.”

“Correct! And that’s four cakes for you…”

Jimmy sat tensely while Alianne took her time selecting the perfect cakes to start with, flashing devilishly overt glances up and down his naked body as she did so. She eventually settled on two big, oozy mounds of banoffee, and expertly slid them onto her palms.

As she slunk towards him, hips swaying, she roused the audience.

“Whaddya think, folks? Should I cake the cock?”

The response was unanimous, instantly erupting into a chant.

“Cake the cock! Cake the cock!”

She flashed the wincing boy a pitying smile. “Sorry honey… looks like the people have spoken.”

Biting her lip, she plunged both hands into Jimmy’s crotch, sandwiching his aching dick and balls in a cool, sticky pile of splurge. His face contorted, and his chest shuddered. “Gnnn-ohhh… gyah…”

Alianne simply chuckled, and re-armed herself. While Jimmy panted for breath, she gave another hearty smear across his erect nipples, then filled his face with a particularly rich dark chocolate confection.

Lost for words, the studly stooge moaned quietly, wiping his face and trying to calm his racing pulse.

“My word. Things really are hotting up. Your turn, Jimmy: how do you spell Llanfair­pwllgwyngyll­gogery­chwyrn­drobwll­llan­tysilio­gogo­goch?”

The crowd laughed, and also made impressed sounds at Aoife’s perfect pronunciation of the place. Jimmy sighed, too splat-shocked to say anything wittier than “pass.”

“A bit of a toughie,” conceded the host, “but the game’s the game. What’s on the board?”

Jimmy looked up to see the words ASSUME THE POSITION! He cringed a little.

“Uh… what… position, exactly?”

“I suspect you know very well, Jimmy. You’ve seen the show. But for the avoidance of doubt: stand up, please. And turn around, and bend over.”

Jimmy’s head swam with embarrassment as he did as he was told, rising slowly and reluctantly. He turned, and stooped, grasping the back panel of the cart-seat for balance. “That’s right,” cooed Aoife. “Show us that beautiful bum.” He could feel globs of confectioners’ cream and icing falling softly from his crotch.

“A tempting target, right Alianne? But you’ve still got to earn your final cakes. Last question: name a fruit beginning with A.”

“Apple!”

“And there we go - a clean sweep for Alianne! Might wanna brace yourself, Jimmy…”

Fittingly enough, Alianne managed to locate a generous and gooey apple pie on the table, which still contained plenty of cakey ammo. She paired it with a cherry pie, and approached Jimmy’s mooning figure. His buttocks quaked a little as he heard her approach.

“You know what happens to naughty boys, don’t you, Jimmy?”

“Mph… ahhh…”

“They get spanked.”

Wet, sticky apple gunk smacked firmly against his left buttock, and he let out a horny grunt. The other cheek was splatted straight after, leaving his arse a comical sight, half-and-half smeared in red and yellow.

The humiliation only intensified as Alianne next took a rich coffee cake, and splurged it enthusiastically into his crack. She was sending the audience giddy with delight - such utter humiliation for this filthy but handsome pervert.

Jimmy braced himself for the next one. But unexpectedly, something crept into his lowered field of vision. It was Alianne’s arm - carefully placing another huge, squishy ice-cream cake onto the flat wooden bench of the cart.

“Please,” she said. “Do have a seat.”

Cringing bashfully, he straightened up and turned around, knowing there was no other option. He braced himself, and to a chorus of semi-sympathetic giggling, lowered his bum slowly downwards.

“Ngh! Christ that’s cold…”

The icy, glossy slop hugged his buttocks and his bollocks as he destroyed the cake, finally coming to rest on the seat, thighs twitching. Alianne finished him off in fine style, a big sloppy carrot cake to the face muffling his mutterings of discomfort.

“Such cakey creativity!” noted Aoife approvingly. “Very enjoyable. Now, let’s see if Jimmy can take his final chance for some sweet revenge. Your question, Jimmy: name a vegetable beginning with X.”

He glared despairingly. “How about… X-tra Value tomatoes?”

She appreciated his game effort, but of course couldn’t accept his answer. “One last forfeit, Jimmy. What’s it to be?”

The answer appeared on the screen. LEFTOVERS!

Jimmy’s eyes immediately snapped to the table of cakes, which was still quite heavily stocked. Presumably, for the purpose of plausible deniability - after all, Jimmy could technically have earned some to splat his opponent.

While he was picturing all the ways Alianne was about to ruin him, there was a mighty clunk of a sound. The surface of the table levered sharply upwards, and came to a sudden stop at the vertical, propelling fifteen large, sloppy cakes directly towards Jimmy. He just had time to tense his muscles and close his eyes before the wall of edible slop hit him, hard and fast.

The audience shrieked in delighted surprise at the hilarious visual of it. That one wasn’t in the earlier episodes!

Several of the cakes flew right past his shoulders or over his head, such was the spread on the table. But that still left plenty to nail him right in the face and torso, exploding into a confusion of bright colours around him.

And then, a heavy stillness. Jimmy spat, and caught a breath. His pulse began to slowly descend from the racing peak it had hit. The front of his body was a sticky mass, a deranged kind of body armour. Sympathetic applause and helpless giggles.

“Oof,” said Aoife. “That was quite a splat. Wouldn’t have been so bad if you’d got some questions right, though…”

He cleared his face with a weary hand. “Oh yeah, I should have thought of that.”

“Well, that brings us to the end of our game. A handsome victory for Alianne - who wins our Champion’s Crown! Give her a big hand!”

A stagehand stepped out from the wings, handing over a gaudy plastic golden crown to Aoife, who walked over to Alianne and ceremonially planted it on her head.

“And for our loser, of course, the famous Dunce Cap!”

Another stagehand was beside Aoife, but she didn’t seem to be carrying the aforementioned hat. Instead, she tapped the host on the shoulder, looking nervous.

“What is it?” asked Aoife. “Is everything alright?”

The stagehand started whispering into the host’s ear, who hammily narrated what she was being told.

“A mix-up in the props department? Hmm… something with feet and inches? I see… well, do we at least have something?”

From behind her back, the jumpsuited girl produced a tiny white cone, a few inches high, balanced carefully in her palm. Even Jimmy had to chuckle at the absurd sight.

“Yeah,” sighed Aoife. “I don’t think that’s gonna fit.”

“Wait!” shouted Alianne. “I’ve got an idea.”

She stood up and, with permission, claimed the tiny hat. With a wicked smile and an excited, busty bounce in her step, she approached Jimmy. He realised her plan when she started to lean forward.

Jimmy’s cock was still standing firm, poking out of a rough and messy swamp of cake that had amassed in his lap. Very delicately, ensuring not to touch him or get messy herself, she slipped the dunce cap onto the tip of his penis. It fit perfectly, much to the crowd’s amusement.

“Very good!” said Adaine. “Men do think with their dicks, after all. Gives a whole new meaning to stupid prick…”

It was pretty funny, he had to admit.

“Right - that’s truly all we’ve got time for. And let’s give Jimmy a big round of applause, as we send him on his merry way!”

The lovely ladies did so, and Jimmy acknowledged the appreciation with a hangdog smile and a little wave, while his cart rolled onwards through the next doorway.

XI: Inevitable

Jimmy stretched his muscles, and attempted to wipe some of the slop from his body. He was slightly in disbelief that the cart-trip was still going. Even by GungeWorld standards, this was a real cavalcade of punishment, a level of messy humiliation rarely heaped on a single unfortunate victim.

He would just have to grin and bear it. After all, that’s what the GungeWorld girls had done for him, in episode after episode, game after game, messy fuckfest after messy fuckfest. However much they slopped him, it’d be hard to argue it was entirely unfair.

The cart had entered into a long hallway, in the same old-timey style as the rest of the manor house set - though it was open on one side, for the audience’s viewing purposes. Jimmy was, of course, on the lookout for anything even vaguely suspicious.

Something made itself apparent very quickly. Just ahead of the cart was a large antique wardrobe, and its doors swung wide open as he approached. The cart slowed to a stop in front of the wardrobe, then rotated so that Jimmy faced the audience, and his back faced the opening.

Slowly, it began to drag him backwards into the wardrobe. The intention felt very clear, and the audience’s excitement started to build. Once Jimmy had come to a stop inside the wardrobe, the jaunty background muzak even cut out, to build the tension.

He clenched his fists, waiting for the signal - a klaxon, a buzzer, a wet squelchy sound effect maybe. Seconds ticked past, agonizingly.

Then he heard a cartoonish HONK, like from a bicycle horn, and a quiet pop. Two small confetti blasters had unleashed themselves, one over each shoulder. The coloured paper floated down and started to stick to him.

The cart emerged from the wardrobe and continued happily on its way, the background music returning. Jimmy let out a weary sigh, equally relieved and annoyed by the fakeout. Once again - he had to admit it was funny.

He was less amused when a large portrait of Alexa on the wall slid rapidly aside, and from the hollow behind, a ludicrously large tub of ice-cold water was brutally tipped over Jimmy and his vehicle.

The enormous drenching was done and dusted in a couple of seconds flat. Jimmy sat rigid with shock, open-mouthed, naked and dripping and freezing. Both he and the cart had been washed almost entirely clean. The audience’s reaction sounded genuinely rather alarmed.

“Spluh… fuh… the fuck…”

He rolled onwards into another tastefully-decorated room, where the cart came to a rest again. Still in utter shock, it took Jimmy a moment to notice that Faye was standing there, cheerful and cocksure as ever.

“Tricked ya there, didn’t we? Hello again, honey. How are you doing?”

Jimmy was shivering. “I, uh, huhhh. I think I wanna go home.”

“Hmmm. Not quite yet, I’m afraid, but we are nearing the end of your Grand Tour.”

As she said it, a couple of Stagehands emerged bearing hot, fluffy towels. Jimmy groaned in relief as they dried and warmed him all over. Obviously the situation wasn’t totally ideal - he was still sitting naked and erect, in full view of dozens of intimidatingly beautiful women. But he’d take what he could get - the towel-down was nice.

“Question for you,” Faye continued. “What have these three clips got in common?”

She pointed to a nearby screen, and Jimmy turned to watch.

The video began at the end of a trivia game. Faye, the game’s loser, was being ushered into a gunge tank, Alexa holding its door open welcomingly/menacingly. She took her seat, jumpy and quivery, dressed in a simple black t-shirt and jeans.

After a little tension-building teasing, Alexa yanked the lever and unleashed a plentiful helping of lime green slime over the squealing hottie. This was Faye’s first ever GW appearance, and first ever gunging. She squirmed through the slopping, shoulders shaking with embarrassed laughter, palms held up in helpless abandon.

It cut to a slightly racier sight. Faye was once again sitting in a cubicle, this time wearing nothing but a cute pair of bikini panties. Her firm, perky breasts were already dishevelled with huge smears of white cream.

This was Faye’s first time playing Lovely Jubblies. She was being pressed for an answer by Alexa, and was smiling but also a little stressed, bouncing minutely in her seat.

“Erm… erm… Tower Hamlets?”

A brassy guitar-riff blared out of nowhere. Faye got about half a second to look alarmed, before a thick and sloppy torrent of blue gunge descended into her tank and over her pretty head.

“Aiyeee-eee-hee-hee-hee!”

The lovely neon slop sloshed down her shoulders and quickly coated her creamy tits, as she pealed with laughter. Now a more experienced gungee, she revelled in it, not stooping over or trying to hide, enjoying the feel as it slopped over her hands, slathered her thighs, pooled in her lap.

Another quick cut, this time right into the action - and it certainly was some action. Faye was yet again sequestered in a cosy booth - this one particularly attractive, decorated around its frame with red velvet hearts, flowers and strawberries. Jimmy recalled it well - this year’s Valentine’s Day episode.

Rather than perching on a stool or chair, though, she was kneeling astride a vibrating Sybian, and vigorously riding up and down on the huge, firm plastic cock attached to its centre. A dozen thin streams of syrupy, translucent red slime were pouring from every wall of the booth, and had been for some time. They continued to splash sensually over her head, face and body, her bare skin entirely slathered, as the kinky vixen thrusted and gasped and moaned.

It was clear that she was right on the border of a fiercely debauched, gungey climax. And there was one thing that finally tipped her over the edge - the blare of a warning klaxon.

“Ughhh!” she screamed, in desperate anticipation. A second later, she was assaulted from above by a ludicrously large waterfall of thick, glossy, bubblegum-pink gunge.

For the next ten seconds, Faye was barely visible under the splattering rain of bright goop. But she was very audible. She groaned, yelped and spluttered, cumming hard, driven to raptures by the buzzing in her pussy and the liquid, gloppy massage over her blushing skin.

When the drenching finally stopped, she knelt there open-mouthed and breathless, shuddering through the last throes of orgasm. Eventually, she dragged her heavy arms up to wipe her face. And her awestruck expression started to soften into a filthy, self-satisfied smile.

Much to Jimmy’s disappointment, the video cut off there. Faye restated her question.

“Three clips. What’s the connection?”

Jimmy thought for a moment. “They all featured an awesome foxy lady?”

This amused her. “Ha! Well, you’re not wrong, per se. And the flattery is appreciated. But the answer I’m looking for is that they all involved a…”

She was making him say it. “A… gunge tank.”

“Ding ding ding! After all Jimmy, this is GungeWorld. Can’t possibly take the Grand Tour without visiting an actual, honest-to-goodness gunge tank.”

“I suppose not.”

“And here’s the most exciting part - we’ve designed a special one just for you, Jimmy!”

That truly sent a shiver down his spine. “Ah? Really?”

“Bring out the Boy Destroyer!”

Faye gestured at a section of the wood-panelled wall. A distorted little musical sting played as it started to rotate. Excited applause and laughter rippled around the crowd. Jimmy gulped as the tank slowly revealed itself.

It was in the traditional style, for sure. A frame of ornate wood, to match the mansion-house decor. Perspex panels on each side. Inside, a flat wooden shelf to sit on. And up above, a cuboid reservoir filled with gunge, a swirly mix of yellow and orange. Plenty of it, too. At least twice the amount you might see in certain TV shows. Attached to one corner of the slime-vat at a jaunty angle, there was a wooden sign. “THE BOY DESTROYER” was scrawled on it in white paint, alongside several little kisses and a doodle of the grinning devil emoji.

Once it was in place, Faye wasted no time skipping towards it and swinging the low perspex door open. Jimmy’s pulse raced at the very sight of it - the classic tease, a polite invitation to a very messy fate.

“Come on, darling. In you go.”

As calmly as he could, Jimmy stood up from the cart, and walked towards the tank. Still fully naked, of course, and there were many wolf-whistles at the sight of his erection leading the way.

He meekly thanked Faye for holding the door, and took his seat. Not particularly comfortable. Even Faye closing the door gave him a little shudder. It marked his inevitable fate being sealed - he was going to get destroyed once more, the yellow and orange gunk was going to end up all over him, and Faye was going to thoroughly enjoy her turn with Jimmy.

Faye leaned lazily against the corner of the tank, smirking at him through the opening. Jimmy couldn’t resist glancing nervously upwards, much to the audience’s pleasure. He knew he was behaving identically to many nervous tank victims he’d watched, but he couldn’t help it. All he could see though was an ominous round valve in the roof above.

“Hey Jimmy. You wanna know the special thing about this gunge tank?”

He winced. “I suspect I’m gonna find out, whatever it is.”

Faye ignored him. “It comes with its own special outfit!”

She reached upwards, and flicked a small switch on one of the wooden struts. Jimmy squirmed, suspecting (not unreasonably) that this “outfit” could be some kind of coating of mess.

Not the case. Instead, a small compartment sprang open, tucked away at the back edge of the tank’s roof. Out of it spilled a swoosh of shiny lime-green fabric, which came to a rest draped over Jimmy’s chest.

It only took a couple of seconds to figure out it was a mankini. Two thin shoulder-straps and a very snug-looking pouch. He sighed.

“Just slip that on for us, there’s a good boy.”

There wasn’t much to slip on. However, as he wrangled the stupid garment into place, he noticed that it was still attached to the device. Two transparent wires led from the top of each shoulder to the compartment above. It didn’t stop him finally getting it on, though. The audience tittered as he re-took his seat.

The straps were snug against his chest, and his throbbing cock and balls were only just restrained by the hammock below. The fabric between his arse cheeks was the most uncomfortable and unnerving though. He felt above his shoulder for the wire he’d noticed. It had some slack in it, but he felt there was some skullduggery to watch out for here.

“A-very niiice,” trilled Faye, in the unavoidable comedy accent. “So. You know the game you’ll be playing, right Jimmy?”

“Uh… no, actually-”

The sound of the hooting klaxon made every muscle in Jimmy’s body tense up.

Half a second later, he felt the first cool wet slap against his hair. A message he’d been made a fool once again. Then the thick sloshes down his shoulders, his chest and back. Splatters falling into his lap, against his thighs. Completely on instinct, he held up his hands, feeling the gunge gushing against his palms and through his fingers. He let out a frustrated, defeated little moan, which only Faye was able to enjoy.

Most unsettling of all was the sound - a constant thrum of squelching, as deflected waves of gunk slapped against the perspex walls. Jimmy felt the noise in his stomach.

The valve overhead closed as quickly as it had opened. Gunge oozed slowly down Jimmy’s near-naked body as he wiped his face, revealing a rather miffed pout. It was aimed at Faye, who had quickly retreated to a slightly safer distance at the sound of the hooter.

“Has that given you more of a clue about the game?” she asked, perkily.

Jimmy rolled his eyes, understanding it perfectly. The Yes/No Game.

“Y- I believe it has, Faye.”

“I think the boy’s got it. Well actually, he well and truly got it!” Faye chuckled at her improvised joke. “But for those who are a little slower on the uptake…”

Faye gave a very quick spiel to the camera and audience. “I’m going to put 60 seconds on the clock, and I’m going to ask Jimmy some questions. He has to answer - but he can’t say ‘yes’ or ‘no’. Because if he does, then it’s slime time!”

She turned back towards him, gesturing at the top of the cubicle. “Now, let’s refill the vat, and get this gungey game underway!”

Jimmy couldn’t see the panel in the wall above the tank levering open, revealing a hidden pipe. But he could certainly hear when it started gushing pink-orange slop into the reservoir above, splattery and loud and ominous.

Faye re-took her position, leaning against the tank. Jimmy was a little surprised - she was close enough that he could flick some gunge at her, even reach out and grab her. But he quickly stopped that train of thought.

Oh yeah, that’d end really well for me.

She had produced, from somewhere, a round metal stopwatch. And so it was on with the game.

“Your time starts… now!” She pressed the button, and barrelled into her first question.

“Is your name Jimmy Smith?”

“That… is correct.” He was trying to stay calm, to avoid stupid slip-ups. Would probably be easier if he wasn’t already covered in slime, but hey ho.

“Are you 30 years old?”

“I certainly am.”

“And are you a very naughty boy?”

A good one. “Ha. Um… I think you know the ans-”

The klaxon blared again, to Jimmy’s great surprise. As a second deluge of slop started to rain over his head, he spluttered out objections.

“I didn’t… spluh! That wasn’t…”

Feeling very hard done by, he squirmed and harrumphed through a second plentiful gunging. Through the slimy splattery noises, he could hear that the audience were finding his outrage very amusing indeed.

When it finally abated, he cleared his face and aimed an indignant look up at Faye.

“That was K-N-O-W!”

She was actually looking rather apologetic. “Yeee-eah. Sorry about that. Hold on, let me stop the clock. I need to have a word with backstage.”

She clicked the timer to stop it, then raised her other hand, putting a finger to her ear. Either Jimmy hadn’t noticed she was wearing a radio earpiece, or she was just doing it for show. She took a couple of steps away from the tank.

“Hi, Cassie? I think you got a bit trigger-happy there.” She left a pause. Jimmy had no idea if she was hearing a genuine response. There was a new dimension of humiliation from getting gunged by an unseen stranger, he realised.

“Yeah, that was K-N-O-W. So we shouldn’t have… yeah. Mmm-hmm.”

She turned back towards Jimmy. “Cassie says sorry.”

“Okay.”

“Not sure it’s totally accepted Cassie, but anyway. Hmm? Well, I don’t know, really. It’s not like we can un-gunge him.”

Jimmy piped up. “You could let me off if I mess up again!”

Faye seemed to consider it - but not for long. “Nah, I think we’d best just get on with it. These things happen, never mind babe. Talk to you later. Bye. Buh-bye.”

She turned back towards the tank. “Right. Let’s put that behind us, shall we?”

Jimmy gave a rueful chuckle. “Easy for you to say…”

The timer restarted, and so did the questioning.

“Are you enjoying the GungeWorld grand tour, Jimmy?”

“Erm. It’s certainly been… an experience.”

“I don’t think you were expecting to get this messy, were you?”

“Ah… there has indeed been a bit more than I bargained for.”

“That’s a very common sentiment here. Anyway - how turned on are you right now?”

This flustered him a little. “I think I’m… maybe more nervous than anything…?”

“Okay. But… what’s with the raging hard-on, then?”

“You keep showing me my favourite clips!” he protested “And you’re all even hotter in person…”

“Jimmy, you’ve been stiff as a board since you walked into the studio. Aren’t you just desperate to cum?”

“That’s…!”

He struggled to come up with an answer he could say. The audience were rapt by Faye’s sudden, dominant filthiness.

“Oh, admit it, you’re horny as hell. You’d love to whip your cock out and spill a hot load all over my gunge tank, wouldn’t you, you dirty little fucker?”

“No, it’s not- aaagh!”

She’d got to him. Faye gave a cackle of triumph, pumping her fist as she dodged out of the splash-zone, and the audience cheered lustily. The humiliated Jimmy took another very sloppy shower, his shoulders slumping in defeat. The blue and purple slime sloshed down, heavy and thick, over him.

He emerged, looking bashful. Faye gave him a pitying tilt of the head.

“Gotcha there, didn’t I?”

“You did. Well played.”

“Thirty seconds left. Well, deny it all you like, but I think we all know you’re a horny gunge-slut through and through. Here’s a question, though: what else do you like?”

This sounded like trouble. “Erm… pardon?”

“You mentioned one or two other kinks on the prize survey, didn’t you?”

“Nggh… I suppose I did.”

“In fact, there’s one in particular… one that Sally mentioned earlier. Remember?”

“I do… remember. Mmph.”

“Oh good. Because do you know what time it is, Jimmy?”

“I have a guess...”

“Then say it. What time is it, Jimmy?”

His heart was pounding like a drum. His arse cheeks clenched in apprehension.

“Is it wedgie time…”

“Hell yes it is!”

Grinning like the devil, Faye located another subtle switch on the frame of the gunge tank. As soon as she flicked it, the quivering Jimmy felt a firm, tugging pressure against his crotch. He grunted, and balled his fists.

Jimmy’s mankini proceeded to hoist him into the air, held up by those clear wires attached to the shoulders. The pressure quickly grew, his wedding tackle squeezed tight against him, the crook of the garment digging sharply into his crack. A throbbing pain gnawed at his taint and his arsehole. He gasped and moaned, helpless and incapacitated, his hands held tight against his sticky thighs.

While Sally had given it her all, The Boy Destroyer was both stronger and merciless. There were some genuinely shocked faces in the audience, as they watched poor Jimmy dangle, his arse a foot or so above his seat, his squirms of discomfort making him swing and sway. His calves bumped against the wooden shelf.

Worse still, Faye wasn’t letting him suffer in silence.

“Is that nice, Jimmy?”

“Augh! It’s… not! Puh, please…”

“Oh? I thought you liked wedgies?”

“I like… watching girls… get them!”

“Sure you do. I bet there are tons of ladies out there who’ve been wedgied on camera for your viewing pleasure, aren’t there?”

It was hard to argue. “I… suppose!”

“Then when it’s finally your turn to get the treatment, seems like you get all upset.”

“Agh! I’m sorry, it’s true, you’re right…”

Faye smiled in satisfaction to hear Jimmy concede this.

“But please, it fucking hurts…”

“Are you asking me to let you down, then?”

“I… am…! Please, let me…”

“Just to be clear, Jimmy - should I let you down? Yes or no?”

“Dammit! Ngh, please just-”

“Yes or no?”

“Yes!!!”

Jimmy’s arse thumped painfully against the seat as the klaxon blared and yet more thick, lurid slime poured into the tank over him.

He groaned out loud under the sloppy splattering, his crotch and arse still yawning in pain. The mankini was still buried in his crack. His legs felt like jelly, and his body was racked with horny, humiliated shudders. His mind was turning cartwheels, endorphins firing around like pinballs. His shoulders rose and fell as he took deep, recuperative breaths, protecting his face with his hands.

When the bluey-green rain finally stopped, he heard Faye counting down.

“Five… four… three…”

A little part of him prepared to get gunged again as soon as the timer ran out. That certainly seemed like something they’d do.

“Two… one… and time!”

Mercifully, no more gunge was forthcoming.

“He’s made it through the minute! Everyone, a big round of applause for Jimmy!”

It was hard to appreciate the ovation, what with the insistent physical discomfort and deep embarrassment. The best he could do was a little nod and a wave.

Once the crowd had shown their appreciation, Faye stepped forward. “Alright then, let’s get you out of there.”

She reached forward to open the door. Then her hand paused in mid-air.

“Hold on.” She reached up to her ear again. Jimmy’s nose twitched suspiciously.

“Hi, Cassie? Everything alright? Hmm, uh-huh. Uh-huh.”

A sudden smile spread across Faye’s face. “Cassie! You’re so naughty, that wouldn’t be fair! Honestly, what are you like?”

She left a long pause.

“Oh, go on then.”

Another hooting klaxon, though this one lasted twice as long just to draw out the humiliation. Finally another big sloppy load of green and yellow gunge emerged for hapless Jimmy. He sighed, nothing else to do but sit there and take it like a good boy. He signalled his submission by tilting his head up so he took the gunge straight to the face. It ran perfectly down his body, the green adding to the other colours already there. The lukewarm flow over his crotch was at least something like a gentle massage for the pain.

Even before the goo had finished flowing, he was trying to assess whether they’d do it once more.

Faye still had her finger to her ear. “There you go. Happy now?”

Then she looked aghast. “Cassie!”

Five gungings became six. As the litres of yellow and orange slop sloshed mercilessly over his head, he had to let out a rueful chuckle. It had passed the point of being mean, and circled round into funny again. The audience certainly seemed to think so, at least, a chorus of giggles greeting this latest indignity. As he’d always suspected, the more of the same slop on an already destroyed victim didn’t make much of a difference to the feeling, only the visual and psychological aspects.

“That was very naughty, Cassie,” chided Faye, eventually. “I’m not letting you have all the fun. He’s coming with me now, alright?” She listened for a moment. “Thank you. Alright. TTYL. Kisses.”

Faye turned back to look at Jimmy. She had to stifle a chuckle at the sheer volume of glossy, gameshow glop he was covered in.

“Gosh. Seems like Cassie had it in for you there.”

Jimmy flapped his arms, gunk flicking from his fingertips. “Don’t I know it.”

“Maybe I shouldn’t have told her how many times you’ve watched Cumslut Cassie’s Unfair Funfair.”

That gave his stomach a little pang, and he blinked up at Faye sheepishly. He obviously remembered the video - set up as a cheery, carnival-themed gameshow, it immediately descended into a madcap cavalcade of surprise sloppings and rough sex, for Cassie and Cassie only.

“I suppose we should get you out of there before she changes her mind…”

“That’d be… nice.”

Faye finally approached the tank, and carefully swung open the door, avoiding the splattery slime as much as she could.

“Uh… nice might not be the right word. Because make no mistake - you’re going straight back in that cart. You’re not finished yet, honey-pie.”

Jimmy sighed. He knew that already, but it always gave a fizz of discomfort when Faye re-asserted his helpless situation.

“And I’m afraid you’ll have to leave that sexy swimwear behind…”

Wearily, Jimmy extricated himself from the sticky thing. Naked again, and now with a healthy coating of rainbow-hued gunge all over him. He marvelled at the way the dripping tones swirled together, without mixing into a murky brown. Some chemical cleverness or other, all in the service of colourful slapstick.

“Please return to your chariot, my dear. Time to reach your journey’s end.”

XII: Arrival

Jimmy obeyed, trudging sadly towards the cart and sitting his naked, slimy, sore ass down.

“Well, that was a very enjoyable rest-stop,” said Faye, addressing the cameras.

“Ha!” interjected Jimmy. “For you, maybe.”

Faye nodded. “Yes, I meant for me. And our darling viewers. Probably less enjoyable if you got wicked-wedgied and super-slopped.”

“You don’t have to remind me.”

“But I love to. How’s your ass-crack doing?”

The audience tittered scandalously, as Jimmy frowned at the taunt. “Felt better…”

“Anyway,” trilled Faye, turning to the crowd. “Let’s get this boy moving again, shall we? You all wanna see where his fateful road trip ends, right?”

A loud cheer rang out, lusty and excited. “Off you go, my gooey gumdrop!”

The thing slowly came to life again, and the bedraggled Jimmy headed onwards.

The next location was another long corridor. The cart just kept trundling as Jimmy tried to de-slop himself a bit, wiping palms over his arms and thighs.

He was approaching a corner. A few yards before the car reached it, Jimmy heard a loud hissing sound. In all honesty, he’d half been expecting this - they were really leaning into the vibe of that one particular Saturday night classic. So he knew that to reach the fireplace, he’d have to go through the foam sprayer first.

Two nozzles on the wall pumped out about a dozen jets altogether of airy, fluffy white foam, around Jimmy’s chest-height. As the cart closed the distance, he noticed there was an extra little treat from above, too - another multi-jet spray, this one of thin-looking translucent yellow slime.

Jimmy closed his eyes and cringed as he rolled steadily into the silly, splattery mush. The soft creamy goo caressed his face, shoulders, arms and chest, some sprays even reaching low enough to foam his crotch and thighs. And the spritzing of watery, slippery goo from above washed it down slightly, ensuring that he wasn’t totally buried in the foam. The audience members, blocked by the set but still watching this moment on the studio screens, could still see his handsome but rather frustrated face.

It was all over within a couple of seconds, and the cart emerged from the other side of the sprayers. Or at least it would have been over, if the vehicle hadn’t immediately stopped, and gone into reverse.

“Agh! You fuckers…” He knew he should have seen it coming though.

A warmly entertained cheer rose from the crowd as Jimmy was dragged backwards for another flirty, foamy slopping.

This melange of slop wasn’t as oppressively thick and heavy as the gunge-tank gunge, which it was gradually sluicing away from Jimmy’s bare skin. That was a bit of a relief. But the method of delivery, the fizzingly madcap spray, was its own special brand of humiliating.

Once he’d been back through the spray, he obviously knew he’d have to go forward through it again. He took a breath in preparation, and sure enough, the cart stopped. It trundled forwards once more - this time, just for fun, extra-slowly. “Great. Yeah, very funny. Mppph-”

His distracted moans were muffled as he entered the splash zone. Agonisingly, inch by inch, the cart edged through it, as slippery gunge and sticky fluff sloshed relentlessly all around him. It was at least eight seconds before he finally made it out, wiping his face and flicking his arms.

The little car returned to a sensible travelling speed, and conveyed Jimmy through the final corridor. He could see a square opening in the wall ahead of him. Nervously, he looked upwards to try and see what fate might befall him in the fireplace. However, there wasn’t much light in that particular corner of the set. Maybe the vague shape of some pipes above? In any case, the cart didn’t stop there.

Jimmy emerged through the fireplace arch, to hugely enthusiastic applause, encouraged by Faye. There was a little runway that let the cart travel a few yards into the studio floor - just to put its messy occupant on clear, humiliating display.

He looked up at his host, his expression calmly expectant. She was as smiley as ever, and stood a few feet away, next to yet another TV screen mounted on a stand.

“Hi Jimmy!”

“Hello there.”

“How are you doing?”

“Can’t complain.”

Faye cocked an eyebrow. “Some people would complain if they’d been getting totally covered in gunge all afternoon.”

He shrugged. “Eh, I dunno. I think I might be getting used to it.”

“Hmmm. A little late perhaps, seeing as the tour’s nearly over.”

“Emphasis on the nearly, I presume,” he replied with a smirk.

She returned it. “Good point. Yes, I think we owe it to the viewers to finish you off - ahem - with something really spectacular.” This suggestion got an approving cheer.

“To be honest, I wouldn’t expect anything less.”

“Jimmy, I have to say. You really are taking it like a good sport.”

He nodded in acknowledgement. Then Faye put a slightly guilty look on her face.

“Although I have to warn you - it might be a little frustrating to see these next video clips.”

Jimmy didn’t feel too fazed. He’d spent an entire afternoon stewing in deep social and sexual frustration. “How so?”

“Well, I don’t know if you remember - the prize draw survey did say that there would be three lucky winners.”

“Uh-huh.”

“The thing is - you didn’t all get the same prize. Shall we see what you could have won?”

She pressed a remote, and the screen flickered into life, displaying a head-and-shoulders shot of a youngish man. One who looked remarkably similar to Jimmy, he noticed. The same build, skin tone, hairstyle, and boy-next-door looks. If they’d both been on The Traitors, you’d still be mixing up their names by halfway through.

He was wearing a suit and tie - but more notably, draped over his shoulders was a fancy ermine-trimmed cloak. And atop his head, a shiny, surprisingly expensive-looking crown. He was gazing into the camera, clearly trying to look sexy and it was working. Jimmy frowned - they may have similar looks, but he’d never been able to smoulder like that.

“Meet Danny.”

Jimmy was worried now. What’s this about?

“He was here last Saturday. Picked out of the hat, just like you. But there was something about his survey answers - sparklingly witty, and ever so complimentary, with serious dom energy. We had three prizes to award - and so, he got the Princely Power Prize.”

Danny was now standing beside a gunge tank on the GungeWorld studio floor. On a chair inside the tank was Aoife, one of Jimmy’s recent tormentors. Here, though, she was already very messy, looking a bit flustered and embarrassed, her hair and clothes slicked with a couple of colours of thick gunge.

Danny had his hand on the chain, ready to activate the tank again. He was really milking it, shamelessly teasing Aoife as she squirmed and huffed at him, waiting for more gunge to fall.

Faye was there too, standing patiently a couple of feet away from Danny. But she was rather a different sight from the dominant punk of today’s tour. Her curvy figure was squeezed into a classic sexy French maid costume, black and white with lots of frills and lace, suspenders, silk stockings and heels. She patiently held a silver tray, on it a half-empty bottle of beer and a little bowl of peanuts.

Danny took a momentary break from menacing Aoife, leaned towards Faye, and grabbed his beer to take a swig. “Thanks, sweetie.”

“My pleasure, sir.”

Without warning, he pulled the chain, and watched a yelping Aoife get covered in a torrent of thick orange slime.

Jimmy was already feeling slightly nauseous at this revelation, that Danny was getting to gunge the girls himself. He’d so desperately wanted that.

Next up came a clip of Louise and Cassie, two of GungeWorld’s most beautifully plump and busty beauties. They sat on stools, looking rather exposed in only their frilly knickers, their other clothes strewn on the floor around them. Both had copious amounts of creamy, gungey smear across much of their bare skin.

Danny seemed to have been given free reign to host a strip-and-splat game, with these two as contestants. His princely getup was still clean as a whistle, apart from some white streaks that were unmistakably collateral splatter-damage.

Faye was present again, obediently holding the push-bar of a steel dessert trolley loaded with huge, gooey cakes and bowls of sweet goops. It looked like she’d taken a few creamings to the face herself, white goo smeared and dotted around her head and shoulders. But for now, Danny was focusing his attention on the two curvy, topless hotties.

He strode behind Louise, a cake in each hand, and brought them up slowly as she giggled and squirmed. Then smush - he enveloped her face in a spectacular pie-sandwich, much to the pleasure of the audience.

Danny returned to the cart, and picked up two more. Cassie looked nervously down at them as he approached. After a short, smouldering glare at her, he thrust them forward, slapping them squarely into her huge, jiggling tits. She pealed with semi-outraged laughter as he rubbed them in, shamelessly groping her sloppy, creamy mammaries.

This is unbearable, thought Jimmy. Please don’t tell me there’s more.

There was more. A wide shot captured three clean, butt-naked hotties sitting on three precarious little dunking-planks. Their legs dangled nervously above a wide, shallow pit.

The pit contained rather a lot of sticky, foamy, gloopy slime in a range of textures and colours. It also contained two girls, Sally and Eve, who were very much the opposite of clean. They sat submerged to their bellies in the gunk, in a friendly and sticky embrace, jeering up at the other girls that they’d soon be joining them down in the slop.

A bright spotlight was flicking between the three clean ladies, seemingly at random. Every time they felt the beam shine down on them, they instinctively tensed, knowing what it could mean.

A change of camera-shot revealed the source of the spotlight. Slumped comfortably in a plush, velvet-and-gold throne, Danny was lazily tapping away at a series of buttons set into the throne’s arm.

“Mmmm, ahhh… who’s next?” he teased. “Violet, maybe you?”

“No!” she squealed, but the light flicked away.

“Or you, Alianne?”

“I’ll kill you!”

“Ngh… Effia, fancy a dip?”

“Stop teasing us!”

Danny raised an eyebrow. “Well, ahhh… when you put it like that…”

He double-tapped Effia’s button, and the pale blue spotlight turned a lusty pink. She screeched in alarm.

As well she might. Straight away, a wide pipe right above her head spewed out an enormous, fast, splattery gush of thick green slime, absolutely drenching the helpless hottie. She yelled and flailed, barely keeping her balance on the little platform, as the slop continued to pump mercilessly over her cowering head.

With a clunk, the plank released her downwards. Wailing, she hit the sloped wall of the vat below, sliding down it at enormous speed. Her plump, squishy body careened into the waiting, cheering embrace of Eve and Sally.

The gunge-pipe hadn’t stopped gushing. In fact, it had actually tracked Effia - angling upwards until its riotously messy arc was aimed squarely at the centre of the pit, so the dunkee got a continued slathering. And of course, so did her compatriots - Eve taking a second thorough gunging of the game, and poor Sally a third.

All the while, half a dozen Pie-O-Matics - three machines on each side of the pit - hurled a brutal volley of sweet creamy glop into the squealing, gungey throng, pie after pie after pie squelching heavily against their heads, backs, chests, shoulders.

The spectacular splattering finally abated, and its three weary victims were left laughing helplessly. Bodies squishing together, gentle stroking, a little kissing.

Jimmy had noticed that there was something odd about Danny’s voice as he teased his playthings - he sounded distracted, strangely uncomfortable. A downward pan of the camera revealed the reason.

Just as she had been in the last two clips, Faye was in attendance. However, all the white fabric in her slutty maid outfit had turned sunshine yellow. It was beyond a doubt that she had recently been covered head-to-toe in thick custard.

Danny’s smart trousers were pretty well-smeared in custard, too. This wasn’t too surprising, considering that Faye was down on her knees, hungrily sucking his large cock.

Sitting in his sad little cuck-cart, Jimmy could hardly bear to watch. He couldn’t meet Faye’s eye, though he knew she’d be giving him the most evil grin possible.

She was really going at Prince Danny, massaging his shaft and balls with her slimy hands, slurping and sucking at his helmet with whorish abandon.

Danny grunted, and glanced down at her. “Ngh! Fuck… I’d better finish this quickly…”

He pressed a button to cast a spotlight over curvy, nervy Violet.

“Please don’t!”

“Gah! Sorry, my dear… it’s just, fuck… need a little entertainment while I c-c-c-”

A double-tap, and a spasm in his cock.

“C-cum!”

As the shrieking Violet got gunged, dunked, and splattered to fuck, Danny groaned aloud, and unleashed a plentiful hot load into Faye’s willing mouth. The cameras captured her receiving it, her satisfied noises of acknowledgement. A gulp down the throat, some deft tongue-work for the last drops. The gunk-dunk, spectacular as it was, got relegated to a sub-screen in the corner. The intent of this particular edit was 100% to torture Jimmy.

The scene faded out on a shot of Prince Danny, blissed-out and spent, slumped in his throne, panting gently into the air.

“And just think, Jimmy,” said the real-life Faye. “With a bit more confidence in your answers, that could have been your dick in my mouth!”

He didn’t have a flirty rejoinder. He was so deep in Sub-space right now, he may as well have bought a flat there. Faye had to giggle at his big, sad, cow-eyes. But once she’d gathered herself, there was more to get through.

“No rest for the wicked, though. The day after Danny, we welcomed Roxanne to the studios.”

The screen sparked into life again. And it at least gave Jimmy something to enjoy.

Roxanne was mugging to the camera for her intro shot. She was a pale-skinned blonde girl, short and wide, with blue eyes.

Compared with the type of women that tend to inhabit online erotica, one might describe her as plain-looking. She had the kind of idiosyncrasies that pornstars don’t. A prominent, convex nose. Wispy hair in a somewhat unfashionable ‘do. Uneven teeth. In other words, she was a normal person.

Her obvious delight and enthusiasm, however, were far from ordinary. Her wide, infectious smile beamed into Jimmy’s soul. She wore one of GungeWorld’s many slogan tees - SPLAT THIS SLUT, yellow text on green. Poking out her tongue, she jiggled her chest with her palms, then spun round to shake her bum at the camera.

“Roxanne’s survey made it clear that she was kinky as fuck, with a serious exhibitionist streak. And she’d had some very fun experiences with gunge… and bondage, and punishment...”

I think they’ve found my opposite, thought Jimmy. He let Faye continue.

“Based on that, the choice was easy. Roxanne would be getting the Passionate Playmates Prize.”

Time to cut to the action. The first clip was immediately a riot of colour. Roxanne, still in her t-shirt and tight black shorts, was physically grappling with a similarly-attired slim brunette, a newer member of the GungeWorld cast called Mollie.

They were on a circular platform, which had a raised lip around it - beyond that, sloping walls led down into different messy pits arranged around the circle. The raised arena, somewhat inevitably, was being showered intermittently with jets of translucent, slippery green gunge, and the two wrestling girls already had a shiny, slimy covering from head to toe.

Raucous cheering came from the audience, though it wasn’t enough to drown out the very loud laughter, squealing and swearing from the ladies locked in messy battle. Being covered in slime, and regularly splattered with more - this made competent, tactical wrestling completely impossible. So it was just a sqiurmy, chaotic debacle.

Faye was ringside, back in more familiar duds, a retro black mini-dress with an artfully tattered grey sweater on top. She was attempting to act as a commentator.

“And it looks like Roxanne has the upper hand… wait, no… now she’s upside-down? And Mollie’s fallen over again…”

After one failed attempt at a hold, Mollie found some space and brought herself up to her knees. But before she could brace herself, Roxanne simply hurtled forwards into her, sending both of them over the lip of the platform, Mollie screeching, the pair tumbling downwards together…

“Oh, and it’s into the beans!”

Their bodies sliding at speed into the savoury goop caused a huge, sloppy wave in the pit of mushy, sticky baked beans. Both briefly submerged, as the audience roared with laughter. Mollie was first to emerge - the pit wasn’t too deep, just her kneeling legs buried in the mire. She spat out tomato sauce and looked rather horrified - even more so when she got a chunky pea-soup gunging from above into the bargain.

When Roxy dragged herself out, she got a cheery yellow splattering in cheese sauce, laughing all the way through it, holding up her hands in naughty delight.

“I think we’ll have to call that a draw,” narrated Faye. “But wait!”

As soon as she’d taken a breath, Roxanne sprang towards Mollie, arms out and grinning. Her opponent, thinking it was over, was caught off guard - and screamed in surprise as Roxanne slammed her backwards, both of them plunging under the beans again.

Jimmy was at least glad to have avoided such a smelly, savoury slopping. But the wrestling part looked amazing - writhing and groping in slime with a hot girl. It was absolutely maddening to know he’d missed out on this.

In Roxanne’s second clip, things escalated quite a bit. She’d lost her outer clothes, now wearing a scarlet two-piece, very skimpy and sheer. She was also in a bit of a bind - literally. She’d been tied with ropes to another girl: dark beauty Dionne, who wore a set of lingerie the same as Roxanne’s. They were both bound at the wrists, with their arms around each other’s waist. They sat together in a recessed booth, the binding making their shoulders and chests press together, incredibly intimate. Roxanne’s thighs sat criss-cross atop Dionne’s.

And they were both already very gooey - slicks of colourful gunge over their hair and shoulders, bursts of cream and sloshes of custard down their torsos and legs. They were passionately and unashamedly snogging, only breaking off to giggle at the absurdity of their situation.

In an identical booth a few feet away, Louise and Aoife had been lashed together in the same manner, and had also clearly taken quite a lot of splatter. Their sexy undergarments were powder blue instead of red. They weren’t making out - but only because it was their turn to participate in a game of chance.

“Four boxes left,” said Faye. “Two prizes remaining, and two messy surprises - one of them extra-sloppy! What’s it to be, ladies?”

After some nervous conferring, the pair chose their box, number 12. A drum roll sounded. The box they’d chosen sprang open, revealing a word inside: WEEKEND TRIP. A fanfare blared, and the girls in the booth cheered, a little congratulatory kiss for good measure.

“A prize for the blue team! Back to you, reds!”

“Oh no,” began Dionne. “It’s my turn to choose, isn’t it? I’m not sure I like our odds!”

“Ah, que sera sera,” replied Roxanne, smouldering at her team-mate. “Prizes are nice, but so is this.” She squeezed Dionne’s hips and rubbed up against her. Dionne purred in pleasure.

“Come on - pick a box!” commanded Faye.

“Alright, alright! Let’s have number 5…”

After a short, nervous wait, the prop revealed its contents: SUPER SPLATTER.

“Fuck!” cried Dionne, then “Aaaaghck!”

The first bucket of gunge hit her squarely round the head and shoulders, and the second did much the same for Roxanne. The thing is, the third, fourth, fifth and six buckets all arrived at almost the same moment.

Squeals of shock and delight echoed from the booth, as the crew of Stagehands on the platform above delivered a merciless volley of multicolour slop, bucketful after bucketful sloshing down over the heads of the helpless, scantily-clad girls.

Dionne’s eyes and mouth were wide, stun-locked by the hard and loud waves of gunge slapping against her body, and every surface around it. Even wild, slime-thirsty Roxanne had to gasp a little at the audacity. But soon she was revelling in it, moving in to kiss Dionne again under the humiliating sloppy rain, a wild and wanton kiss full of moaning, squirming, panting, squealing.

Thirty-six buckets of gunge later, and there was finally calm. Dionne and Roxanne’s lips unclasped, and they looked into each other’s eyes, breathless and lustful. Slime dripped steadily down their bodies. The crowd applauded and wolf-whistled.

For Jimmy, this scene was a bit less painful to witness than Danny’s lucky-bastard experience. And after all, it was brand-new GungeWorld content that he’d never seen before. As it faded out, Jimmy thought: that gunging was amazing. How the hell are they gonna top that?

When the next clip faded in, he thought: well, I guess that works.

Roxanne was being fucked hard from behind in a vat of slime. She was bent forwards, her heavy tits splashing against the surface of the swirly orange-pink slop as she squeezed and caressed them, massaging her rock-hard nipples. Her eyes were screwed up tight and her mouth hung open, emitting a steady, horny moan of “aah-aah-aah-aah…”

Behind her, the muscled stud Pablo thrust away, steady and deep, into her throbbing pussy. His left hand had a firm grip on Roxanne’s hip, and his right one was busily engaged with massaging her clit.

They were both on the verge of cumming hard. And Faye, nearby, could see that, so there was something she needed to do.

“Oh Roxanne…”

“Unh?” Her eyes slowly opened, but the fucking didn’t stop. “Yuh-uhh-uhhh, fff-what?”

“I’m pleased to say, my darling,” Faye continued. “That we’ve got one last splattering for you.”

“Gnhhh! Ahh-ahh-ahh, ohh-ohh do it, oh please…”

“Just… in the spirit of enthusiastic consent, I’d like to check.”

“Fuck! Yuhhh-”

“Roxanne, can you confirm that you’re an utterly fucking shameless, deviant, kink-addicted slime-whore?”

The verbal teasing only pleased her more. She answered in a filthy, throaty groan. “Ahhh, fucking yesss…”

“Do you deserve to be drenched in ludicrous quantities of thick sloppy gunge, and repeatedly cream-pied in your dirty whore face, all while getting dicked down hard like the nasty little slut you are?”

“Mmm-mmm-mmm! Yes, fuck yes, please yes, fucking do it…”

“Alright then. Just say the word, Roxanne: say Splat.”

“Ahaaa! Unh, fucking harder harder ah ah ah…”

Her voice rose into a quivering wail.

“Ahhh ahhh yes yes I’m, aha-ha… I’m gonna, I’m gonna fuckin SPLAT!!!”

The first heavy squelch of a cream pie into her face made Roxanne explode into climax. Jimmy could tell that just by looking. She tensed all over, her back arched, which only made her face and tits an easier pie-target. The Stagehands took full advantage, hurling flan after thick flan at her with nary a pause, her open panting mouth a little oasis in a sea of creamy splatters.

A few seconds after the pie barrage commenced, the huge, meticulously-positioned orb of baby-blue gunge overhead opened its valve, and a thick, sloppy stream began to gush right over her blonde hair, splattering over Pablo behind her and the pool’s surface all around her. This extra slimy humiliation only made her spluttering, overwhelmed moans of climax even louder.

Much to Jimmy’s disappointment, the clip faded out in the middle of Roxanne’s orgasmic obliteration. “Awww…”

“Don’t worry Jimmy,” said Faye. “Remember, you’ve got a lifetime subscription now. You can watch the full thing when you get back home.”

“Certainly gonna do that.”

“I bet you are. Hope it’s not too disappointing to think it could have been you in there, though.”

The reminder did sting a little.

“Gunk dunk fuck with a slimy slut. And you could have had your pick of the ladies…”

Faye waved a hand over to the audience, who made saucy faces, waving and nodding. Teasingly confirming that yes Jimmy, you could have been slime-fucking any one of us today. But you’re not.

Faye cocked her head at him. “Probably would have been me though, right?”

He sighed, shoulders slumping. “Yeah, it would.”

“I figured. Shame - I think I’d have enjoyed that. But alas, it wasn’t to be.”

“And all because of my survey answers?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“But… what did I even say?”

Jimmy’s heart felt bruised. A real sense of failure and disappointment was creeping in, like flubbing an important exam. Faye took a moment to ponder the question.

“It was… a vibe thing, I suppose. No offence, but you seemed… a little desperate?”

“Desperate?”

“Kinda. But also weirdly coy, at the same time. Saying you’d want to try getting messy, but then rowing it back, saying you’d rather watch. I just had this feeling of… ‘the laddie doth protest too much,’ you know?”

“Um… I guess I can see that…”

“Plus, the whole gunge-virgin thing. That was what sealed the deal - we do love mistreating a helpless newbie around here. In the end, I just knew it - we had to treat you to the Punished Pervert Prize.”

“So that’s what I’ve been getting today.”

“Yes you have, you dirty boy. And hasn’t it been ever so fun to watch?” she asked the audience. They answered loudly in the affirmative.

Faye took a long pause, seeming to collect her thoughts. And when she looked back at Jimmy, her eyes seemed… softer, somehow?

“Here’s the thing, though. There’s a little more to it than that.”

This didn’t sound like great news. But Jimmy kept listening intently.

“The Punished Pervert Prize isn’t just about Getting Our Own Back. I mean sure, sure, I’ve really enjoyed that part. But it’s also… an opportunity, you could say.”

“F-for what?”

“You remember an hour ago, Jimmy? When you and Missy were getting ready to face off. I don’t want to give too much of a peek behind the curtain, but we agreed on a safe word, right?”

Jimmy nodded. “Um, yeah.”

“You didn’t forget it, did you?”

“No.”

“But you didn’t use it either, huh?”

Jimmy’s head was slightly bowed. “I guess I didn’t.”

The girls in the audience were giggling softly, but not unkindly. They wanted to see where this was going.

“And I hate to bring up the elephant in the room again… well, the one between your legs.”

That made him wince. He couldn’t help glancing down at his stiff, gungey cock, maybe as tall and proud as he’d ever seen it.

“Normally, that kind of hard-on tends to be a pretty good indicator that a guy’s enjoying himself.”

“Sure, but…”

“Ah-ah, Jimmy. No buts this time. I can tell you’ve got a weight on your shoulders. I promise, you’ll feel sooo much better if you finally come clean.”

There were scattered sniggers at her choice of words. “Sorry. If you… finally open up a little.”

Jimmy’s stomach churned with apprehension. But at the same time, he felt a small wellspring of courage starting to flow inside.

“I don’t know what to say…”

“Just tell us what you really like. What turns you on more than anything. What made you come here today.”

He took a breath. There were some soft murmurs of “go on!” and “let it out!” from the bleachers.

“I’ll even give you a special treat if you do…”

That almost threw him off stride, as he immediately assumed any GungeWorld treat would probably be dropped onto his head. But there was something genuine in the way Faye was talking to him now. Maybe it really was time.

“Okay. Well… I do really like watching girls get gunged.”

Faye chided him gently. “Now now. We figured out that much.”

“I know, I know. But, um… I guess I actually like getting gunged, too.”

The host’s eyes sparkled. “Aha! Finally, the truth starts to come out.”

He nodded bashfully, accepting the praise.

“But I think you can do better than that. Keep going.”

Even though he’d broken the seal, as it were, it was still difficult to say.

“I mean, I really like it. This whole thing has just been…”

“Yes?”

“Just incredible. All these gorgeous girls… totally messing me up.”

“Oooh. You like that it’s sexy ladies who are the ones splatting you silly?”

“Ngh! Yes, teasing me, dressing me up… playing dirty tricks…”

“This is about more than just gunge, isn’t it Jimmy?”

Once again, he nodded meekly, biting his lip.

“Say it.”

“I like, argh… I like the humiliation.”

“Good. Say more.”

“Gnh! Like… getting made to look totally ridiculous… a sloppy, embarrassing mess. Girls laughing at the sight of me. God, it gets me hard.”

“No kidding. But… why exactly do you deserve to be punished like this, Jimmy? Tell me that.”

“Mmm-hhh…”

Faye was right - just saying the words was making him feel a little lighter. But it was also making even more blood flow downwards. He shuddered, trying to keep going.

“Because it’s true… I am a pervert. A messy deviant…”

“Are you?”

“God, I’ve wanked myself off over GungeWorld so many times…”

In truth, he was struggling not to start doing that right now. His stiff, slimy manhood hovered at the bottom of his vision, almost taunting him.

Faye leaned in that little bit closer, fixing him with a cocky, lustful gaze.

“Over me, Jimmy?”

Jimmy felt panicked, but he was too far gone now. He stared back at her, his cheeks burning.

“Yes! God, so many times, yes. Wishing I was cumming all over your messy face… you look so fucking hot covered in gunge and pies and cum…”

Faye actually shivered with pleasure, so enthralled to hear this out loud. She delicately placed a hand against her chest. “My word. How flattering.”

“But it’s like… every time I get off, watching a girl squirm and scream as the klaxon sounds… every time I cum at the sight of a pied pussy… it’s just more proof that I’m a naughty boy. And that somehow, someday, my turn would come around.”

He was starting to really find the words now, sounding more confident and less shaky with each statement.

“Then you sent that survey.”

“I certainly did.”

“Just the thought of going to the studio… that it might finally be my turn to get gunged… fuck, that was hotter than even the hottest GungeWorld video. After I clicked the submit button, I nearly fainted.”

“And then it actually happened.”

“I can still hardly believe it. Finally getting gunged after all this time. But I never dreamed it’d be so…”

“Ridiculously excessive?”

“Yeah. Honestly, I never imagined such an utterly brutal, humiliating slopping. Not even in my wildest dreams.”

“Sounds like we actually chose the right prize for you, then.”

Jimmy had to laugh. “Yeah. Yeah you did, alright. I’m your Punished Pervert, and I’m proud of it. The more you splatter me, the hornier I get. I want this. I love this. I fucking well deserve this.”

Clap.

Clap. Clap. Clap.

The applause started slowly, but instantly picked up steam. Within a couple of seconds, Faye and the entire audience were clapping and cheering, absolutely loving Jimmy’s heartfelt festish confession.

He took a little bow in his seat. “Thank you, I guess?”

“Well-earned, I think. And, as promised, I’ve got a treat for you in return - one final clip to watch. In fact, I happen to know it’s one of your favourites.”

A title card flashed onto the TV screen, in cursive pink letters:

SubMissy.

Jimmy took a breath in. Yes, this certainly was one of his favourites.

The scene started with CCTV footage - Missy, looking chic in a low-cut vest top and miniskirt, sitting on a sofa in one of GungeWorld’s offices.

Jimmy was a tad puzzled. But why is she showing this now, at the climax of the show? He remembered this scene had quite a lengthy setup before any messy action actually occurred. Not that he usually had the patience to watch the whole thing.

It was as if Faye had read his mind. “It is kinda long, though. Shall we do what you usually do, Jimmy? Skip ahead to the best bit?”

“How did you…?”

“You know Google Analytics is pretty powerful these days, right? And hey - I don’t blame you. Needs must sometimes, right?”

He thought of those times when a dirty thought on the bus home had sent him wild with horniness, frantically throwing off his trousers when he got in, and opening a messy video, desperate to cum. “Right.”

Faye set the film to fast-forward. Images flashed by in a blur, too quick to make out properly. Jimmy knew what they were, of course. But at this speed, all that could really be seen were the colours of flesh, pie and slime.

“About 26 minutes, right? That’s the best part.”

When it reached that mark, she set it playing again.

The shot on screen was of GungeWorld head honcho Alexa, sitting on an opulent golden throne. The purple walls behind her were adorned with all sorts of bondage gear and sex toys. Her outfit was a little different from her usual Ringmaster costume, although it was the same shade of pillarbox red.

She wore a full-body bondage harness, straps and buckles criss-crossing her torso, arms and thighs, but leaving most of her firm body on show. It was complemented with red leather fuck-me boots and long, red leather gloves.

She was mostly clean - though there were some suspicious smears of cream and custard around her thighs and belly. Jimmy recalled the portion of the video where Alexa straddled Missy’s face, one of the many treats that had been skipped over.

Alexa’s mouth was hanging open in pleasure, as she massaged her exposed, lubed pussy with a powerful vibrating wand, using both hands to tease and stroke herself. And her eyes were steadily fixed on the visual entertainment in front of her, a show of her own deviant design.

Missy had been tied up firmly with ropes, arms behind her back and legs trussed together. She’d been dropped into a bathtub, brimming with thick green gunge. And, as Jimmy knew very well, she had a pair of fiercely vibrating devices lodged inside her pussy and arse.

She was writhing and gasping through one of god-knows-how-many orgasms. Up to now, Alexa had dominated her through a brutal gauntlet of messy bondage scenarios. This was the final test.

Jimmy had always felt this video was a little harder-edged than most GungeWorld content. But it retained enough of the colourful slapstick vibe to feel right.

There was one more character present in the scene. A tall, muscular, naked white man, Stefan, was standing next to Missy’s tub of slime. In his left hand was a large custard pie, and in his right hand, his cock. He was steadily wanking himself off, his dick aimed carefully at the pie’s surface.

In between her intense bursts of enforced pleasure, Missy looked up at Stefan, her eyes wide with nerves and excitement.

Alexa kept buzzing away at her soaking, thrumming cunt. She was edging herself, waiting for the moment.

With a low moan and a shudder, Stefan climaxed. He held his cock steady, and splashed his hot cum across the surface of the gooey pie, not wasting a drop.

Missy gave a little “Mmm” of anticipation. Alexa was quivering, ready for release.

Stefan brought the cum-pie down, forcefully splattering it into Missy’s gasping face.

Alexa let out a mighty groan, cumming hard and long. Missy did too, licking her lips, tasting the salty-sweet delicacy she’d been treated to.

Faye shut the screen off.

“Hello Jimmy.”

That wasn’t Faye’s voice. It came from just over Jimmy’s shoulder. And it made him damn near jump out of his skin.

“Bwuuu-aaah!”

Heart racing, he shuffled his bum into the corner of the seat, while turning to look at the surprise assailant.

Well, not much of a surprise, really. It was Missy, still dressed in her SLIME SLUT tee and tight shorts from earlier. And she was proudly holding a large custard pie.

“So that’s your favourite part, is it?”

XIII: Faceful

Jimmy’s stomach dropped, his cock twitched and he swore his heart missed a beat. He knew exactly what was about to happen, and it was going to be more humiliating than anything else so far.

Missy didn’t wait for a response. “Well if you like it so much… how about you give it a try?”

Faye was standing back and watching with pleasure, letting her co-conspirator get on with it.

“Um… try what?” he mumbled, despite full well knowing the answer.

“Taking a cum pie to the face.”

“Uhhh… I guess I could…”

“Oh, you could. In fact, you will.”

“Mph.”

He’d felt so bullish just a couple of minutes ago, confessing his kinky desires to the world. But now that the threat of imminent messy humiliation had returned - close-quarters and cum-flavoured - the nerves, twitchiness and timidity came rushing back into his manner.

“You’re going to cum on this pie, Jimmy. Then I’m going to smash it in your face.”

Missy leered down at him, getting her face close to his.

“And you’re going to fucking love it.”

Jimmy whimpered, squirming. “Guh…”

“Tongue-tied, Jimmy? Well, that shouldn’t be a problem. Don’t need words to wank yourself off, do you?”

“Nuh-no…”

“Good boy. Now, here.” She proffered the pie, flat on her palm. “Come on, take it.”

He gingerly reached up. “Carefully, now. That’s it.”

The pie was held steady in his left palm. He looked down at its gooey, whipped white surface. Missy cooed into his ear, her voice quiet but firm.

“I want you to aim carefully, Jimmy. You’ve been hard for so long - I bet you’ve got a big, juicy load just ready to explode. And I want every drop of it on that pie, so I can make sure you really taste it.”

Jimmy moaned, at once thrilled and terrified. He knew she was right about just how much cum he could cover that pie with right now.

“What are you waiting for? Grab your cock and get going.”

The audience were rapt with horny anticipation - a chorus of wolf-whistles and saucy oohs greeted the sight of Jimmy gingerly reaching between his legs.

When his palm closed around his shaft, he couldn’t help but let out a gasp. After being edged for so long with slop and humiliation, it felt like an electric current was buzzing through every nerve-ending on his hard cock.

The crowd only got louder as he started to stroke up and down. He did it slowly and lightly - it was all he could bear for the moment.

“There’s a good boy! Nice and slow, don’t set yourself off too quickly. I’m so excited to see what your O-face looks like, but I want you to drag this out for yourself…”

Jimmy’s breath started to get shorter as he kept on massaging his dick, a little faster now, still holding the fateful pie ready. He tried to follow his instructions, but he just couldn’t stop himself from increasing the speed.

The girls in the bleachers had now started up a steady chant - “Wank! Wank! Wank!”

The physical stimulation was incredible. Even the presence of all these leering, jeering girls, just waiting for his creamy, cummy humiliation, was adding to the feeling. But unsurprisingly, even with not only permission but instruction, the sheer oddity of doing this on a big public stage was keeping him from bursting. Missy picked up on his subtle moments of discomfort, as he kept stroking away.

“Are you having a little trouble, Jimmy?”

“Ngh… no, it’s fine, uh…”

“Hmmm. I’m guessing you’ve never milked your manhood on camera before, have you?”

“Uh, no.” A shiver of humiliation ran down his spine as Missy bluntly described what he was doing.

“Well, some first-time nerves are understandable…”

Again, she moved in close to him, and put on a syrupy, sing-song voice.

“Would it help if I gunged you, Jimmy?”

Just the suggestion gave him a shot of adrenaline. “Unhhh! Yes…”

“Haha! I knew it…”

When Missy had snuck up on Jimmy, the audience had seen that along with the pie, she toted a bucket, which she’d stowed just behind the cart. She lifted it by its handle, holding it above her victim. When he saw it in the corner of his eye, he moaned, and couldn’t help but go a little harder.

Of course, of course you were going to give me one last gunging.

“One extra-slippery, lube-tastic bucket of gunge coming right up!”

She placed her left hand underneath the pail, and prepared to pour.

“And Jimmy… as I’m being so nice with this lovely gunging, make sure you really jerk it hard for me. OK, darling?”

“Guhhh… okay…”

“Then here we go.”

The first slosh of gunge against his head set him groaning and shuddering. It was deliciously warm, he could tell, and definitely very slimy and sensual in texture. The crowd cheered as they watched the cobalt blue, slightly translucent goo slather his head and shoulders, and ooze down his body in steady rivers.

When the slime started to flow down his belly and into his crotch, Jimmy gasped in pleasure. He had no trouble obeying Missy’s instructions - the gunge felt absolutely incredible smothering his cock and balls. Frantic and breathless, he thrummed his hand up and down, feeling a rapid swell of ecstasy.

Missy emptied the last dregs of the bucket over him, looking very pleased with herself. She cooed a final warning - “Mind where you aim - keep the pie nice and close, eh?”

It certainly wasn’t easy to keep his left hand steady as he hurtled towards orgasm. But he put as much of his mind to it as he could, angling the pie carefully, keeping it near the bobbing tip of his penis.

The crowd’s chant had now transformed into a different word. “Cum! Cum! Cum!”

“Augh, fuck, fuuu-uuuck, ahh, ahh, ahh…”

Missy whispered one last instruction into his ear: “Cum nice and hard for me, all over your pie Jimmy.”

Missy, Faye, and the whole crowd watched the slimy boy with bated breath.

“Aaa-aaa-AAAH!”

Jimmy’s cock spasmed, and he felt a huge liquid rush of joy surging through it. A pearly ribbon of cum surged onto the pie, then another, another, another. He moaned loudly with each volley, panting hot breath into the air. A deep, warm glow began to spread through his entire body, like nothing he’d ever felt before.

His exhausted, tingling member kept pumping out spurts of spunk, a little smaller each time. Enthusiastic applause rang to the rafters. He looked down at his pie. A few last dribbles dotted onto the surface. He could see the sticky streaks of jizz topping the cream, and the familiar smell filled his nose.

“Excellent work, Jimmy. You did such a good job covering it! I’ll just take that…”

Though deep in the throes of post-climactic pleasure, he still got a little shudder of nerves when Missy gently slid the pie from his palm to hers. He looked up at her, blissed-out and awestruck, but nervous and obedient, too.

“I was right about a nice big load, wasn’t I? Lots of yummy cum on here!”

Missy showed off the pie to the audience, letting everyone get a good look at what Jimmy had made for himself.

“So I’d better serve it hot and fresh! Open wide, you dirty boy!”

“Uh? Really…?”

“Yes, really. I got a mouthful, so you’re gonna get one too.”

Jimmy obeyed and opened his mouth, dumbly, squinting his eyes together - just open enough to see when it was coming.

“And tongue out!”

“Uhhh? Uh… aaah…”

Much tittering in the audience as Jimmy did as instructed, lolling out his tongue.

“Perfect. Now here it comes!”

Missy looked utterly rapt with excitement, as she drew her hand backwards. With a gleeful cackle, she stepped forwards, and thrust her arm towards Jimmy’s face.

The cum-pie exploded with an obscenely loud squelch.

Jimmy felt a second wave of pleasure. His long-delayed, fierce orgasm had thrummed through his whole body. This particular aftershock, he felt in his chest and stomach. The helpless ecstasy of utter sexual humiliation, soundtracked by delirious applause from the hot-girl audience.

He gulped down the globs of cream that had filled his mouth, definitely tasting a savoury, earthy note among the sweetness. He could feel the scent in his nostrils, and tasted more cum as he licked his lips. Something stopped him from wiping his face off. Instead, he cautiously blinked his eyes open, though he hardly knew where to look.

Missy and Faye were both poised nearby, leering down at him, utterly dominant.

Once the crowd had quietened down a bit, Missy cleared her throat. “Aren’t you going to say…”

“Unh!” he spluttered. “Th-thank you.”

“Thank you for what?”

Jimmy faltered. Even though he’d loved every moment of that filthy facial treatment, it still tingled his nerves to say the naughty, messy words out loud.

Still, he knew he had to do it. “Thank you for the faceful of my own cum,” he said meekly.

“You’re more than welcome. Was it a satisfying end to your Grand Tour, Jimmy?”

He laughed, blushing. “I guess it was a pretty appropriate climax, huh?”

“Yeah,” agreed Missy. “Gotta finish on a real money shot, huh? And that was definitely the tastiest pie of them all.”

For the first time, Jimmy was starting to feel some hope that it might actually be over. Missy seemed to be talking in the past tense, at least. And it would surely be hard to top that - making a guilty fetishist reveal his secret desires, then gooping him in the face with his confessional cum-load.

He allowed himself to think about the hot shower that was in his near future. And to anticipate the first viewing of his own HD humiliation special, when he was safely back home. He really hoped the video wouldn’t take too long for them to edit.

Missy turned to Faye. “Final review then, boss - whaddya think of my handiwork? Will that make a good closing shot?”

She put a finger to her lips, and appraised the sight of Jimmy.

“Pretty as a picture. Now that is what a messy loser looks like.”

“Yeah! A completely humiliated, cum-faced, messy loser.”

He couldn’t help bristling at the mockery, but he could hardly argue its accuracy.

“And of course…”

Jimmy felt his cart stir into movement again. Inevitably, backwards towards the fireplace. The audience started another low murmur of excitement.

“...we all know what happens to messy losers here at GungeWorld,” continued Faye.

“Oh come on!” Jimmy groaned as he put his head in his hands defeatedly.

I should have known this was coming. Of course, how could they leave out the fireplace gunging?

The two girls were flanking the fireplace now, as Jimmy passed under its square opening.

“Oh, we certainly do!” replied Missy.

Faye had her hand on the fateful, red-topped lever. She deliberately waited until Jimmy raised his head, to meet her gaze. She caught a glimpse of Jimmy accepting defeat with a small smile underneath all the mess. Then she delivered her line with a manic, gleeful zeal.

“They get a little bit more!”

She yanked the lever, and Jimmy tensed up all over.

XIV: Encore

It was a beautifully elegant mechanism, hiding there in the shadows above Jimmy.

About two feet above his head, a round circular rail was affixed, like an oversized halo. Hanging from a sturdy scaffold above, there were a dozen tall pipes, each about a foot wide and six feet tall. At the base of each one was a dispensing-nozzle - they nestled against the ring below, which kept them in place, evenly spaced around the circle, aimed squarely at their intended victim.

Each nozzle was trifurcated, able to rotate, and also to rock their aim gently up and down. So they could pump out three thin streams of fluid in a tight, twirling, unpredictable cone. And before Faye had even pulled her activation lever, the whole array of canisters had begun to spin slowly in their circular formation.

They were all filled with different contents, too. Warm water, icy-cold water, soapy wet foam, thick fluffy foam. Chocolate sauce, raspberry jam, milky porridge and melted ice-cream. Four different gunge recipes, from thick ‘n’ lumpy to thin ‘n’ slippery. All were mixed up and dotted around the circle of dispensers.

Not that Jimmy could possibly have deduced any of that. Because all he could feel, once the lever was yanked, was a tornado of splosh.

A haunting siren played on the PA as the panoply of streams gushed down over and around him, all bursting into life at once.

He closed his eyes and mouth, as his cum-streaked face was immediately assaulted by goo. But so was every other inch of his exposed skin, all undergoing a thorough and constantly-changing splurging. He squirmed in shock at the enveloping nature of it - each individual squirt was no big deal at this point of the tour, but the combined might of them was really quite a sensation. It was like being drizzled to death. His muscles twitched unpredictably, as he felt a particularly cold or sticky jet against his back, his ear, his knee, his crotch.

As well as being mechanically creative, and very efficient at slop-coverage, this whirlwind device had another benefit: it was very amusing to watch. Alongside the keening of the siren, Jimmy could hear the audience laughing loudly and giddily, and the two kinky beauties stood nearby cheering.

The shifting of the pumping streams created a constant cloud of slapstick splatter around Jimmy, plus a lot of delicious wet and sloppy noises. But the most comical sight was Jimmy himself - or rather, the slimy silhouette that vaguely resembled him. The constant layering of more slop meant that his features were unrecognisable - he was just an oozing figure, a swamp monster from an 80s B-movie.

Faye had truly gunged the fight out of the poor boy. He barely moved under the mucky onslaught, sometimes pawing at his face to breathe. It continued for ten seconds… fifteen… twenty. Jimmy noticed, with a mixture of pleasure and horror, that his cock was beginning to grow firm again.

Without warning, the streams fell silent, and the mocking siren faded away. Commingled gunk continued to flow slowly down Jimmy’s entire body. He calmly reached up to wipe his face. The first thing he saw was Faye, who had cast her arms towards him, while beaming at the audience.

“My dearest darlings - please won’t you give an enormous round of applause for our guest of honour, our slimy stooge, our Punished Pervert himself - Jimmy!”

The instruction was obeyed with gusto. As one, the crowd rose in a standing ovation, clapping warmly and appreciatively, all eyes on the sloppy boy in the fireplace. Though he was still exhausted and heavy with gunge, Jimmy was surprised how much it actually lifted his spirits. He slicked his hands over his hair, now looking more recognisable from the neck up, and gave a nod of appreciation their way.

“And to the lovely boys watching at home,” she continued, now addressing the camera directly, “how was my sales pitch? Did I convince you to come and play with us? I promise we won’t be quite as mean as we were to poor Jimmy here. Probably.”

“It’s a trap!” shouted Jimmy in the background, mustering the last vestiges of his wit. This got a decent laugh.

“Of course it’s a trap,” concurred Faye. “But it’s a fun, sexy trap!”

Faye sighed, seeming content. “I guess we’d better leave the last word to the man himself. Jimmy, one last promo?”

He tilted his head, dislodging some goo from his ear, and glared at Faye.

“Oh, suuure. And then…”

He pointed up above his head, meaningfully. “Right?”

“No way! We emptied the tanks, I swear.”

Jimmy rolled his eyes, entirely unconvinced, while the audience giggled in anticipation. With a little prompting, he found his assigned camera, and gamely held his hands up, showing off his gunge-slicked arms. He read the large cue-card.

“Hi everyone. My name’s Jimmy, and I just lost my gunge virginity, here at the GungeWorld studios. Sign up today, and-”

“Wait!” interrupted Faye. “No no no - sorry Jimmy, they’ve given you the wrong cue-card. Honestly, can’t get the help these days! The other one, darlings, come on. Don’t make me gunge you too!”

The Stagehands, looking flustered, located the other card against a nearby wall, and hoisted it up for Jimmy. He began to read.

“Hi. My name’s Jimmy, and I’m a very naughty boy. That’s why I’m about to be…”

He trailed off, and let out a long, defeated sigh. An excited crackle began to build once again in the studio. Jimmy had been reading a few words ahead.

“Aw, what happened to One-Take Jimmy?” cooed Faye. “You trailed off a bit there, sweetie. Wanna take it from the top?”

“Yeah,” he spat. “Yeah, sure. Here we go.”

With a pained, tense glare, he began again.

XV: Curtain Call

“Hi. My name’s Jimmy, and I’m a very naughty boy. And that’s why I’m about to be dramatically dunked into a colossal cauldron of cold, clammy custard.”

As he read the words, he watched his fate start to unfold on the set before him. The large circular rug in the middle of this mansion-house room slid away into a hidden recess, revealing a wide surface of glooping, bubbling yellow.

“Severely slathered in slick, sloppy slime…”

Two sizable perspex spheres descended from the rafters on sturdy harnesses, both filled with bright, opaque gunge - one hovering above the custard-dunk, and one just before it, around fifteen feet up.

“And passionately pelted with a plethora of pies.”

Returning to the set was every single one of the ladies he’d met on his trip so far - Brandy and Dionne, Mei Ling, Sally, Aoife and Alianne. They strolled on confidently, each pushing their own personal arsenal - metal catering trollies, each stacked high with at least two dozen cakes, pies and flans. Missy joined them too, having procured her own cart. They all gave Jimmy a little wave, a smirk, maybe a blown kiss, as they stationed themselves, surrounding the yellow pit at every compass point except the one he was about to be dunked from.

They’ve managed to combine the Gunk Dunk with the Thank You Desk.

There it was, that familiar shiver down his spine once again, the looming threat of flirty humiliation. He tried not to let it put him off, and gave as much zing as he could to his last words before oblivion.

“But if you want to watch me get what I deserve, there’s only one place to go - and that’s GungeWorld dot com.”

He raised a cheeky, defiant eyebrow. “See you there?”

His job was done. And so it was time. Jimmy’s cart started to roll forward at an agonising pace, under the arch of the fireplace and towards the edge of the pit. An upbeat tune, jazzy carnival music, filled the air.

Faye was strolling along nearby, and Jimmy aimed a few choice words at her. He was finding his playfulness again now. In the face of such ludicrous, messy excess, there wasn’t much else he could do - just play the outraged stooge as convincingly as he could.

“You swore there was no more!”

“Erm - I swore we’d emptied those tanks. These are entirely different tanks.”

“You’re unbelievable.”

“Well, this will all feel very believable in a moment, trust me.”

The vehicle clunked into place underneath the first orb, filled with its heavy payload of minty-green slop. Jimmy squirmed quietly, knowing that gunge falling from that height would create quite a hard splatter.

Then he gave a start of alarm. The panel of flooring underneath his cart suddenly started to rise up from the ground, to much laughter.

“What? Why…?”

“Coz I want you to make a nice big SPLAT, that’s why.”

Asked and answered, thought Jimmy. He couldn’t help glancing nervously upwards, as the column of flooring climbed steadily higher, approaching the hanging vat.

“I mean, really,” continued Faye. “Did you honestly think we’d go to all this effort, and not give you a proper gunk dunking? That’d be such a wasted opportunity.”

“Hmph. But… yeah, but…”

When he looked down at the bubbling surface of the sweet gloop, now a good ten feet below him, his stomach felt heavy. His squirming, flustered state was much appreciated by the audience - as was the sight of his erection, now returned to full stiffness.

The platform stopped rising, and the orb of green sludge hovered right above his head. He could feel its weight in his soul. Just to prolong the agony, the cart started to spin in place.

Faye geed up the audience. “Whaddya think, girls? Shall we let him have it?”

The chorus of “Yeeeah!” set his bum clenching.

“Hope you enjoy your big send-off, Jimmy!”

“You’re evil!”

“Damn straight! Three! Two! One!”

Jimmy’s toes curled, and his shoulders clenched.

“Goo!”

The brass section on the backing track kicked into high gear, hooting and blaring. And the large circular panel at the bottom of the gunge-globe slid quietly open.

“Gnkh!”

Jimmy shuddered as he felt the first slosh of slime against his head and shoulders. The descending stream of gunge was thick but smooth, arousingly warm, and indulgently wide. And because it was pouring from immediately above him, there wasn’t a great deal of splatter - just oozy, flowing coverage from moment one.

Thanks to the cart’s rotation, Jimmy felt the steady river of gunk slosh down over his shoulder and left arm. Next it fell directly onto his thigh, and then, as he faced directly away from the gunk dunk, right in between his legs. He moaned at the warm, smothering spill over his tackle. And then moaned some more, as the cart swept round and he took the full stream right over his head again.

Down on the studio floor, the pie-girls awaiting Jimmy’s downfall watched his gooey predicament with much celebration - although Aoife and Alianne had to hop backwards for safety, as a few splatters from above landed near their assigned spots.

All in all, Jimmy spun around six times before the huge orb was empty of gunge. It was a smotheringly sensual sliming, an enchanting alternation between overhead humiliation and direct into-the-lap stimulation. He was so rapt, flushed and aroused that it took him a moment to notice the flow had slowed to a trickle.

Thankfully, there was another clue that his first gunging was over - the cart stopping its rotation with a jerk, perfectly positioned to tip him forwards.

Which it immediately did.

It wasn’t a rapid catapulting - that would have risked him overshooting the custard pit. Instead, the surface of the platform simply tilted forwards by about thirty degrees. That was quite enough to send Jimmy’s slippery arse and gooey feet sliding forwards, out of the cart, and rapidly down through the air.

“Wuuuh-uuuh!”

Faye’s wish was granted. When Jimmy plummeted into the custard, it really did make a huge, loud splat.

After his warm gunge-shower, the feeling of plunging into cold, thick custard was quite the sensation for Jimmy. The height of his fall sent him right down onto all fours, totally submerged under the gloop. All sounds were muted by the solid envelopment around his head, apart from the slow swooshing noises of the custard itself.

His body was utterly shocked, every nerve-ending tingling, and for a long second, he could barely move. But then, survival instincts kicked in - he needed to breathe! He fought to a kneeling position, then planted one foot onto the soft but grippy surface beneath him. That was enough to enable him to stand - though the sheer weight of the custard made it extremely laboured.

Emerging from the surface of the slop, he looked like a shiny yellow mannequin, totally coated in a smooth yellow. The audience were hooting in delight, and the girls around the pit were equally amused. However, they couldn’t take the time to stop and giggle - they had important work to do.

Jimmy didn’t even get a chance to drag his heavy arms out of the slop before the first pie - thrown by Missy, who else - smashed against his face.

“Ppp-fff-hhh!”

More thudded against his shoulders, his chest, his back - and several more right in the face, too. This was a brutal barrage, absolutely no holding back. It left him flailing, instinctively waving his arms about as sloppy, sweet flans flew at him from all sides.

Jimmy also had a vague sensation that he was moving somehow - and he was right. The entire custard pit was rotating slowly in its hollow, so as to give each of the pie-flinging girls a fair chance to nail their quivering stooge full-frontally.

He’d barely had a chance to register that when the first splatter from above hit him.

“Gaaah-mmmph-spuah!”

His howls of humiliation as yet more gunge rained over him were, of course, frequently interrupted by hearty, gloopy pies to the face. Jimmy spat and cursed, overwhelmed and helpless.

The gunge falling over him was pastel-pink, and once again nice and warm - a maddening contrast of sensations with the colder glop which was enveloping him from the waist down. It was also high up, which meant this time, there actually was a lot of splatter. A lot. Huge arcs splashed off Jimmy’s head and shoulders, painting an abstract pink flower all around him on the surface of the slop. The crowd buzzed with glee at the spectacle, and the calmly-watching Faye felt a deep pride in her handiwork. Backstage, Cassie minutely adjusted the position of the gunge-orb, so that even when Jimmy stumbled or wobbled, the stream remained precisely overhead.

There was no escape, and no respite. These incredible ladies were utterly dominating him, heaping on the humiliation, making him their helpless plaything.

Frantically, he groped under the surface, and his right hand found his throbbing, desperate cock.

“Ngh! Fffh - spluh! Ahh, mmph!”

What with the blizzard of pies, the slimy downpour and the custardy camouflage, it wasn’t completely obvious that Jimmy was wanking himself off under there. But - and especially to the experienced kinkster eye - it was obvious enough. Cheers and wolf-whistles encouraged him on his way.

It took hardly any time at all. Jimmy’s legs quivered, as he burst into climax. It was a softer orgasm than his earlier, pie-decorating explosion, but a weirder one too. He marked the strange feeling of his pearly spurts disappearing into the sugary glop. He felt a parade of aftershocks, a series of shudders, as his orgasmically panting mouth got filled time and again with fat splatters of pie-cream.

Everything was still going. For a good ten seconds after cumming, the weary and weak Jimmy continued to be battered with sloppy, creamy pies and showered in thick pink goo. Utterly spent, he stood with his arms dangling in the custard, just letting the barrage of mess completely obliterate him.

When it eventually, mercifully ended - seven pie-carts empty of ammo, the large ball above completely expended too - he stayed there in the middle, slumped and quietly breathing. Slowly, so slowly, he raised his arms and pulled his fingers down his face, blinking his eyes open.

The sight that greeted him was a second standing ovation, wild applause and cheers from the bleachers, and the girls all around him. Even a new chant - “Ji-mmy! Ji-mmy! Ji-mmy!”

He gave a rueful smile, and a little wave of acknowledgement.

The only one not joining in was Faye - though out of professionalism, rather than lack of admiration. She let him bask in the glory for a while - the custard pit had stopped spinning, so he could simply stand and watch.

Faye was also the only one on the studio floor left holding a custard pie.

She let them whoop and wail for a while, then calmly used her free hand to quieten down the crowd.

“Hear hear, I quite agree. What a show Jimmy’s put on for us today! Absolutely marvellous.”

A few isolated whoops and cheers rang out, the audience’s energy still high. Faye continued regardless.

“Much as it pains me to say it, I think we should finally let the poor boy get some respite.”

She turned towards Jimmy, wandering towards the edge of the pit as she spoke. “How does a hot shower and a cold beer sound right now, sweetie?”

Jimmy was rolling his shoulders, finally stretching out the tension. He wasn’t feeling especially articulate right now. “Good. Pretty good,” he sighed.

The sight of the pie in Faye’s hand was strangely un-worrying. He kind of had a suspicion of how this was going to end - very shortly, he hoped.

“In that case, d’you wanna come and say goodbye to the folks at home?”

He laughed softly. “Sure.”

“Give it up again for Jimmy, everyone!”

As he waded comically through the slop, legs feeling like lead, he smiled and nodded politely at the further round of applause. The custard might be cold, but the atmosphere felt warm.

He ended up at the side nearest the audience, resting his forearms against the edge of the pit, steadily breathing. Faye loomed over him - waist-deep in the goo, his head was level with her hips.

She didn’t loom menacingly, though. “So, did you enjoy your Grand Tour, my darling?”

A quiet laugh. He considered being breezy, but instead, went with honesty.

“Yeah. Yeah I did.”

Lots of cheers for that, and a sassy smirk from Faye. “Course ya did. Are you gonna come back for more sometime?”

“Oh god! Erm… I think I might have had enough gunge to last a lifetime, thanks.”

“Well, we could always make that two lifetimes. I’ll let you mull that one over. But hey! When you’re watching our messy fun at home - with that free lifetime subscription - you’ll know what it feels like first-hand, now. That’s gotta be exciting, right?”

“Either that or I’ll get flashbacks…”

This got a genuine bark of laughter from Faye. “Ha! I don’t think we were that mean…”

“You were pretty bloody mean!”

“Hmmm… yeah. You loved it, though.”

Jimmy sighed happily. Why even hide it anymore?

“Yep. Loved it. Loved every ridiculous bloody moment of it.”

Faye grinned. “I’ll consider that a job well done. Now, alas, it’s finally time for us to go. All that remains is to say farewell. Say bye-bye, Jimmy!”

He held up a custard-dripping hand, gave a little wave, and smiled into the camera.

“Bye-bye…”

With a graceful underarm arc, Faye squelched the pie into Jimmy’s smiling face, and waved goodbye to the camera, giving a cheeky little wink and a kiss.

Jimmy felt the cool, sweet cream muffle his features. He didn’t reach up to wipe it away - he let it cling there, thick and goopy and utterly comical, breathing in its smell and feeling its texture.

After all - it was what he deserved.

Fin

Hello, my erect eclairs,

This is the beginning of an interesting story. There are two very important things you should know.

Firstly - as the title might suggest - this story focuses (though not exclusively) on guys getting Wammed by girls. And so, if you’re a straight guy who’s into gungey girls, you might be tempted to skip this one. However: don’t. Mistress forbids it. You’ve enjoyed so many hot sluts getting all slimy, with no consequence. You’re going to sit your arse down, read this story, and understand what you deserve.

Secondly - early on in this story, you’ll encounter a link to a GungeWorld viewer survey. This survey is real, but anonymous. I won’t be able to tag your responses to your email address. So why not just be honest? Tell me who you are, and what you’re into, if you like. The survey is totally optional, but you’ll soon find there is an incentive for completing it.

Other than that - I hope you enjoy the tension, teasing, and carnage, as usual. Thank you so much to my anonymous co-writer who has marshalled this story to its end.

Part One now, Part Two soon.

Toodles xx

From: GungeWorld
Subject: IMPORTANT EMAIL FROM FAYE

Hello! Faye here. Guess what? Alexa gave me the Mailchimp password, which I told her was a bad idea. She also gave me some instructions, like “don’t send them Mogwai album tracks, or horse porn” which seemed fair enough. I was tempted though.

Anyway, the main thing is this survey. I need to put a big button asking you to take it. It’d really help us out. Gotta know more about your audience, right? Facebook probably does that by listening to you mumble in your sleep. We’re honest here at GungeWorld, we just ask you straight up!

Take the Survey!!!

I was really tempted to make that link a Rickroll, but blah blah blah “open rates” “click ratios”

OH YEAH and I should have mentioned this up top, but there is a prize! PrizeS actually! Three randoms who complete the survey will win A LIFETIME SUBSCRIPTION and a TOUR OF THE STUDIOS. That is cool as fuck!

Also, there might be a little video or two for you to enjoy during the survey, featuring some cutie or other. (It’s me, I’m the cutie it’s me)

I think I’ve done my duty here, so please click the link and thank you love you thank you

Faye x

PS my favourite Mogwai album track is “Secret Pint”

Prologue

The camera captured a rectangle of bright yellow fabric, stretched tight over a slightly convex surface. Two words had been screen-printed across it at a slight angle, pillarbox red letters in a military font, as if from a giant rubber stamp.

GUNGE VIRGIN

A gradual zoom out, and a slight pan upwards, placed the t-shirt design in context. It clothed the torso of a handsome, mousy-haired white man, who sat in a plush leather chair in the middle of a cosy, pastel-coloured studio set. With a slightly pained smile, he looked down the lens and waved.

“Hi, I’m Jimmy. Erm… until this morning I was just a normal GungeWorld fan. Then I got a surprise visit. And now, uh… I’m here…”

He obeyed the instruction on the cue-card, and tilted his head upwards. The camera followed his gaze, revealing a very large perspex cuboid with shiny metal edges, about four feet above Jimmy’s head. It was supported by four sturdy diagonal struts, reaching up from the studio floor. And it was filled with many, many gallons of gunge, a bright cobalt blue.

When the shot came back down, a strikingly fit woman, with a dyed red pixie-cut and a killer black blouse, was standing beside Jimmy, resting a hand on the tensed muscles of his shoulder.

“Oh dear! Will Jimmy escape this dreadful predicament? Or will he get drenched in thick gooey slime, just like all the girls he’s been watching on screen? I know what I’m hoping for… but you’ll have to tune in to find out!”

She looked down at Jimmy, who was cued to finish the teaser script. He squirmed as he said it.

“You can see if I get the gunging I deserve… at GungeWorld dot com!”

I: Doorstepped

Two hours earlier

The doorbell rang at the worst possible moment.

Megazord was having one of her famous mood swings. Instead of waiting for Jimmy to deposit the wet tuna-flavoured slop into her bowl, she decided to jump up and violently headbutt his hands as he opened the packet. The attack sent a splatter of grim brown globs all over the kitchen floor, Jimmy’s clothes, and the cat herself.

“Augh! Meg, you little… bad girl! Bad girl!”

Ding-dong!

“Oh for fuck’s-”

In a split-second decision, Jimmy dropped the floppy foil packet vaguely near the cat’s bowl. That would keep her busy - cleaning the floor could wait. He lunged to turn on the taps, and craned his neck to aim his voice towards the front door.

“Just a mome-ent! Hold on, please!”

Jimmy sponged himself down and washed his hands as best he could, jogging towards the door, drying himself off with a tea-towel. There was still a figure shadowed behind the frosted glass, which was a relief. It would be such a ball-ache if he missed this parcel. He tucked the tea-towel into his back pocket, and opened the door.

Blaaart!

The end of a candy-striped party blower just missed his nose. The comical sound rippled around the quiet street.

“Congratulations!”

Jimmy’s field of view was assaulted by a rainbow of paper confetti. Frozen to the spot, he felt it tickle his cheeks and stick to his wet hands. He rattled his head from side-to-side, trying to regain some composure.

A pert, cocksure, redheaded woman stood on his front doorstep, grinning widely through crimson lipstick. She wore a black-and-white outfit that seemed strangely familiar.

Jimmy’s heart leapt into the air, then crashed through the floor. He knew immediately what was happening.

“Jimmy Smith, you’re one of our lucky Gunge-”

“Shhh!”

It felt incredibly rude, but he had no choice. The neighbours might be watching. His interjection had the intended effect, and the woman stopped mid-spiel, but she was still glaring at him, skewed and attentive.

“Sorry! Could you come in? It’s just…”

“Come in? Don’t mind if I do.”

Jimmy pointed an arm down the hallway, letting her pass so he could close the door behind her. Her shoulder brushed against his chest, and he smelled a tinge of her perfume - earthy and citric.

He nodded her into the living room. “Please, uh, have a seat.”

Before she did so, she turned to face him, and extended her hand. “Faye Foster. Head of Sales, GungeWorld.”

It was an odd thing to do. He knew who she was, and she knew he knew. She definitely knew where his hand normally was when he was looking at her. But he was hardly going to leave her hanging, so he shook.

“Jimmy Smith. Erm, lovely to meet you.”

“Likewise.”

“Can I, ah, get you anything? Tea? Coffee?”

She relaxed into the sofa. “You got good coffee?”

“I’ve got a machine.”

“Awesome. A double espresso would be nice. We’ve got business to attend to.”

“Of course,” Jimmy said, trying to mask his racing heartbeat with calm politeness. “It’ll just be a moment, I have to-”

Megazord yowled from the kitchen, seeming to sense his excuse-making.

“A cat!” sparkled Faye. “Can I meet them? It’s always nice to stroke a new pussy.”

She was twisting his nerves in knots, and she knew that too. “Yes, but right now - there’s - she’s been a messy pussy… I mean!”

Faye didn’t need a teasing retort here - Jimmy had embarrassed himself enough. Why the fuck did you say it like that? he thought, as he scurried out towards the kitchen.

“I’ll be back in just a sex - agh - just a sec!”

Over the next couple of minutes, Jimmy went through three more tea-towels: one to clean up Meg’s mess, and another two to control the flop-sweat of stress as he prepared coffees for himself and his lightning bolt of a guest. Eventually, he returned to the living room, trying not to let his hands shake as he placed Faye’s espresso on the side table, and took a seat in the armchair opposite. He sipped his own drink nervously.

The cat, capricious harlot that she was, had decided to follow him. Mewing happily, she leapt up into Faye’s lap and snuggled against her belly. “Oh hello, kitty! Aren’t you a friendly one?” She stroked the placid creature, looking every inch the Bond villain.

“So this is from the, uh, the survey?”

Faye took a moment to try the coffee. “Ooh, that’s the stuff. And yes, that’s right. I’m pleased to say you’re one of our three lucky prizewinners.”

“That’s… I mean, it’s amazing, thank you. I never thought…”

“A free lifetime subscription - full access to all GungeWorld content, in perpetuity. And of course, the exclusive behind-the-scenes tour.”

Jimmy coughed. “Mm-hmm. Yes. The tour. And that would be arranged… when, exactly?”

Faye put on a puzzled face. “Well, I’ll finish my coffee first. But then we’re good to go. Car’s waiting outside.”

“What, now?”

“Uh-huh. You did pick a date where you’d be free, didn’t you? If not, then this is kind of a wasted journey for me.”

“Yes, no, yes of course. I did, I’m… I’m free today.”

Naturally, Jimmy had considered the possibility of this happening. And he wasn’t naive enough to think that a trip to the studio would be without risk of getting messy. But Faye’s magnetic presence, coupled with the wild uncertainty of what could actually happen, had set his stomach swirling.

“Good! Your waiver, then.”

From her back pocket, Faye plucked a folded-up document a few pages long. Printed in block letters at the top, next to the GungeWorld logo: GUEST CAST. She handed it over.

“Can I… is there time to read it?”

In response, she sighed a little. “I’d recommend reading anything before you sign it. But… you’ve seen the show, right? I mean, I know you have.”

“Right, right. It’s just - is this, like, a whole episode? What will I have to… do?”

“You don’t have to do anything. We’re pretty big on choice and consent, y’know. But it’s probably worth mentioning that the prizes are… co-dependent, so to speak.”

“Co-dependent?”

“You only get the lifetime subscription if you complete the tour.”

“Ah.”

“And the tour does include the studio floor.”

“Which means getting messy.”

“Maybe. Or maybe not. We’re pretty big on uncertainty, too. How’s your general knowledge?”

That didn’t adjust Jimmy’s expectations much. Surely there’s no way they’d let me off scott-free.

“And, er… nudity?”

“See previous answer.”

“Right.”

There was a long silence. Jimmy tried to calmly read the waiver, but his addled mind was smearing the words around on the page. Faye yawned and stretched her arms up, possibly exaggerating for comedic effect. Either way, this had the effect of pushing her chest out, an even more enjoyable sight in person than on screen. Jimmy realised he was never going to be able to focus on the piece of paper.

“I suppose I’ll fetch a pen then.”

Jimmy thought about all the worst things that could possibly ensue as he rummaged through a nearby drawer. Slopping, stripping, spanking, humiliation. All the things he loved watching happen to pretty, blushing girls. The thought of taking their place made his cheeks burn with mortification. And yet he knew, deep in his bones, that he was about to sign his name and accept the consequences.

Besides - if the worst did happen, it wouldn’t only be him, right? Surely he’d get to watch some of GungeWorld’s ladies in action, too. Or even join… no Jimmy, don’t get ahead of yourself.

The space for him to sign was on the last page. He glugged down the last of his coffee, and scribbled his signature. It sent a little shiver up his spine. He handed the papers back to Faye, who smiled warmly.

“Wonderful. Ready to get going, then? And will this fluffball be OK on her own?”

“I think she likes having the house to herself.”

“That sounds about right. Let’s head.”

Faye waited by the door while Jimmy donned a jacket and a pair of trainers, then stepped outside with him. Jimmy locked up, and followed Faye to a large black people-carrier parked a few spaces down the road. A stern-looking man sat ready to drive, but once they’d clambered into the back seat, he was out of sight behind a privacy screen.

“Now,” said Faye. “Couple of things. We try and keep the studio location on the down-low, and we don’t allow photography when visiting. So I’ll need your phone, if you don’t mind.”

“Erm…” Jimmy felt rather unsure about that. What choice did he have, though?

“If there’s anyone you need to text, now would be a good time.”

He handed it over, and watched Faye switch it off entirely. She slipped it into a handbag that rested on the seat beside her, then felt around for something else lurking in there.

“And because of the location thing…”

She pulled out a black eye-mask with a fabric strap, clearly intended for use as a blindfold, and handed it to him.

“Really?”

“Yes please.”

Uncertainly, he placed the mask over his eyes and adjusted the strap. It worked very well - he couldn’t see a thing.

“Thank you. Now, as much as I’d love to chat, I’ve actually got some work emails to send. Sorry. But don’t worry, it’s not that long a drive. We’re on the right side of London.”

The car had begun to pull out now. They were under way. “Uh… sure. Okay.”

And so Jimmy simply sat there, a steady drone of traffic noise the only soundtrack, waiting and wondering. He had serious doubts about whether Faye was actually doing work emails. She’s just trying to make me nervous. And fuck, it’s working.

It was hard to estimate how long they passed in silence - twenty-five minutes, thirty, forty? But eventually, he felt the car pull to a stop, and the thrum of the engine cut out.

“And we’re here. You can take that off now.”

It was quite a relief to see again, and Jimmy blinked, adjusting to the spring sunlight. The view out of the car’s window was very unspectacular - a grey metal warehouse wall.

They exited the car, and Faye led Jimmy to a plain door in said wall, ringing the buzzer and waiting. A small plaque read GW ENTERPRISES. The door clicked, and they were in.

II: Office Space

“Welcome to GungeWorld.”

It was hardly a Jurassic Park moment. Everything looked incredibly… normal. An office, basically. A few people working away on laptops, who waved hello to Faye. Empty hot-desks with charging ports. Chairs and houseplants. Faye’s smirk suggested she’d anticipated his underwhelmed reaction.

“As you might have guessed, this is the boring part. But there is someone I’d like you to meet. Let’s just get you signed in first.”

Faye turned to the desk nearest the door, which was staffed by a smartly-attired but rather plain-looking young woman.

“Hi Janice. Signing two in, if you please.”

“Of course, Miss Foster,” replied Janice. “And who is your guest?”

“This is Jimmy Smith.”

Janice looked up at Jimmy with a flat, professional smile. “Spelled like it sounds?”

He nodded. “Yes, as you’d think.”

“He’s our lucky prizewinner,” added Faye. At that, Jimmy could have sworn he saw Janice’s lip twitch - just a little. And she seemed to be avoiding his eyes as she waved them past. Or maybe I’m just being paranoid.

There was a private office tucked into the corner of this large open-plan area, which they headed towards. When Jimmy saw the nameplate on the office door, he gulped. The big boss. Faye knocked, and was met with a breezy “come in!”

“Hey there,” said Faye, striding confidently inside, Jimmy shuffling after her. “I picked up our lucky winner.”

Alexa stood up from her desk, and gave Faye a little hug. “Thank you, darling. And hello - nice to meet you. Jimmy, isn’t it?”

It was a firm and confident handshake. Jimmy felt the need to say something.

“It’s, uh, it’s an honour. I mean, your videos are… I’m just a huge fan. Ahem.”

He actually felt less nervous than he’d expected - it helped that Alexa was wearing a casual outfit, rather than her trademark sadistic-ringmaster garb. That could put the fear of god into anyone.

“Thank you. That’s always nice to hear. And congratulations on being pulled out of the hat. Quite the exclusive prize.”

“Oh, absolutely. I’m, uh, fascinated to see how it all works.”

“Usually works, at least,” joked Alexa. “Things always go a bit wrong. But we tend to get through it. Lots of cups of tea, that’s the key.”

The friendly air didn’t seem put on at all. But Alexa was clearly keen to get back to her work. “I shall leave you in Faye’s capable hands. Have fun.”

Jimmy thanked her, and they were on the move again. Seemed like it really was just a formality.

“Speaking of tea,” said Faye, “our next stop is the green room. Fancy a cuppa? Or something stronger? The beer’s good here.”

A nerve-settler sounded like a sensible idea. “And no, you won’t get a surprise pale-ale drenching. Messy pranks are strictly for the studio floor, and nowhere else. Hard and fast rule.”

“Lead the way, then.”

The route out of the reception area led them slightly behind one of the diligently-working ladies, and Jimmy sneaked a quick glance at her laptop screen, unable to resist.

She was working on some kind of graphic. The words on it immediately leapt out at him, and he had to swallow a gasp - CUSTARD COCKSUCKING CARNAGE.

He averted his gaze. I’m in GungeWorld alright.

Soon, he and Faye were both sequestered in a plushly upholstered booth of the near-empty green room, each working on a pint of something locally-brewed and hoppy. Jimmy was very impressed with the 1930s-style decor. Faye’s teasing, dominant energy from earlier had ebbed slightly.

“Good time for questions, if you’ve got any.”

Jimmy pondered. “How many people work here? They look like full-time staff.”

“About two dozen, full- or part-time. Admin, catering, cleaning, infrastructure. Really helps things run smoothly.”

“And do they ever get involved with the… you know… modelling? Is that the right word?”

“We say cast members rather than models. But no, not usually. Only if they want to.” She nodded her head in the direction of a slim blonde bartender. “Ella’s got gunged in a couple of games.”

Jimmy looked over, trying not to stare, and did have a spark of recognition. Yes, she got dunked in that one episode. Lots of red and yellow slime. Pretty hot. It started to dawn on him that he had probably stroked himself to a number of the women around him. And they probably knew that. He picked up the pace on his drink to try and calm himself.

Sipping away steadily, Jimmy ventured a more personal query. “So, like… you seem to really enjoy getting messy.” This was met with a vaguely dirty smirk.

“I mean, yeah. It’s hot, and it’s weird. I like hot and weird. I am hot and weird.”

“How did you discover you were into it?”

“A boyfriend, a while ago. He was into clown play, and the pies came along with it. The first time he pied my titties… I was like, well this is a thing.”

Jimmy wasn’t sure how to respond to that.

“And the money helps too, natch.”

“It pays well?”

“Very well. I mean, I’d still enjoy getting messy if it didn’t. But for the sheer amounts they’ve covered me in… I think some compensation is fair.” Jimmy nodded in agreement.

“How ‘bout you?” asked Faye. “Where did you catch the messy bug?”

“Uh… from TV shows, I guess. I definitely wasn’t watching Ministry of Mayhem for the jokes.”

“Mmm, slimy Holly Willoughby. I’m with you there.”

Jimmy felt a weird mix of shame and relief, opening up a bit about his kink. Then he remembered that, assuming she’d read his survey response, Faye already knew a hell of a lot more about him.

They finished the last of the pints, and Faye gave him a conspiratorial look. “The next thing’s really cool. Follow me.”

At the end of a long corridor, they emerged into a cavernous, echoing space. Faye cranked a hefty switch to turn on the lights, and Jimmy saw that the room stretched right up to the roof of the building. Housed in this room was an array of large solid structures, built from metal, wood, plastic and more. Most were brightly coloured. A lot of them involved perspex. Some looked inflatable.

“Device Storage. The elephant graveyard. Take a look around, if you like.”

Jimmy hesitantly headed towards the nearest structure - a large round tub, with a metal runway climbing off to one side, a black leather seat at its peak. He could just see over the rim of the pit - it was mercifully empty.

“Never got dunked in that one myself. It got a lot of use in season three, if I remember rightly.”

It certainly had, and Jimmy remembered. Sally had taken a very sexy plunge into this one, among other ladies in various states of undress. He wandered around it, peering at the small joints and levers that made the thing work. Fascinating.

Behind the vat was an even more imposing structure. It was a perspex-fronted cuboid box, the height of a bungalow and equally wide, but fairly shallow from front to back. The Hamster Wheel. Inside it was a padded treadmill, and the chosen stooge had a simple task: to run while it spun. On the back wall, however, were several wide holes through which slop could be easily dispensed.

This inevitably led to slippage, stumbling, flailing, and then - as the wheel’s speed was cranked cruelly higher - to the victim being dragged backwards and flung repeatedly down into the collected swamp, like a teddy bear in a washing machine.

“Very entertaining,” commented Faye, “but it never quite worked as part of a game. I’m sure it’ll come out of retirement one day.”

Jimmy continued pacing through this demented sculpture gallery. Behind the Hamster Wheel, he found something much more familiar. A wooden cubicle with perspex walls. A real classic gunge-tank design.

“That one I’m more familiar with. Been in there three times. Escaped clean once.” She stepped around him and opened the half-height door. “Wanna know what it feels like?”

He let out a skittish laugh. Obviously, the reservoir above the tank was empty. But it still set his heart a-flutter. “C’mon, get in,” laughed Faye. “I did promise you were safe for now.”

Jimmy paused, but then obeyed, nervously stepping in and sitting on the stool inside. He couldn’t stop his eyes from flickering upwards, which made Faye laugh. “Feels funny even without the gunge, don’t it? Now, you’ve got 30 seconds to name all twelve zodiac signs! Go!”

The sudden prompt made Jimmy feel appropriately panicked. “Augh! Er, Aries, Capricorn… Libra, Scorpio…”

He listed off as many as he could, playing along. After naming eight, though, he found his brain scrambling for further answers. Maybe it is harder than it looks when you’re in this seat!

Faye wasn’t really timing, but after a while she gave a countdown. “Three! Two! One! Time’s up!”

“Noooo!” joked Jimmy, but he knew he’d legitimately failed.

“And you know what that means…”

I’m going to get it! Well, I would be about to get it… It was so silly, but Jimmy felt his buttocks tensing. Faye pulled down hard on a cord, and he couldn’t help but brace himself.

Click!

“Obviously not, of course,” said Faye, as nothing followed. “More’s the pity, eh?”

Jimmy simply smiled in response. He also realised that there was definitely a stirring between his legs. Up to now, everything had been such a shock, and so new, that physical arousal hadn’t come into it. But just playing pretend with Faye had got him semi-erect. He tried not to draw attention to it as he climbed out - if Faye noticed, she didn’t let on.

“So, that was your dry run. Ready to risk it for real?”

“Oh god. Already?” Jimmy took a deep breath to prepare himself. “Okay, let’s do this!”

“Like I said - no guarantees. But yeah - time to finish the tour.”

III: Suit Up

There was a stop they had to make, though, before finally reaching the studio floor.

“If you’re gonna be on camera, you’ve gotta look the part.”

Faye had directed him to the changing room, and told him his outfit was waiting inside. The room was a simple but comfortable affair, with a vanity mirror and nice seating.

Neatly folded on a table were three items of clothing. A pair of pristine white boxer trunks, a slightly larger pair of plain black shorts, and a yellow t-shirt. Jimmy looked down at the design stamped across it.

GUNGE VIRGIN.

He gulped. The part of him that believed he could escape clean got that much smaller.

There was no sense putting it off. He stripped down quickly, folding his clothes and leaving them in the basket provided. He slipped on the tight white boxers, trying not to think too much about his insistent semi-on. The notable bulge he saw in the mirror didn’t help. Then the shorts, which were snug but comfortable. The t-shirt was comfortable too - physically, at least. The sensation it gave him when he looked in the mirror was rather more disquieting.

He wondered whether to leave his shoes and socks here, and decided in the end that he probably should. When he stepped out without them, it earned a little tease from Faye.

“Yeah, I guess you know we like ‘em barefoot, huh?”

He smiled bashfully as Faye looked him up and down. Something in her eyes told him she was definitely aware of his excitement now. “Very handsome. Shall we go find out if you’re gonna stay that way?”

A deep breath, and a nod. “Lead the way.”

It was just around the corner, and they were there in no time at all. Jimmy finally saw the ominous and very clear signs about entering the messy danger zone. Before they headed past them, though, Faye finally chose to share some information about what came next.

“So, you’re gonna be playing a game. Nothing too complicated. Head-to-head. And one unlucky contestant gets gunged.”

There’s a chance I can get away clean, then. “Okay. Okay, sure. And who am I playing against?”

A voice came from behind him. “That would be me.”

Jimmy spun around, taken by surprise. His mouth hung gently open as he took in the sight of his opponent.

Alexa had always been clear that GungeWorld welcomed folks of all shapes and sizes. But equally, when a red-hot pornstar body like Missy’s walked through the door, she was hardly going to turn that away.

Missy was also wearing a generic GungeWorld outfit, though the t-shirt was an inversion of Jimmy’s in colour, red with yellow writing. The motto was in a much more elaborate, curly font: SLIME SLUT. It clung tightly to her firm, generous, bust.

Jimmy tried to keep his eyes up, but it was obvious there wasn’t a bra underneath the soft material. Double-D at least, maybe an E, flashed across his mind, though he knew he shouldn’t be having such thoughts. Missy just posed rakishly, enjoying the tension and Jimmy’s slack jaw.

He finally realised how dreadfully rude he was being. “Oh! Sorry, it’s ah, it’s nice to meet you.”

“Likewise,” she smiled, shaking Jimmy’s hand. Her hair was dyed too, though a little more daring - streaks of blue and green snaking through dark navy, allowed to grow out a little and falling untidily over her shoulders. Her figure was slightly fuller than Faye’s slim athletic body. Her golden skin and green eyes seemed to glow with flirtatious energy.

“Ready to see what you’re playing?” asked Faye. Missy clapped excitedly, and Jimmy just nodded his assent.

They followed Faye onto the studio floor. In truth, there wasn’t that much to see - it had been sectioned off by large pastel-coloured walls to a smallish size, just right for hosting one game. In the middle, though, was a device to set the heart racing. Two leather seats sat at the ends of a low platform, facing each other. Dead centre between them, a large cuboid tank of blue slime hovered above, held up by four struts out to the sides. There were red measurement lines, like on a gridiron field, reaching out from either side of the apparatus, not too far apart. A few boiler-suited stagehands stood behind cameras, ready to capture the action.

“Hee hee! Looks fun,” cooed Missy. “Let’s go!”

“Hold your horses, sweetie,” warned Faye. “Just need to shoot a quick teaser first, with our special guest. But you can both take your seats.”

A short walk later, and Jimmy settled into his chair, breathing as steadily as he could. His heart was seriously racing now. The sight of Missy, a few metres away opposite him, acting cute and giggly, wasn’t helping. Oh please, let me win this.

“Now Jimmy,” began Faye, earnestly. “Please don’t be alarmed-”

Jimmy was immediately alarmed.

“-but just for the purposes of the teaser, we’re gonna move you under the tank. Okay?”

“Really? That… kinda sounds like a trick.”

“I know, I know. But I promise the gunge won’t suddenly go off. It’s just a much better camera shot, and a good way to make you look nervous.”

“I am nervous!”

“Good! You should be! You could soon be a messy loser!”

“That sounds even more like a trick!”

“Well, believe me or not, we’re gonna do it anyway.”

The platform that housed the two chairs started to roll steadily across the floor. Jimmy felt his muscles tensing, and couldn’t help but wince in anticipation as his head moved under the heavy vat. If this one goes click, I get all that slop. But, as promised, he was not in fact suddenly drenched in goo. A camera approached, and framed the words on his t-shirt.

“Just read the cue cards - nothing too tricky.”

Jimmy did an admirable job under the nerve-racking circumstances, giving his first little spiel, letting Faye take the reins, then delivering his closing line.

“Nicely done, my dude,” was Faye’s assessment. “Think we got that in one. Trust me now?”

“Maybe a little more than before…” he replied with a cautious smile.

The smile was skewed slightly by the platform, so full of potential, starting to roll back towards its original position. Faye started to give friendly but assertive orders to the camera-folk, sotto voce.

“Hey!” complained Missy. “Don’t I get a promo?”

Faye laughed. “C’mon, sweetie. Let the guest of honour have his big moment.”

Once the platform was central and the cameras were set, Faye talked them through it.

“Look, it’s really easy, OK? I do a little intro, chat to you both. Explain the game - it’s just trivia questions. Then we’ll be off. And I don’t think you’ll need it in such a short game, but we always have a safe word if you’re finding things a bit much. Today’s word is Superman. Got that? Good to go?”

Her gaze lingered more on Jimmy than Missy, but it all seemed to be asked in good faith. He rolled his shoulders.

“Ready as I’ll ever be!”

A little thumbs-up from GungeWorld’s Head of Sales, and she was off to address the now-rolling cameras. A countdown from five, and a sparkling smile.

“Hello cuties! Welcome to an extra-special GungeWorld bonus video, a little treat for our loyal fans! And it’s an exciting one, too. Today, we’ve got an unspoiled gunge virgin taking on an experienced slime slut - let’s meet our contestants!”

She turned towards Missy, and the cameras followed, capturing only little glimpses of the rest of the setup. The girl was smiling at Faye, waving to the camera and bouncing gently in her seat.

“Our first contestant is Missy!”

“Hellooo!” she cooed to the viewers at home.

“Always a pleasure to have you with us, Missy. Now, you’ve been covered in slime plenty of times, haven’t you?”

“Uh… yeah!” she laughed. “In fact, last time I was here, you gave me an absolute doozy of a slopping. Very naughty.” Missy wagged a cheeky finger at Faye.

“Oh, don’t pretend you didn’t enjoy it.”

“I mean, I enjoyed the part where you ate my pussy.” She left a beat. “Okay, the sliming was pretty fun too, I guess.”

“So you won’t be too distraught if you end up drenched in slop today?”

Missy looked affronted. “Nuh-uh! I gotta win today. He’s a gunge virgin, and I wanna pop his cherry!”

“Fightin’ words! Well, I suppose I should reveal who he is, shouldn’t I?” She turned, and paced the short distance to Jimmy’s chair. “Missy’s opponent is the lovely Jimmy! Say hello, sweetie.”

He waved down the lens, and tried to sound breezy. “Hi there.”

It was hard to tell whether the shot was wide enough to capture the now-very-firm bulge in his shorts. He felt the urge to fold his hands in his lap to cover it, but also worried that would draw attention. He settled for resting them on the chair’s arms.

“As we’ve established, Jimmy, you’ve never had the particular pleasure of being covered in goo before. So, please tell everyone at home: how on earth did you end up here today?”

“Er - well, I actually won this as a prize.”

“That’s right! You’re one of the lucky winners from our viewer survey.”

“And then you sort of… turned up at my house… this morning.”

“Careful what you wish for, eh?” said Faye, then gave a conspiratorial aside to the camera. “Don’t worry, he’s signed the paperwork. Call it a consensual kidnapping.”

She addressed him again. “And are you nervous, Jimmy?”

He laughed, rather giving the game away. “Very nervous, if I’m honest! There’s an awful lot of gunge up there…”

“Ahh yes - our third character. Let’s have a proper look, shall we?”

The cameras finally acknowledged the suspended blue reservoir, hovering in shot behind Faye’s shoulder. “This is a game called Push-Me Pull-You.”

A stagehand sidled up to Jimmy and handed him a small cylinder with a red button on top - his buzzer. Missy received one too, as Faye continued.

“I’ll be asking our contestants some trivia questions - they’ll buzz in to answer. Get it right, and they’ll move one step further away from the gunge vat - and drag their opponent one step closer. Get it wrong, and the opposite applies. Simple, right?”

She checked in with the two competitors, who both nodded.

“They’re both starting three steps away from the slop. Whoever ends up sitting under the gunk will have one last chance to save themselves - I’m nice like that. But get that question wrong, and we’ll unleash the gunge!”

Hearing the G-word (and its slimy synonyms) said out loud, so many times in succession, was tingling Jimmy’s every nerve. He tried to quell his racing thoughts and focus on the game.

If he kept his wits about him, he could definitely win - he knew he was a reasonably smart guy. Though I wasn’t quite smart enough under that last nozzle, was I? And that one wasn’t even loaded…

It was a heady cocktail of excitement and uncertainty, self-doubt and confidence. He tried to focus on his goal: just how incredible it would be to watch the beautiful Missy get an enormous slop-shower right before his eyes.

There was one thing nagging at him slightly - the lack of a baying, female-heavy audience to watch them play. Of course, it was understandable - this was just a bonus video, after all. He wouldn’t be so egotistical to think they’d pull in a whole crowd just for him. But he always found the teasing cheers and shocked laughter in the studio really added to the thrill of the messy games - and the humiliation of the loser.

“I think that’s all I need to tell you. Ready to play?”

Two more determined nods. “Bring it on,” purred Missy.

“Let’s go! Question one - buzz in as soon as you’re ready to answer!”

Jimmy took a deep breath and poised his thumb.

“Which Mediterranean island is the birthplace of Napoleon Bonaparte?”

He buzzed. To his great surprise, he heard his own voice saying his own name, emitted from a nearby speaker somewhere. They must have sampled him from his intro, somehow. Very sneaky - he tried not to let it rattle him. Faye turned to him for an answer.

“Is it Elba?”

The crunchy buzzing noise told him pretty clearly that was a wrong answer, and he let out a grunt of annoyance.

“Not right, I’m afraid! I believe he was exiled to Elba, but he was born in Corsica. Jimmy goes forward…”

Missy clapped with glee at this fortunate start. The red lines on the floor weren’t too far apart, but the forward movement certainly felt significant to Jimmy. He couldn’t help but wince, and shoot a glance upwards at the blue cube. And he was sure that the cameras would be able to see the stiffness between his legs now.

“Next question. Kielbasa is a type of what?”

This time it was Missy’s name that piped up. “Sausage!”

“Correct! Back you go… and Jimmy’s just one step away from the tank! Crikey, this could be a short game.” She seemed to be very much enjoying the scrunched-up expression of worry on his face.

“Who is the host of the hit BBC show The Traitors?”

Jimmy thankfully got there first this time, and knew the answer for sure. “Claudia, Claudia Winkleman!”

“Bang on the money! So back you go, Jimmy…”

His sigh of relief was short-lived, however. The next two questions were both answered quick as a flash by Missy, one on music and one on fashion.

“Oh deary me!” hammed Faye, as the platform propelled Jimmy’s seat the few final, fateful feet forwards. Oh deary me indeed. His heart was absolutely hammering. “Our gunge virgin’s in the danger zone! How are you feeling, Jimmy?”

An honest and full answer would have very much disrupted the gameplay. Jimmy’s brain was going utterly fucking haywire. He barely knew where to look - if it wasn’t at the unbearably weighty tank above him, it would be at one of two smoking-hot fetish enthusiasts who were currently revelling in his discomfort. His stomach felt like he’d just downed a cocktail of antimatter and viagra.

He mumbled the best response he could to Faye’s question. “Nuh, not… not great, to be honest!”

“Well, you’re not quite done for yet. One more question, and this one’s just for you.”

“Distraction!” yelled Missy suddenly, with a filthy grin. She smartly yanked the bottom of her t-shirt up to her neck, flashing her firm, stunning rack.

“Guah!” spluttered Jimmy, catching an eyeful and blushing twice as hard as before. “Can she do that?”

“Well I sure as hell ain’t stopping her.”

Jimmy tried to fix his eyes on Faye as she read the question, but Missy’s tits remained in his peripheral vision. She snickered, jiggling them up and down.

“Astra, Corsa and Frontera are all models made by which car company?”

“Um, okay- Corsa… that’s…”

“Need an answer please!”

“Vauxhall!”

Just committing to the answer gave him a spike of adrenaline. Fortunately, the ding of the bell indicated he was safe - for the moment. His heart rate began to quell, though only a tiny amount. He was still just one step from the danger zone.

“Bah! How didn’t that work?” complained Missy, pulling the shirt back down over her chest.

Soon, though, his luck began to turn. Missy flubbed a question, and then Jimmy managed to nail two in a row. It left him at an advantage for the first time in the game, sitting at mark 4 while Missy was at mark 2, and looking grumpy.

“Which element has the atomic number six?”

Neither buzzed in straight away. Jimmy decided to press his advantage.

“Oxygen?”

“That’s not it, I’m afraid - six is Carbon. And would you look at this?”

Faye was referring to the game-state. “After all that, we’ve ended up where we started. And we haven’t got all day. I think it’s time to speed things up.”

Both contestants gave a nervy little gasp as they felt their chairs sliding forward along the platform - a hidden extra gimmick. They both came to a stop at the 2nd mark. If Faye pulls that trick again, thought Jimmy, even the winner’s gonna get some splash damage.

The new position afforded Jimmy an even better view of the radiant, flirty girl opposite - she bit her lip suggestively, flicking her gaze upwards at the gunge.

“Always nice to bring people closer together. Now, on with the game!”

Fortunately for Jimmy, things continued to go his way. He gave two lightning-quick answers in succession, both correct. That meant Missy taking her place under the slop-tank for the first time.

“What a turnaround!” cooed Faye, as Missy squirmed, pouted, and glared daggers at him. This only made Jimmy throb harder down below.

“Missy: this is to stay in the game. Which European country has an identical flag to the Netherlands, except for a lighter shade of blue on one stripe?”

Immediately, Jimmy could see panic in Missy’s eyes. Her fists clenched as she struggled for an answer.

“Buh, fruh, nuhh… ah, oh god… M… Mon… Monaco?”

The “wrong answer” buzzer emitted an extra-long blast, and Missy squealed, anticipating an imminent drenching. It didn’t come straight away, however. To Jimmy’s delight, Faye seemed to want to toy with the loser.

“Oh, Missy, my darling! You were so close to winning - and now look what’s happened!”

“Ngh!” The poor lass bashed her fists against her thighs, face screwed up tightly.

“You were so keen to pop Jimmy’s cherry as well. Are you disappointed?”

“Very! This is bullshit. So unfair.”

“Really? Unfair how?”

“I mean… I don’t mean… shut up!” Missy gave a grumpy, hangdog glance at the tank above her. “Just get on with it…”

“Believe me, I’m very keen to. Just a moment, though.” Letting Missy stew a little more, she turned to Jimmy instead.

“Congratulations on your victory, Jimmy! That was some clutch quizzing. You must be feeling rather pleased.”

“Ah, yes. Relieved, more than anything! I, uh, certainly wouldn’t want to be where Missy is right now.”

The loser snarled at him. Her bratty mood and fidgety discomfort were driving him wild with excitement, the perfect build-up to a humiliating slopping. His prick strained against the tight underwear.

“Are you sure? You could always switch seats with her, you know. Be a real gentleman.”

“Yeah!” agreed Missy. “Chivalry ain’t dead, you know!”

Jimmy winced at the very thought, but tried to sound unruffled. “Isn’t that a bit old-fashioned? You know, modern age, equal opportunity, et cetera.”

Faye tapped a finger on her lip. “Hmm. So you’re saying that activating that enormous gunge tank above poor Missy’s head would actually be… feminist praxis?”

“Uh… something like that?”

“Fair enough! In that case, we’d better get on with it!”

Missy let out another annoyed wail, her legs wiggling up and down in anticipation. Faye leaned in close to her, grinning devilishly.

“Don’t worry, Missy. I’m sure you’ll be able to look back on this and laugh…”

“Nyuhh!”

Faye stepped away from the splash zone. “I think our winner should get to say the magic words. Think you can do that, Jimmy?”

As she asked, a Stagehand behind her held up a large cue-card. It contained three words that made Jimmy’s heart beat even faster. He nodded keenly. “Oh, wow. Yeah, I think so.”

“Marvellous. I’ll count you down, then. Five! Four!”

He watched Missy cower and cringe in her seat, making little high-pitched noises.

“Three! Two! One!”

A loud klaxon blared, and Jimmy had to shout his line over the din. It felt incredible to utter the words, a transgressive rush of power and elation.

“Unleash the gunge!”

IV: Treachery

The gunge was unleashed.

Just not from the bottom of the tank.

The trick perspex panel holding the thick blue gunge facing towards Jimmy’s seat unclasped itself and swung open, leaving that side of the cube entirely open to the air.

Through that air - thanks to a sudden combination of gravity and liquid pressure - a giant, tempestuous wave of blue liquid goo was quickly propelled towards Jimmy.

By the time the naive fan registered what was happening, the gunge was already upon him.

It hit hard, and loud. It wasn’t a single big splat, more a thrumming salvo of squelches, the multiple haphazard streams within the overall wave gushing against different parts of his tense, gobsmacked body.

It hit all of him. Every single inch of Jimmy that was vaguely facing in the direction of the vat got sloshed with heavy liquid slop. The sensation was mind-boggling, an assault on the nerve-endings and the ego unlike anything he’d ever felt before. The splatters into his face were first, triggering a wave of shock. The splatters onto his crotch felt particularly mortifying. He felt very on display.

It hit him quickly. Much like Faye’s thank-you gunging from the survey he had enjoyed so much, this was a harsh and sudden obliteration. One moment he was clean, and two seconds later he was dripping thick azure gunge from every angle of his shuddering form. His maiden gunging was over.

Jimmy gasped in a desperate draught of air. When he finally raised his arms to try and wipe his face, he noticed several more things all at once.

There was the sound. Even after the splatter had subsided, there was still an aura of slithery, goopy noises all about him. Dribbles and drops made the steady noise of rain. Every movement of his muscles against the leather chair made a squick. Much worse, though, was the pealing laughter of his smug, clean opponent, which rang out over a sudden burst of upbeat, TV-show muzak. Her enjoyment of his messy surprise washed over him like a second humiliating wave.

There was the sensation, too. The skin of his face, neck, bare arms and bare legs was smothered with this lukewarm gunk, coating his pores and matting his hairs. And against his clothes, he felt the sticky wetness already starting to seep in, making them feel astonishingly heavy. They clung to his body - most of all, he felt his shorts and boxers start to hug his throbbing cock more tightly.

Once he’d finally cleared his face, he caught a glimpse of Missy, still beside herself, literally pointing and laughing at the poor sap who thought he was safe. His cock was getting so hard it hurt. God, I wanted to see her like this. Looking down, he marvelled at his oozing, slimy thighs, his dripping hands, his complete annihilation.

Jimmy attempted to gather his thoughts, but the task was made more difficult by the presence of Faye, hovering expectantly just outside of gunk-flinging range, flanked by cameras. She was clearly going to expect him to talk to her.

“Um… so, tiny confession, Jimmy. We might just have… kinda, sorta… rigged that one.”

He snorted goo from his lips. “Huh. You don’t say.”

“I’d apologise, but I suspect you know we’re not actually sorry. I mean, your face was a picture.”

“Still is, by the looks of things,” he replied sadly, using his palms to sluice a layer of slime away from his smothered hair.

Faye turned briefly towards her co-conspirator in the opposite chair. “Thanks for playing along, Missy,” she enthused. “Fantastic squirming, by the way. Very convincing…”

Missy rubbed it in a little more, framing her face with her hands and doing cow-eyes. “Oh noooo! I can’t believe I lost! Please don’t gunge me! Hehehe…”

“I must say, Jimmy,” continued Faye, “you’re taking this rather well.”

He sighed, slowly swishing his feet around in the slimy puddle below. “To be honest, I probably should have seen it coming.”

“Our famous misdirection tactics work their magic once again,” said Faye with some pride. “But you’ve been a real sport - hasn’t he? Round of applause, I think!”

Missy and the assembled Stagehands joined Faye in a polite golf-clap. Jimmy acknowledged it with a weary nod and a shy smile.

“Before we say goodbye - will you do us a little post-gunge promo? Same thing as before - just read the cue card.”

This request gave him a little spike of suspicion. It would be very GungeWorld to slime him again while he read the card. But there didn’t seem to be anything in the vicinity that could dispense more gunk. And even if they somehow did, he was already slathered, head-to-fucking-toe. How much worse could it get?

“Sure, why not.”

“You’re a star. Here we go, then. Camera two - it’s that one there.”

Jimmy blinked slop from his eyes, and tried to put his insistent erection out of his mind. The cue-card was hoisted, and - somewhat less steadily than before - Jimmy read out the text, starting off with a tired little wave.

“Hi everyone. My name’s Jimmy, and I just lost my gunge virginity, here at the GungeWorld studios. Sign up today, and watch me meeting my slimy fate, at GungeWorld dot com!” He shook his gooey arms for visual emphasis.

“Perfect!” said Faye. “They should call you One Take Jimmy.”

“Heh. Thanks.”

Faye looked up, warmly addressing the crew. “Wonderful job, everyone! That one’s in the can.”

She left a slightly-too-long pause, rolling her shoulders and gathering her poise.

“Now put him in the cage.”

All of a sudden, Jimmy felt arms sliding underneath his own, as he was hoisted to his feet by two particularly strong Stagehands. “Whuh?”

Faye now sounded full of brio and confidence. She was making love to the camera, all smiles, while the Stagehands firmly marched the sloppy, surprised boy towards a tall, barred cage that had been quietly rolled into the set while he wasn’t looking. A low bed of bassy, vaguely menacing rock music played over the PA.

“Hold on, what…?”

“Surprise! This ain’t just a little bonus video. This is a Hard Sell.”

Oh no. I’m in for so much worse.

Having no other choice, Jimmy stepped up onto the flat floor of the cage, hearing the door clang shut behind him. Through the bars, he was subtly encouraged to face back towards the cameras.

“This way, girls.”

The stagehands started to roll the cage ahead of them, towards a wall of the small studio that now housed a large open doorway. It was all happening so fast. Every time the overwhelming shock subsided, it was replaced by a deep cringing of realisation, like the ache of a sprained ankle when the painkillers wear off.

V: Company

Jimmy’s cage passed through the doorway. It was met with a sudden eruption of gleeful, high-pitched cheering and excited applause. The elevator that was his stomach dropped through another few basement levels. They wouldn’t bring in a whole audience just for me, he remembered thinking earlier. Oh god, Faye’s going to completely humiliate me for their enjoyment.

He pawed away some of the gunk that was still slowly oozing over his eyes, just so he could properly see what was going on. And the audience was there, alright. Rows and rows of them, every kind of frisky, fuckable woman he could imagine, arranged onto a bank of bleachers against the dark outer wall of the studio. They seemed to be uniformly in an excellent mood.

It made it even worse that he recognised so many of them. Swigging a beer in the front row, there was the rosy-cheeked and petite Lettie, her tremendous knockers straining at a pink vest top. He’d been thinking of her earlier, when he saw the Hamster Wheel backstage. The sight of her frantic naked tumble through the slop had helped bring him off more than once. Just behind her, redheaded Autumn and blonde Lily clinked wine glasses as they cheered. Jimmy had watched their toned, athletic bodies pressed hotly together as they fucked enthusiastically in a pit of trifle.

Tearing his gaze away from the happy female throng, Jimmy looked around this new room. In the soft glow of the lighting, he could see a faux-wooden floor and walls, plus some tasteful furnishings, laden with houseplants and ornaments. The mansion house set? Oh god…

Faye quietened the appreciative cheers, standing in front of the cage, slightly off to the side to ensure the gawking crowd got a clear view. Jimmy felt like he was a model on display, reduced to a messy object for his audience’s enjoyment. “Goo-oo-ood evening ladies! I am just so, so delighted to be here. How are we feeling?”

More rapturous cheering. Jimmy stood quietly in his cage - what else was he supposed to do? We were officially outside of what he had been briefed on. Jimmy noticed that there were three large coloured buckets arranged around Faye’s feet. He glanced to his right, and noticed that there was a lush velvet curtain sectioning off a rear corner of this snug little set room.

There’s a gunge tank behind that, for sure.

“As you may know, my role here at GungeWorld is Head of Sales.” She allowed some sarcastic woo-ing. “Before you ask, no I don’t do sales of head. You can get that for free, but only if I really like you.” Tipsy, bawdy chuckles abounded.

“But that means I’ve got another pitch for you - and for our lovely viewers at home. One I hope you will all find thoroughly convincing.” The crowd murmured, ready to be sold on a silly idea. First, though, Faye turned towards the boy-cage.

“And you’re going to help me deliver the presentation.”

Jimmy frowned, confused. “Erm… but I don’t know what you’re presenting? How am I supposed to…”

“Well, you’ll be more of a visual aid, for the moment. Face front and look pretty - think you can manage that?”

“Not sure I look too pretty right now.”

“Oh, I couldn’t disagree more.” The compliment made him blush, not that it was very visible under the blue smears. “In fact, the sight of you all sloppy is both rather delightful and extremely relevant to my pitch.”

“Um, okay…”

Faye turned away from him, and reached down towards one of the buckets. Jimmy could see it was brimming with oozy yellow slime.

“Allow me to detail my three-point proposition. Point one!”

She turned, and hurled the bucket’s contents into the cage with unerring accuracy. The wet gunge splashed hard against Jimmy’s torso and crotch, exploding into ribbons on either side as he writhed in discomfort. The audience hooted with laughter. Faye had already turned her back on his pathetic figure, a new coat of canary yellow dripping and seeping over his body.

“You told us you wanted more gungey guys, and we’ve listened! Tonight, I plan to demonstrate that we can gunk a hunk just as well as we can slop a slut. If not better! Fans of the mans, this one’s for you.”

This was extremely well-received, the fine ladies in the crowd whooping and hollering. The phrase if not better lodged itself in Jimmy’s worried mind.

But he also knew that the mics were picking him up. And that Faye’s taunts, glances, and body language were all encouraging him to put up at least a little fight. After all - this is GungeWorld. They’re all about playing with your food before you enjoy it. Jimmy decided to voice an objection.

“Couldn’t you have picked some other bloke to gunge?”

Faye was straight onto him, snapping her gaze back and smirking - that’s the spirit. “Oh, sure we could have. But we didn’t - and more on that later. Now - point two!”

Jimmy obviously knew what was coming, though it still felt unnecessarily harsh when Faye cast the second bucket higher, splatting bright red gunge into his wincing face. He spat it away, noticing its taste for the first time. It wasn’t strongly chemical - it was strangely neutral-tasting, in fact, with a gentle sweetness, and hints of herbs and crisp vegetables.

“This is an open challenge to the lads out there - get involved! Honestly, we’ve got more flirty, fuckable femmes than we know what to do with, and we’re all about diversity. Why not drop us an email - we’ll find you something fun to do! And we pay well!”

The cheering this time was noticeably more horny, with some wolf-whistling thrown in. Most of the girls in the audience were very happy to get dirty, and perhaps get dirty, with some handsome studs.

Jimmy continued trying to be gently defiant. “Oh yeah? And what exactly am I getting paid for this?”

Faye matched him easily. “Free lifetime membership, remember? We can always cancel that…”

“Ah. Good point. Please don’t.”

“Point three!”

She chucked the last bucket, thick orange slop cast wantonly over the stooge in his cage. He spluttered and shifted on his slimy feet. Unfortunately, the humiliation was about to get rather more personal.

“This guy,” said Faye, casting a hand back over her shoulder, “this guy in particular. Let me tell you, he really deserves a good hard slopping.”

Jimmy’s stomach squirmed as Faye said this. Being utterly gunged in front of an audience was one thing. Being labelled as such a naughty boy that he richly deserves it - now that was a different level of humiliation. Particularly when a part of him might have agreed.

Jimmy watched Faye slink over towards him, wearing a Cheshire-cat grin. She placed herself beside the cage, and raised her arm to grip one of the bars. Her words were still addressed towards the crowd, but she stared into his eyes now, revelling in his discomfort.

“Allow me to properly introduce him. Ladies, meet Jimmy.”

She left a pause. He felt he had to fill it. “Er… hi, ladies.”

“He’s the mucky - ahem - lucky prizewinner of our GungeWorld viewer survey. Now, dear viewers, I promised you it was a random prize draw, and that’s true - you were all in with a chance. But when I plucked Jimmy’s name out of the hat, and read his survey responses… well, I couldn’t believe my luck, frankly.”

The crowd’s tittering excitement was starting to build.

“Jimmy loves to watch girls getting gooey. Don’t you, Jimmy.”

“Well, ah… yes. Yes I do.”

Jimmy felt his face getting warmer from the embarrassment of being forced to finally confirm - in public - something he’d always tried very hard to keep private.

“Because?”

“Um… because it turns me on.”

“Turns you on so much that you can’t help wanking yourself off?”

The crowd got rowdier. Jimmy winced. “Hey! But isn’t that sort of… what you’re going for?”

“Certainly is! We make super-horny stuff, and we’re proud of it!”

Here came the turnaround. “The problem is… it’s kind of a one-way street, y’know? Like, you’re missing half the fun this ‘hobby’ has to offer. Watching the football from the stands, when you could be standing in front of the penalty spot.

“Let me give you an example,” she continued. “One question in the survey asks you to choose which messy scenario you’d most like to experience. Now, that’s a fun, flirty question, right? A kinky hypothetical. A messy would-you-rather.”

She cocked her head at him and gave a cheeky smile, as if to say ‘remember that’?

Oh no. She knows so much about me.

“I guess most people picked an answer, had a couple of naughty thoughts, and moved on. But Jimmy felt the need to take to the general comments section at the end. Apparently, he didn’t like how the survey ‘forced him to choose’ because he’s ‘not looking to get messy.’ Aww, poor baby!”

Faye’s voice dripped with mockery as she did exaggerated air quotes. Some of the audience began to boo. Jimmy knew it was all in good fun, but couldn’t help being instilled with a sense of dread.

“He picked a Gunk Dunk, but said he’d rather ‘stand next to the tank and watch the mechanics as the seat gets cranked up.’ Ha! No doubt cranking himself up at the same time!”

The booing increased in volume. “Jimmy also said that if he had the chance for some messy play with a girlfriend, he’d be the one dishing out the slop, and not receiving it. Sounds to me like he wants the women to do all the hard work of getting gungey, while he sits back, tugging his todger. Kinda sexist, no? I bet he expects us to clean up afterwards, too.”

She’d brought the crowd to fever pitch by this point, baying and jeering. Though his overwhelming feeling was mortification, he found a little thrill in being the pantomime villain of the piece. He did his best to lean into it.

“I mean… maybe I’m just more dom than sub. It’s a spectrum, right?”

The crowd ooh-ed, and Faye cocked her eyebrow at him appreciatively. She had a good riposte, though. “Dom? Not today, you ain’t!”

She wasn’t done whipping up the audience, either, and she still had another angle to work.

“With all that said, though… I do have a sneaking suspicion that the truth is a little more complicated. You see, when we asked Jimmy which dates he would be available to take the GungeWorld studio tour… he ticked every… single… one.”

This coaxed saucy, intrigued noises from the crowd. “Like, most people have something in their calendar at weekends, right? A football match, a friend’s birthday party? Very suspicious. Not exactly the actions of a man who’s afraid to get messy.”

It was pure truth. Jimmy tried to brush it off lightly. “I was just excited to see the studio, that’s all.”

“Oh, you’ll see it alright,” laughed Faye. “And here’s some more firm support for my theory - I believe if you look very closely, you might notice something of a visual clue.”

She pointed her gaze, clearly and deliberately, towards Jimmy’s crotch. His hard cock was straining against the fabric of his damp y-fronts and shorts, forming an obvious pointed bulge, multicoloured slime slowly oozing over its protrusion. The watching ladies began to whistle in appreciation now, though it was still accompanied by persistent, mocking laughter.

“Honestly? I think this boy is absolutely fucking desperate to get slimed senseless. He’s just too shy to say it out loud.”

“Nuh… no, it’s just quite distracting being here with you and Missy!”

“Distracting - sure. These girls can see your distraction from across the room.” She pursed her lips at him, lasciviously.

“Fortunately, here at GungeWorld, we have the resources to put my theory to the test. I strongly suspect that Jimmy will enjoy what’s about to happen to him - more than he lets on, at least. And if not? Well, tough shit I guess! He signed the waiver!”

Faye finally stepped in front of Jimmy’s cage, and addressed him head on.

“Let’s get you out of there, bucko. Because your carriage awaits.”

VI: Taken for a Ride

While Faye swung the cage door open, Jimmy heard a swishing noise in the corner of the studio, followed by a raucous cheer. He turned his head. Of course.

It was a wooden, waltzer-style cart, about six feet wide, with a flat seat. The back and sides were four feet high, decorated with large glittery question marks and colourful, dripping splat-symbols. The front, however, was wide open, giving an unobstructed view of the seat’s occupant.

Which was about to be Jimmy.

Faye stood back from the cage, sweeping her arm towards the fateful little vehicle, inviting Jimmy to take his place. Gingerly, he stepped out of the cage, mortifyingly aware that all eyes were on his erection. He shuffled across the floor, leaving gloopy footprints beneath him. There was something particularly humiliating about walking himself to his messy fate, rather than being escorted.

He stepped up onto the floor of the cart, then turned and planted his bum on the seat. Faye approached - not too close, though.

“Here’s the plan, Jimmy. Because you love our silly, messy games so much, we’ve prepared a selection of your favourites! That’s right - we know which ones you’ve come back to watch time and again. That’s the joy of good user analytics, eh?”

Jimmy groaned - a selection of games? Even when the cart was revealed, he’d thought it would just mean a gunge-filled ride around the studio. How elaborate was this going to be?

“Before we get going, though - I can’t help but notice that t-shirt of yours has somewhat lost its accuracy.”

He made a show of looking down, dragging his fingers over the writing. “Yeah, pretty obvious I lost that V-card, eh?” The thought of having to strip something off, even before things had really started in earnest, made him yet more nervous.

“Exactly. We don’t wanna get in trouble under the Trades Descriptions Act, do we? Fortunately, we’ve got a fresh one for you.”

That was kind of a surprise - usually at GungeWorld, when the clothes came off, they tended to stay off.

“But I know from experience how hard it is to peel off a sticky, gunge-soaked tee. So let’s help you out a little, eh?”

He’d been nervously watching the four Stagehands approaching his cart, toting buckets. At first he’d suspected another hearty gunging was coming his way, but now that they were nearer, he could see it was definitely water. Though four full buckets was quite a lot of it.

With practiced co-ordination, the helpers drew back their buckets. Jimmy closed his eyes and mouth.

A fierce, watery sploosh erupted over his wincing body, to great cheers. He spat and snorted a little, extremely grateful that the water was actually warm. Wiping off his face, he looked down at himself. The sloshing had actually done a pretty good job - there were very few streaks of slime left over his figure.

He felt the fluffy, rugged embrace of a towel against his back, then another, rubbing away at his hair. Two more Stagehands had been assigned to towel him down - it was a bit fast and rough, but not entirely unpleasant. One of them even gave his hair a little tousle into shape when she’d finished.

“Off with the old one please, Jimmy.”

It still wasn’t trivial to strip off the t-shirt, damp as it was, but he soon managed it, handing it away. There were loud wolf-whistles at the sight of his bare torso, his nipples pert and firm.

“And here’s your new one.”

This t-shirt was being proudly displayed by an approaching Stagehand, held up by the shoulders for the crowd’s enjoyment - and they definitely were enjoying it, snickering with laughter. When she finally turned to show it to him, he cringed deeply.

In white block letters on a royal blue shirt, it read:

PIES GO HERE

Above the lettering was a large yellow arrow, pointing directly upwards. It even poked a little bit above the collar, interrupting the neckline.

I suppose I can take a good guess at what’s coming next, then.

With a sigh, he grappled the t-shirt on, trying not to listen to the giggles from across the studio. The big yellow arrow hovered tauntingly in his peripheral vision.

“Oh yes,” cooed Faye. “Really suits you. Just one more thing…”

A Stagehand gently but assertively moved his wrists to the small of his back. Click, click.

The handcuffs were padded, and therefore not uncomfortable. Physically, at least. Jimmy audibly gulped at the implications. Oh crikey.

“I always think boys should wear more accessories, don’t you? Right then, Jimmy. I can’t wait to see how you get on in our gauntlet of wacky fun. And thankfully, I don’t have to!”

There was a sudden fizzing pop, and a bank of sparkly indoor fireworks flared up around the cart - which proceeded to slowly turn towards the wood-panelled wall. As it did so, a pair of those panels slid away, opening a path into the next section of the studio.

Jimmy’s shoulders were stiff with anticipation, half-expecting an immediate creamy assault. However, it didn’t come. This section of the studio looked very similar to the first, with its mahogany wood, burgundy carpets, bookshelves and greenery. Although there were some clues - at the open end of the set, near the audience, there were definitely some steel trolleys piled with thick cream pies. Below them on the floor sat something similarly thick and creamy - but much larger.

The cart came to a stop, and Jimmy also noticed a rather out-of-place-looking flatscreen TV, perched on a table away to his left. As Faye rounded the corner and strolled onto this set, it flickered into life.

“Our first game is called Useless Tossers. Hopefully you remember it, Jimmy - you’ve watched it six times, by our reckoning.”

On the screen was a smartly-edited, twenty-second supercut of the game in question. Two glam-looking girls sat nervously in moving leather chairs, which rolled slowly across the floor towards two other ladies, who were hurling their arsenal of pies, trying to pelt the seated girls in the face. This task became a lot easier when the chairs had rolled closer, so the end of the game was frantically messy. At the end, Dionne - the girl who’d been hit by the most pies - was treated to an extra indignity, a mammoth giant pie that sprang up out of the studio floor, engulfing her upper body as she screeched in humiliation.

Jimmy tried to accept the imminent reality, that he was now going to be the human bullseye. I’m going to be pied. I’m going to be pied over and over, and I’m not even going to get a chance to save myself.

The audience had their own screens, and were keenly watching the edit too. As it started to loop from the beginning, Faye got loud again.

“Last time, they were in the firing line. This time, they get to fling the flans. Please welcome Brandy and Dionne!”

Two women walked round the wall on the right of the set, smiling happily and waving to the crowd, taking up their marks near the trolleys of custard pies.

Brandy was a freckled, button-nosed cutie with pale skin and artfully messy ginger hair that fell to her shoulders. She had a reputation as one of Alexa’s favourite stooges - she could be adorably naive, easy to trick with a surprise extra gunging or an unfair twist. Today, though, she looked calm and confident. She wore a shiny, forest-green top with tasteful frills and a hint of decolletage, over blue jeans that hugged her round, soft butt.

Dionne was a tall, elegant Black woman with long, gorgeous legs and long, straight black hair, an expensively maintained do. A knee-length purple dress with thin shoulder straps accentuated her smooth curves and firm bust - she looked ready to grab a champagne flute and mingle with the rich and famous.

I’ve definitely wanked myself silly to these two.

“Thank you so much for coming, sweeties.”

“A pleasure,” replied Dionne. “I mean, it sounded like a real fun idea.” She flashed a wide smile at Jimmy.

Faye’s definitely told them I’ve wanked myself silly over them.

“Oh, it will be, trust me. Now, do you two remember playing this game?”

They both nodded, Brandy giving a nervous laugh. “We both got it pretty good, but she got it worse, I think!”

“Yeah, that giant pie is a doozy.”

“Luckily for you two,” said Faye, “the only one getting it good today is poor Jimmy over there. Say hi!”

The two women both shouted an enthusiastic “Hi Jimmy!” and gave him a teasing wave which Jimmy had no way to reciprocate.

“Hi Brandy, hi Dionne,” he replied bashfully.

“You’re gonna team up, chucking the pies at Jimmy as he approaches the finish line, just here. Remember, you’re aiming for the face - that t-shirt should be a clue! And your goal is to score ten direct hits between you before the end of the run. If you manage that, then Jimmy gets the giant pie - won’t that be fun to watch?”

Dionne smirked knowingly. Brandy had a question, though, having been tricked so many times over. “And, uh… what if we don’t?”

Faye shrugged, calmly. “Then I guess Jimmy escapes the big splatting. No punishments for you, my dears - you can grab a drink, and stay to watch the rest of the mayhem. Today we’re focused on making sure Jimmy gets the most out of his visit. Sound good?”

“Sounds very good.”

“Lovely. One last thing - oi, Jimmy!”

“Mmm?” he replied nervously to Faye’s shout across the floor.

“There is to be strictly no ducking or dodging the pies! You will sit up straight and take it like a man, understand?”

The crowd loved Faye’s dommy mommy energy. Embarrassingly, so did Jimmy’s prick, rising to full mast as if to make itself a better target. Jimmy just nodded dumbly. Yes Miss Faye…

“Grab your pies, girls, we’re ready to go! In five! Four! Three! Two! One! Pie!”

Jimmy felt a little jolt underneath him as the cart started its slow, steady journey. Brandy and Dionne both stepped forwards and heaved their large, heavy, white piles of goo as hard as they could. He watched them sail through the air… and both land harmlessly wide, splatting on the studio floor.

“Yikes,” laughed Dionne. “Harder than it looks!”

Of course, they were just getting a feel for it. Brandy’s next pie was another poor effort, well short of the cart. But Dionne managed to smack one against the vehicle’s lower left side. Jimmy shivered to hear the wet, gungey thud it made.

“Finding my range, finding my range…”

The distance slowly closed, and the girls’ accuracy gradually increased. Brandy finally managed to straighten her aim, and land a first hit - only against Jimmy’s right leg, though. He winced as the cool, sticky cream plopped down hard onto his slippery thigh, creating a great white smear. A large blob slithered off onto the floor of the cart.

“I hit him!”

“Not in the face, though!”

“I know, but that’s progress, right?”

Jimmy knew Brandy was correct. I’m going to get it.

Closer and closer they came to scoring their first pie-face point. Dionne managed to nail Jimmy square in the chest, and he gasped at the thick, splurgey impact. Then, Brandy also hit one too low - the pie went smashing into his crotch, making his nerves twinge. A laugh came from the audience, and Brandy tittered behind her upraised hand. “Whoopsie!”

Jimmy glanced down, observing the heavy pile of thick whipped cream and smashed-up pastry crust that was hugging his bulge. He blushed hot.

Not for long, though: his cheeks were suddenly and rudely cooled down, as Dionne’s next cold, sticky custard pie slammed right into his face. Jimmy’s muscles went stiff, his shoulders tensing hard.

“Finally!” cheered Faye. “Well done Dionne, we’re off the mark!”

After all these years, Jimmy was finally on the receiving end of a proper custard pie to the face. The near-misses had not nearly prepared him for the sensation. It was thick and smothering, damp and drippy. He felt breathless, panicky, and utterly humbled. The audience’s shrieking laughter rubbed salt in the emotional wound.

Another pie thudded against his collarbone, and one more flew past his head, just grazing his cheek. Jimmy snorted cream from his nostrils, and opened his mouth, gasping for breath.

Splat! His gob was immediately filled with whipped cream and egg custard, sweetly coating his cheeks and tongue, as Brandy finally landed her first direct hit. He blabbered and spluttered in shock, shaking his head frantically. “Bluh, puh…”

The cart was over halfway down the track now, and the laughing girls’ task had become exponentially easier. Those two pie hits quickly turned into three, four, five, more. The thick, sticky gunk slapped relentlessly into Jimmy’s face as he gasped and shuddered, his heart pounding ever-faster.

The inability to wipe his face left him powerless and impotent. He knew what he looked like to the audience - a comical mass of cream, with his mouth forming an “O” shape periodically to summarise his helplessness. He just hoped the pile of cream in his lap was doing something to finally cover up his cock.

“Oh, they’re in the groove now!” shouted Faye. “Seven! Eight! Nearly there!”

Jimmy had little doubt how this game was going to end. Even after the squealing, delighted flan-flingers reached the victory score, they still had a cache of ammunition left.

“You did it! But c’mon girls, waste not want not!”

The cart’s last few yards of travel passed in a hail of creamy obliteration, Jimmy lost in a haze of overwhelmed arousal. Naughty Brandy even chucked a couple more cold splatters right into his lap, just for good measure. The crowd howled and hooted.

Finally, the cart clunked to a stop, and a cheesy trumpet-fanfare announced the end of the game. Immediately, the spring-loaded platter beneath the giant pie hurled itself upwards and forwards in a vicious, snapping arc, then came to a dead stop, releasing its sticky-sweet contents.

The hail of gungey cream splattered against Jimmy’s body and the walls of the cart with a mighty, thudding squelch. He bucked in his seat, shocked and winded. The layer of glop coating him suddenly felt twice as thick and heavy. He felt his legs shiver in meek submission as he submissively swallowed the sugary goo in his mouth.

“Congratulations, flan-flingers! That’s a convincing win - you did a fabulous job. How do you feel?”

Both girls were still feeling giddy and impish. “That was fun!” trilled Brandy, still snickering at the unfortunate, globby and oozing figure of Jimmy in the cart. Dionne concurred enthusiastically.

“Well, perhaps you’ll enjoy this too - a little extra treat.”

Faye raised her hands, and revealed that she’d been holding two small clickers, simple old-school counting devices. “Let’s see who got the most pies on target.”

A flash of doubt shone in Brandy’s eyes as Faye read the counters. “Dionne - you managed a whopping nine - well done! And Brandy - ah, so close! Eight for you, a very good effort. However, I’ve got a little prize for you, Dionne…”

The host reached down to open the lower door on a nearby wooden sideboard. From within, she lifted out a large yellow bucket, hefting it by its handle. She stepped over to Dionne, and proffered it to her. Looking down at its contents, Dionne giggled approvingly. “Yay!”

“I think you know what to do with that.”

“Certainly do.”

Jimmy’s eyes were too plastered to see anything clearly, which only made the reveal of this “prize” more nerve-racking. He could vaguely register Dionne walking towards his cart - no, walking behind his cart. He could picture her perfectly though - the elegant, refined tall woman towering over the helpless stooge.

The lithe beauty stood in position, raising up the bucket slowly, milking the crowd’s excited cooing. She leaned forward a little, and whispered into Jimmy’s ear.

“Did you enjoy watching me get pied into oblivion when I was sat there?”

No point in lying. “Yes… I loved it”

“Oh, you naughty boy!”

To a lusty cheer, she began to pour out its contents of thick, bright pink slime, right over Jimmy’s head. When the thick slop hit his hair, he realised exactly what this was.

A crowning glory to go along with my pies.

He felt the slippery liquid goo form a dome over his hair, and start to ooze down his shoulders, partially sluicing away the thick mounds of creamy glop - far from entirely, though. Even once the bucket was fully emptied, he remained a lumpy, smothered pie-monster, just with a lurid and humiliating topping.

Faye turned to the audience, and wrapped up the game. “Give it up for your wonderful tossers, Dionne and Brandy!” The two clean and satisfied hotties sauntered offstage, waving.

“And please keep it going - let’s cheer our sloppy stud towards his next destination!”

Once again, the track underneath the cart cranked its chains into life, and Jimmy’s ordeal continued.

VII: Cardio

Even after blinking away as much pie and gunge as he could, Jimmy could still barely make out anything. After twenty seconds or so, he found himself stationary again, nearer to the front of the stage this time, looking out into the appreciative audience.

“Here’s another one of your faves, Jimmy - Mei Ling’s Job Interview. Watched nine times.”

Jimmy could recall the clip, of course. Alexa was ostensibly hiring for a personal trainer, and the sporty, spunky Mei Ling was tested with a series of gym-themed messy challenges to land the role. In fact, from a TV somewhere nearby, he could hear a recap of the scene, the sounds of gooey splats and Mei Ling’s frustrated squeals.

“Uhh, Faye?”

That wasn’t from the TV. Mei Ling’s voice was coming from right behind him.

“Yes?”

“I don’t think he can see the clip. What with all the pie in his face.”

“Oh. Good point.”

“Should I?”

“Yes, good idea.”

There was a clunk, and Jimmy felt a rainfall shower of warm water against his crown. The coating of gunge and glop over his head and torso began to wash steadily away, a rather more gentle cleansing than the previous volley of buckets. Obviously it was a tactical decision from Faye, once again making him a clean target for mess. But it was a little oasis of relief from the sticky envelopment, so he tried to appreciate it.

Once the shower had sluiced most of the gunk away, there was further good news. Mei Ling slipped a key into his handcuffs, and his wrists were finally released from behind his back. Jimmy rolled his shoulders, working a little tension out of his muscles, and wiping his wet face and hair. He was again dried by two towel-toting stagehands, thoroughly rubbing him down. The warm, well-circulated studio air helped, too.

Mei Ling stepped around in front of the cart. Her thick, toned legs amply filled black yoga pants, and she wore a tight baby-blue tank top over a sports bra, dark hair tied into a neat ponytail. She looked ready for a workout, sporting well-worn athletic trainers, too. Though Jimmy suspected she wouldn’t be the one competing today.

“Hi Jimmy! Pleased to meet you, how are you doing?” She asked it with a friendly confidence, hips cocked, looking very in control. It was rather a contrast with what Jimmy could see on the video screen behind her. That version of Mei Ling was squealing, spluttering and helpless - she was strapped to a bench flat on her back, and tasked to pull weighted handles, with every rep releasing a large wet pie onto her face from a generously splattery height.

“Er… not, not too bad. Nice to meet you too.” Jimmy tried to be polite, and keep his eyes on the flesh-and-blood Mei Ling, though it was difficult when the video version was undergoing such delicious slapstick degradation.

To take his mind elsewhere, he scanned the room a little bit. Apart from the waterfall showerhead that his cart had parked underneath, the rest of the set behind him looked roughly like the same “home gym” that had appeared in the video. Though he suspected the various machines may have been swapped out, or deviously modified, to surprise him.

“You like the gym, Jim? Lemme tell you, ever since I got the job as GungeWorld’s PT, I’ve been rushed off my feet! These guys and gals are really keen on their fitness. And they seem to particularly enjoy our… innovative equipment.”

She raised an eyebrow at the crowd, a few of whom had already been put through their paces in a slimy workout.

“So I’m looking for an assistant. You seem like a strapping young guy - think you’ve got what it takes?”

Probably not…

“Ha - sure!” he replied, trying to seem positive rather than pessimistic. “I could do with a side-hustle.”

“That’s the spirit!” smiled Mei Ling. “But you might want to wear something a bit more loose-fitting. Here, how about this?”

A Stagehand had quietly handed her a folded garment, which Mei Ling unfurled. She held up the sleeveless tank top, baggy and black, by its shoulder straps.

The words GUNK THIS HUNK were daubed in drippy green letters. Jimmy winced, much to everyone’s enjoyment. At least I’m getting called hunk.

With Mei Ling’s encouragement, he peeled off the clingy PIES GO HERE t-shirt, and donned his new top. It was at least more suitable for exercise.

“Oh, and a sweatband should help,” said Mei Ling, after stepping behind him. He tried to resist getting excited as he felt her fingers in his hair, gently slotting the fluffy band down around his brow. He knew it would likely be soaking up more than sweat.

Once the headband was in place, there was an extra ripple of laughter, as the girls in the crowd saw the word HIMBO plastered across the boy’s forehead. Jimmy, with no way to see it himself, would just have to wait until he watched the video back.

“Now come on, let’s start your interview!”

She invited him up out of the wet, splattered cart with an outraised hand, not getting too close. The audience cheered as he slowly limbered himself up, and Mei Ling led him towards his first test - a clearly altered cross-trainer.

“The cross-trainer! Just hop on up there.”

Jimmy planted himself into the footholds of the machine, and reached to grasp the hand-poles. He tried to avoid glancing upwards, at the large ominous black container that was, rather inevitably, perched above the device. It didn’t help though - all Jimmy could think about was that he was once again under a gunge tank, but this time he knew the odds were stacked against him.

Jimmy focused on the LED screen, which was already lit up with some kind of brightly-coloured graphic.

“This is a sprint test,” explained Mei Ling. She sounded businesslike, with just the faintest tone of teasing in her voice. “Twenty seconds - I want you to go all out! Try and break the target!”

The target sounded suitably ill-defined, but Jimmy resolved to give it his best anyway. Why not, after all? It might take his mind off other things, for a short while at least.

“Feeling good and ready, Jimmy?”

He shook out his shoulders and took a deep breath. “Not at all. But that hasn’t stopped me yet.”

“Atta boy,” she smirked. “No-one’s ever entirely prepared for what GungeWorld will throw at them.”

“So I’m learning.”

“Alrighty then. Enough chit-chat! Your first test begins in three! Two! One! Go!”

As soon as he started to thrust his arms and legs back and forth, Jimmy felt a slow, steady ooze of something gooey against his hair, soaking into the headband. Oh so this one isn’t even trying to be fair?

“Oh damn. I forgot this machine is a bit leaky. Must get that fixed. Keep at it!”

The slimy drizzle wasn’t too much of a disturbance, so he kept on pumping, working up a rhythm. As his head bobbed from side to side though, it did manage to work its way across both sides of his head. The visuals on the screen started to make sense - there was a diagonal slope that represented his speed target, and a little dot that climbed alongside it. It flickered green-red-green as it danced over and under the line. I’m just about matching it, thought Jimmy, but this is gonna be close.

He resolved to push harder, spurred on by the whoops and claps from the audience. The dot hovered above the line, success in sight. He was well over halfway through the time.

“You can do it!” cheered Mei Ling. But then disaster struck.

The thin stream of translucent, slightly watery green gunge had gradually oozed over more and more of Jimmy’s body as he rocked back and forth. And one particular stream had found its way into his left foothold. The sudden slippery feeling beneath his foot made him jerk in alarm, completely losing his rhythm.

“Damn it!”

“Oh, right at the last…” sympathised Mei Ling. But she was interrupted by an immediate loud clunk, in duet with a rude, honking buzzer noise.

The leaky black box had opened at the bottom like a trapdoor, and a large quantity of slippery green slime gushed down over the defeated contestant. “Nyah!”

Though they’d been cheering him on, the crowd didn’t hesitate to loudly cheer the results of his failure. The gunge splashed wantonly over Jimmy’s head and shoulders, soaking his bare arms and flimsy top. It was also slathered all over the machine - everything was waterproof and wipe-clean, of course, but it still looked comical.

The poor lad had to accept Mei Ling’s hand down from the machine, lest he take a proper spill on the way. Jimmy safely touched down onto the soft, grippy mat of the floor, dripping and gooey. As the audience clapped and laughed at him, he took in some recuperating breaths, wiped his face clean and accepted Mei Ling’s commiserations.

“Maybe that one’s my fault - I suppose the leak didn’t help. You did well though, keep that energy, yeah? Another test - let’s do some splat-ups!”

No rest for the wicked. Not far away, there was a low padded bar lodged in the floor - Mei Ling encouraged him to lie down and slide his feet beneath it. There was also a small trestle table of thick cream pies just to the side. Mei Ling gestured towards the creamy arsenal, mugging for the camera and explaining the obvious, just to make Jimmy squirm a little bit more.

“Splat-ups: they’re like sit-ups, but with added splat! Every time you complete a sit-up, Jimmy, I’ll reward your efforts by slapping a big mushy pie in your naughty little face. Won’t that be fun?”

“Interesting use of the word reward,” sighed Jimmy from down below. Mei Ling happily ignored his objection.

“Now, I don’t wanna see any wussy little crunches, Jimmy. It’s all the way up, dude! Earn that tasty pie! We’re gonna aim for ten reps - sound good?”

Mei Ling was already armed with a first pie, held low in her hand. The way she stood, looming confidently over Jimmy, gave him a real frisson. He nodded his assent.

“And don’t forget good form - arms crossed over your chest.”

You could call that good form, thought Jimmy, or you could call it leaving your face completely unprotected from repeated flannings. Either way, there was no getting around it.

“Get to it!”

Jimmy knew his regular workouts would stand him in good stead for this, even though he didn’t tend to bother with sit-ups. He engaged his core, tensed his legs, and pushed upwards. The first one was easy, the tantalising sight of a smiling Mei Ling looking down at him while holding a pie swiftly coming into view. And it was celebrated with a firm custard pieing.

“Hmplf!”

The forward momentum of Jimmy’s face combined perfectly with the sharp, short-range thrust of Mei Ling’s wrist. It produced a loud, splattery burst of white and yellow gunk around the boy’s head.

Jimmy shivered at the sticky impact and wave of laughter, but he had a job to do. He sank efficiently back to the floor, snorting a little cream from his nostrils, and hoisted himself up again. With, inevitably, the same messy result.

Another rep. Splat. Another. Splat. Each time he sat up, Jimmy got a brief view of the sexy Mei Ling before getting a swift creamy punishment for whatever thought popped into his head.

The task was trickier than it initially appeared. Every squishy impact into Jimmy’s face disrupted his breathing and tightened his chest, and the cool sticky cream piling up onto his chest was surprisingly heavy. By the sixth rep, he felt his muscles yawning.

“C’mon! Don’t slow down now!”

He dragged himself through another sit-up, and another gleeful pieing from his sporty tormentor. But the next one just wasn’t happening. He toiled to get his back diagonal, but eventually had to admit defeat, sinking back down, breathless and embarrassed.

“Really? You’re giving up that easily?”

Jimmy spluttered out some cream, while the crowd booed theatrically. “It’s… it’s harder than it looks!”

Mei Ling considered trying to find a joke about Jimmy’s crotch in response, but nothing came to mind. Instead, she deftly picked up the remaining pies, and lobbed them calmly down onto Jimmy’s exhausted face, one after the other, to much cheering.

“Glmph! Bluh! Plah!”

He unclasped his arms and shook them off, then pawed thick white slop away from his face.

“I’ve gotta say buddy, this interview isn’t going great so far. But hey, maybe you can salvage it. Two more tests…”

VIII: Resistance

Mei Ling helped him up off the floor. He stood unsteadily, great smears of cream around his face, chest and shoulders. With no other option, he followed her to the next station: a rowing machine, of sorts. The seat of this device sat at one end of a short metal rail. Another rail ran overhead, with a large black cylinder attached to it, at the same end as the seat. Jimmy took his place, and nervously leaned forwards to grab the handle.

“This one’s cool,” said Mei Ling. “Not many rowing machines actually move, eh? All you’ve gotta do is outrun the Chaser. It’ll start ten seconds after you do.”

When she said Chaser, her eyes flicked up towards the cylindrical tank, making her meaning crystal clear. She counted him down, the crowd got rowdy again, and Jimmy was off.

He could feel his first heave of the handle immediately pushing the device backwards, though only slowly - there was some resistance built into the machine. As he continued his strokes, it was hard to avert his glare from the ominous overhead tank.

Ten seconds passed, and a whistle sounded. Three steady streams of thick, dark-green gunge, each about six inches wide, emerged from the tank’s base, splashing wetly onto the rail below. And they began to draw slowly towards Jimmy’s retreating seat.

He hadn’t realised the slime would start flowing before it had even reached him, and his little yelp of surprise set the audience giggling. The sight and the gooey noise only made his heart beat faster. He kept hauling away, making strong, deep strokes. But he could tell that the Chaser was definitely making ground on him.

Before too long, the gungey pour was just ahead of his bare feet in the footrest, and no matter how hard he rowed, it was still inexorably approaching.

“This is impossible!” he gasped.

“Well that’s not a very positive mindset, is it?”

When the lukewarm slop began to slather his feet, he shuddered in embarrassment. Worse, he had to thrust his arms forward into the streams just to get a decent stroke in. Even if escaping seemed far too difficult, he at least wanted off this machine as fast as possible.

Things only got messier from there. The row of slimy streams teased steadily up his legs as they rose and fell - the central one falling between them, but the outer ones doing a very thorough job of gooping up his skin and leg-hair. When he lunged forwards, his head and shoulders now took a gungey splashing each time. There was something particularly humiliating about moving his own head under the gunge each time.

Jimmy braced himself for the moment he knew was coming - when the central gunge-stream would pour directly over his straining, frustrated cock. His face felt hot.

When it finally hit, the silky-smooth slime giving an intimate massage to his cotton-clad bulge, he let out a breathy groan. The slime soaked into the fabric, making it cling tighter. Mei Ling smiled devilishly at his flustered reaction, and the crowd made saucy noises.

Trying to focus, Jimmy kept lunging and pulling, dragging his seat backwards. The goo-streams started to splatter over his chest on the back-lean, making the whole spectacle even more slapdash and comical.

Then he heard a thud, and felt his machine stop dead beneath him. After that, the cheery noise of a ringing bell.

“You did it! You beat the Chaser!”

Only problem was, the tank was still pouring. It clunked into place at its own finish line - right above Jimmy, naturally. Mucky green slop cascaded over his hair and bare shoulders as he tried to clear his mouth.

This does not feel like winning.

“Uh, gruh, great - puah - can you uhh, turn - bleh - turn it off?”

Mei Ling shrugged. “Ehhh… it’s much easier to clean if you let it empty out first. Shouldn’t take long.”

Jimmy sighed defeatedly, his shoulders sinking, and endured several more seconds of the slimy shower. It took the gloss off his achievement a little, though there was some encouraging applause amid the audience’s laughter. Finally, the streams dwindled away. He wiped his face and looked down at the shiny slick all over his torso and legs. A wince, a little flap of the arms.

“Good stuff that time!” enthused his interviewer. “You might be cut out for this after all. Just gotta really impress in the final test!” She was already reaching down to help him up. Wearily, he accepted the invitation, dragging his heavy, dripping form to its feet.

Mei Ling led him towards the last piece of equipment. It was plainly a treadmill, though it was at one end of a rectangular raised platform at the back of the room, half a dozen steps leading up to it. Once he’d climbed a few of them, he realised why.

Right next to the treadmill’s rear edge, a pit was sunk into the platform. Square and about six feet across, it was piled high with a fluffy but thick-looking yellow foam. The sides of it, mercifully, looked padded. The game setup could hardly be clearer.

Once he’d swallowed down his fear of an imminent goopy plunge, Jimmy quietly got himself situated on the inactive machine. Its belt seemed pretty grippy underfoot, even as gunge oozed down over his bare feet onto it. A carefully-chosen material, no doubt, thought Jimmy. It’d be no fun if it was totally hopeless.

The rules were as simple as he’d expected. Run for one minute, with the speed increasing every ten seconds. “A real sprint finish,” enthused Mei Ling. Without much further ado, Jimmy indicated he was ready, and the machine started up with a loud beep.

It was an easy beginning, the belt spooling steadily up to walking pace. Jimmy was able to put one foot in front of the other, and his gungey coating wasn’t so distracting as to make it difficult. Another beep soon sounded, and now it required a more urgent strut. Still OK, his feet keeping purchase and Mei Ling clapping encouragement.

Speed three was when he had to start jogging in earnest, though only at warm-up pace. It did feel more treacherous though, and the crowd were starting to whoop in excitement. “Halfway there! Up we go again!”

He had a quick flash of reminiscence. A decade ago, the last day of a storm-blighted Reading Festival. About half of his friend group - including the girl he really fancied - had decided to say “fuck it” and surrender to the mud. Laughing, they rolled around in it, wrestled, chased after each other - all the flirtatious energy of young adulthood. Jimmy just couldn’t bring himself to join them. And though he got a very enjoyable muddy hug from his crush, she spent that night in someone else’s tent.

How things change, he thought, as the machine cranked up to speed five. He felt a tinge of pride in his muscles, at how he’d finally mustered the courage to dive in headfirst, as it were. Though that tinge of pride was still very much overshadowed by the yawning fear of the deep, squidgy mass waiting ominously behind and below.

Mei Ling was genuinely excited now, as were the audience, a cacophony of whooping as Jimmy sprinted, feet thumping down hard, green droplets bursting into the air with every stride. One final beep - just ten seconds left, maximum speed.

Jimmy grimaced, and gave it his all. His technique was good, his mind was focused.

But he was just a fraction too slow. Right after the beep, he could see the front of the machine pulling agonisingly away from him. Mei Ling let out a frustrated “aaagh!” as she watched him inch towards the rear of the belt.

His left foot hit the edge instead of the flat, and that was it. All balance and momentum disappeared as he tumbled, somehow forwards and backwards at the same time. He reacted, breaking the fall with his forearms - but as soon as they touched the belt, they only helped to launch him off it.

Jimmy felt his back thump against the padded rear wall of the pit. Then he slumped down, right into the yellow pie-glop, ending up on his bum, totally submerged, breathless.

Though the gunk was fluffy and slightly airy, rather than full-on liquid gunge, the feeling of his first ever dunking was still totally overwhelming. Panic instincts kicked in, and he scrabbled and flailed his way upwards, creating a hilariously slapstick sight for the audience. Finally, he managed to stand, his head and shoulders poking out of the yellow swamp. He wiped his face, and panted for breath.

The back wall of the gym had a bank of lockers, a nice bit of set-dressing. One of them smartly opened its door, and out of it gushed a cheerful arc of purple slime.

Jimmy yelped as he felt it splatter onto his head, and his arms spasmed upwards in shock. But before he could even try and protect himself, the stream had stopped. Just a little playful extra for the viewers.

“Oh, Jimmy. We were rooting for you, we really were.”

He didn’t have the composure to banter back with Mei Ling just yet. He wiped the combination of gunge and gloop from his face and hair, and tried to let his heart rate subside a little. She gave him a moment of grace, giggling along with the audience.

“That’s the end of the interview, sweetie. I think we should probably clean you off - then maybe we can talk through how it went?”

Jimmy finally looked up at the smiling girl, looming over him from the side of the pit. She was offering a hand. He took a deep breath, and stepped through the sticky mass to the edge.

“Sure, sure. Thank you.”

It was a good thing Mei Ling had muscles, because Jimmy felt rather weak right now. She hauled him right up and out of there. He looked down at his body. Utterly, ludicrously comical, slathered in a huge layer of bright yellow sludge. Like some amateur claymation chicken.

He stood there panting, cheeks burning red.

“My word, Jimmy. You’re looking ever so hot and bothered.”

He noticed that a Stagehand was approaching, toting a bucket. He tensed, his mind flashing back to a certain moment in Mei Ling’s ‘interview’ scene. He knew exactly what was about to happen.

Mei Ling took the bucket by its handle, and Jimmy saw a smooth baby-blue liquid sloshing about inside. “Fortunately,” she continued, “Alexa showed me this quite marvellous cooling lotion. Really helps with muscle soreness. Especially around the, uh… lower body.”

She glanced meaningfully towards his crotch, knowing that he understood what he had to do now. “If you could just…?”

Jimmy’s toes curled in anticipation. Reluctantly, he reached towards his midriff, and slowly pulled the front of his shorts and boxers forward. The audience stifled scandalised titters.

Mei Ling had a hand under the bucket now. Ready to pour, she fixed Jimmy with a filthy smirk.

“Here you go.”

When he felt the fridge-cold slime slosh into his underpants, Jimmy’s knees shuddered, and he let out an embarrassingly high-pitched yelp, followed by pinched, breathy groans. “Fff-hhh, aaa-aaah, cuhhh…” It was hard to keep the waistbands pulled forward, and humiliating that she was making him do so.

The icy slop continued to slosh, filthily, against his twitching cockshaft. It was beginning to seep out of his knickers and down his quaking legs. The audience were no longer stifling their laughter, openly and loudly enjoying the poor boy’s torment.

Not as much as Mei Ling was, though. She carefully angled the bucket to keep the flow steady - enough to feel heavy and humiliating, but not so fast that it would empty too soon. Jimmy found himself drawn to her smouldering gaze. Though she was silent, he could hear her message loud and clear.

You liked it when it was my turn, didn’t you? Getting my knickers filled, getting my pussy all smothered in freezing gunge. Well - how do you like it now?

Though plenty of gunk was escaping down his thighs, his boxers were still tight enough to fill up nicely. His dick and balls ached as they swam in cold, silky slime. He grimaced, grinding his teeth.

Once the bucket was finally empty, Mei Ling shook a few last drops from its lip. Suddenly, her devilish glare was gone, her previous breezy manner replacing it. “There! Doesn’t that feel nice.”

Jimmy pulled his underwear and shorts closed again at the top. The movement sent another surge of icy goo squidging down his legs. Shuddering, he played along. “Oh yes - hngh… th-th-thank you…”

He followed Mei Ling back to the cart, as steadily as he could, leaving a trail of fluffy yellow glop and wet blue slime behind him. The cart was still positioned underneath that simple showerhead. He took his seat, hoping desperately for no cruel surprises, at least not right now.

Mei Ling turned the water on, and he sighed in relief. Still warm, nice and steady pressure. Diluted slop flowed down his body as he slowly returned to human form. It oozed out of the cart’s open front, into a wide drain on the studio floor. Jimmy tried to be subtle as he gently pressed his lap with his palms, helping the “lotion” to flow out of his knickers.

Once he was just about clean again, the water shut off, and Mei Ling let her helpers dry him with towels, slipping off that easter-egg headband as they did so. Jimmy looked up at her from his seat. Her eyes were kind, but he knew what her assessment was going to be.

“Thank you so much for coming in today, Jimmy. You really threw yourself into it.”

“Could certainly say that.”

“I was impressed by your attitude. Very professional, even in some trying circumstances.”

“I’m nothing if not keen.”

“And you did great on the third test. But ultimately, the others didn’t go so well. I’m afraid we won’t be able to offer you the position.”

Jimmy chuckled again. “Ah well. Thank you for the opportunity.”

“I guess we’ll have to look elsewhere to fill the role. And speaking of filling…”

The suspicious emphasis made him tense up. Oh hell - is more gunk about to go in my underwear? But nothing happened straight away. Mei Ling continued.

“...I believe you’ll be visiting our friend Sally next. And she did request another change of clothing before you arrive.”

Here we go then. He wondered what teasing, raunchy slogan they’d kit him out in this time. A Stagehand walked up, holding a neatly folded pile of colourful fabric.

Mei Ling took the top garment, and handed it to him. He winced to see it was a lurid lime-green - and worryingly small, too. It looked like it could be very snug. Lycra, perhaps.

“The design goes on the front, FYI.”

Because of the way Jimmy unfolded it, the audience were first to see what was on it. There was a sudden burst of giggles. Jimmy flipped it around.

There was no slogan. Instead, there was a large emoji of a clown-face, right in the middle of the chest. Guaranteed to make him look a right berk.

Sighing, he discarded the running vest, and began trying to don this garment, which was indeed a tight lycra number. Very tight, in fact, and he made some frustrated noises as he struggled into it. The neck wasn’t too bad, but the sleeves and the lower hem had some seriously strong elastic, fiercely gripping his belly and his upper arms. It didn’t hurt, but nor was it anything close to comfortable.

“And these too.”

Mei Ling handed over the shorts - these were bright, Barbie pink. Jimmy’s heart fell when he saw what was printed on the front. Another emoji - the aubergine. The giggles were even louder.

He tugged down his black cotton shorts, wincing at the wolf-whistles that greeted the sight of his once-white, now-stained underwear. He stepped into the new shorts, dragging the tightly-squeezing leg bands over his thighs. Again, it was a struggle, and he had to fully stand to wrangle them on. When he sat back down, he stole a glance at his lap, and grimaced at the sight of his own stiff vegetable bulging against the cartoon version.

Faye had wandered over to stand beside Mei Ling now, resting a hand on her shoulder chummily. They both smirked down at him.

“Never mind, Jimmy,” said Faye. “But every job interview is valuable experience, right?”

He laughed. “Hope I never have another interview as humiliating as that.”

“Hah! Never fear, there’s plenty more humiliation left today. Allons-y!”

She waved an arm, and the cart turned. As the audience cheered, Jimmy groaned and instinctively put his hands to his head like he’d watched so many gungees do when they couldn’t handle the thought of what was to come.

How much worse was this going to get?

To Be Continued…

Hello my magnificent mudlarks,

Just to let you know, I’ve added four new chapters to my messy & explicit Street Fighter fanfic Exposé with Rainbow Mika, over on AO3.

Read the new chapters here, or catch up from the beginning here!

I’m determined to finish this story in 2026 and I think that’s realistic. I’m also enjoying releasing it a chunk at a time - it stops me going back and over-editing. It’ll be what it’ll be. I think we’re about halfway through now.

I’ve got more exciting writing to release alongside it, too - should be lots of horny gungey stuff coming out this year. Whoo!

Thank you to all my regular supporters and commission collaborators - your support has really helped me get back on the horse after a bit of an enforced hiatus.

And if you’re not a supporter but you’ve enjoyed a few of the stories, perhaps you’d consider a small one-off tip. Helping you cum’s gotta be worth a fiver, right? ; )

Leave a tip

See you soon, stay messy!

Daisy xx

Happy New Year, my dearest cakepops!

Grudge Match #1 is a story I like very much, and I was glad it got a good reception. So here’s a continuation of that fun messy rivalry - and it ain’t over yet! I hope you enjoy.

Before I started this blog, I wrote about five instalments in this series - but most of them were rushed, and wouldn’t pass my publishing test these days. This story combines the characters, who I like, with the setup of another abortive story, which I also liked.

As you may guess from the title, this story involves a card game. Much like Mika and Rose’s faceoff, all the cards were picked at random from a real deck. I didn’t know where it was going, but it was sure fun finding out!

Hope you are all thriving and/or surviving in this strange world. Fuck ICE and Free Palestine.

Daisy xxx

Prologue

“How ya feeling?”

“Nervous. Surprisingly so. I thought it’d be less scary the second time, if I’m honest.”

“‘Fraid not, honey. I still get the butterflies every time.”

Aoife rolled her shoulders, trying to calm the nerves. “Kind of excited too, though.”

“That’s the spirit. Hey, break a leg out there.”

“You too.”

She leaned over to Eve, and they shared a friendly good-luck hug.

“Shall we get into character?”

“I guess so.”

Aoife put on a wide smile, and added some sickly-sweetness into her voice. “Hope you’re ready to get totally fucking splatted, darling?”

Eve grinned back. “Yeah right. Alexa’s gonna dunk your limey ass like it’s the Boston Tea Party.”

“Not if the game actually requires any brains, you yankee moron.”

“It’s amazing how you think those librarian glasses actually make you smart.”

“Twat.”

“Skank.”

They maintained unblinking eye contact - for all of about three seconds, before both collapsing into giggles. From the nearby stage, they heard their cue.

“...so please put your hands together for our raunchy, ravenous rivals: Aoife and Eve!”

Two months earlier

The aftermath of Aoife’s first-ever messy humiliation was a bit of a blur. A team of sympathetic Stagehands helped extricate her aching, quaking limbs from the sweet and sticky swamp, then swaddled her near-naked form in a plush robe, and escorted her to the showers.

After a confusing but intense wank, sitting on the cubicle floor still smeared in yellow-pink goo, she finally turned on the shower, and started to drag herself slowly back towards normality.

Soon after, dried and clothed and mostly calmed, she was nudging the door into the GungeWorld green room, where after-show celebratory drinks were held. She had her mind set on a singular mission: locate Eve, the hot, smug bitch who had got her dunked, and…

And what? She thought to herself. Slap her? Pull her hair? Don’t be stupid, Aoife. She was only playing the game, and you signed up in the first place, you big dafty.

Any hopes of sneaking in quietly to surprise her nemesis were immediately dashed, anyway. As soon as she was noticed, a bawdy and appreciative “whee-eey!” filled the room. She blushed beet-red, smiling politely, as the other partygoers gave her pats on the back and congratulations for surviving her debut GungeWorld appearance.

In fact, it was Eve who found her first - bounding over and greeting her with an enormous, smiley hug.

“Heyyy, sweetie, c’mere! You were amaaa-zing! That was so much fun. Sorry you got the worst of it, but your reactions were just priceless…”

It was completely disarming. Within ten minutes, they were nestled opposite each other in a booth, double G&Ts in hand, gabbing and giggling like old friends.

Aoife quizzed the brassy, sassy American about her GungeWorld experiences, listening wide-eyed and butterfly-tummied as Eve recounted a litany. The most gunge she’d ever been covered in, the most pies she’d ever been hit with. The sneaky tricks and gross gungings that had left her cursing Alexa’s name. Her first on-camera orgasm. Her best on-camera orgasm. Her favourite boys and girls among the cast to have messy fun with.

Halfway through the evening, Alexa herself stopped by their table, obviously delighted to see the two getting on so famously. And when she suggested they expand tonight’s showdown into a longer series, Aoife was full of enough Dutch courage to agree in principle. The boss simply smiled.

“Wonderful. Do keep an eye on your email - I’ll send you something to sign…”

The next morning, head fuzzy and mouth dry, Aoife wondered if she might have made a mistake. That was until she checked her WhatsApp, and saw the selfie-camera video Eve had taken last night, in the back of her homeward taxi.

“Aoife. Eeee-faaah. Fuck, such a preddy name, I’m like… like jealous. An’ yer so dam nice. A preddy, nice laydee. Wha wuz I… oh yeah! Eve-and-Aoife! Play-ing-games! We’re gonna make a fuck’n cool series, with a ton o’ messy… a lotta messy. An’ you betcher - I’mma fuggin’ kill your ass, bitch! I’mma win, win win. And you’re gonna get sliii-meee… and nekkid, hehehe… gonna be sooo fun. Okay luvya. Oh’n we should get lunch nex’ week! Okay bye-”

Aoife left a cry-laughing reaction, rolled over, and went back to sleep.

I: On Deck

The two perky hotties strolled out onto the set, waving and smiling for the excited GungeWorld audience, and each greeting their host Alexa with a cheek-kiss. She gently directed them to their assigned places: two high stools in the middle of the studio floor. Neither of them could help scanning their eyes over the rest of the set, however.

The back wall of the studio was made up of five tall, flat panels, arranged in an arc. Each was pastel-coloured, and high up on each wall was a symbol, matching the hue of the wall but more intense, brightly lit from within.

On one side, a pink wall with a heart-shape, and a yellow wall bearing a diamond. Opposite them, a purple wall and a blue one, adorned with a spade and a club respectively. And high up on the centre panel, a glowing green silhouette of a Joker’s head, detailed with the classic jingle-bell hat and floppy collar.

The symbols gave a fairly obvious indication of the theme of the game. And below the symbols, there was a very obvious indication of the stakes. Each wall-panel apart from the central one contained four long, recessed shelves. The upper three shelves, in each case, were neatly stocked with large cream pies, their foamy topping matching the colour of the wall. And the lowest shelves held rows of large plastic buckets, again colour co-ordinated.

Aoife wasn’t able to count how many pies or buckets there were, at a glance. But it was more than enough to raise her heart-rate by a dozen BPM or so. She breathed deeply as she perched on her stool, crossing her bare legs demurely, but already squirming slightly.

Her clothes were simple but chic: a loose long-sleeved green top, and a casual cream skirt. There had been no special instructions from Alexa before the game, outfit-wise, apart from the stipulation to wear four items - no more and no less. Even though it was her second time on the show, Aoife knew well enough what that meant.

The round, owlish glasses on her face were an allowable exception - they gave her a bookish, geeky charm, as well as the handy benefit of actually enabling her to read. A little fidgety, she swept the strands of her simple blonde bob back behind her ears.

Over on the other side, Eve sat in a more relaxed stance, hands in her lap and bare, pale feet resting on the stool’s lower ring. Her getup was a little more casual, too. A fitted t-shirt with a pink and white swirl pattern, and plain blue jeans. Her dark brown hair was longer than Aoife’s, falling in waves over her shoulders, fastened with clips higher up to give it some shape.

Both of them were, as always, underdressed in comparison to their host, wearing her trademark pillarbox-red ringmaster outfit. Aoife silently envied those long, black, fuck-me boots. Alexa quietened the crowd’s applause, and began to set the scene.

“Previously on GungeWorld! The last time we had these two lovely ladies in the studio, they were bluffing for their lives in a game called Psych-Out. After a back-and-forth messy battle, it was Eve who prevailed, and Aoife who met a very sticky end!”

Alexa gave a smirking glance back over her shoulder at the blonde. “Remember that, Aoife?”

“Hard to forget,” she replied, coolly. “Was my first time on the show, as well.”

“But not the last, thankfully! Because while she was sitting there looking very silly in a huge pit of glurgey gloop, Aoife swore revenge on her opponent. And we were only too happy to provide her the opportunity. In fact, we thought we’d make it a series! Which I suppose makes this Episode 2 of Grudge Match!”

Some whoops from the crowd, already on board with the concept. Alexa turned towards the American brunette.

“Eve! After that Psych-Out win, you’re one-nil up in the series.”

“For now. Two-nil pretty soon,” replied Eve with a smirk.

“Ooh - fighting words! And it’s a five-game series, so that’d be a pretty handy lead.”

“Gonna be a five-oh sweep, baby. Gonna win all the prizes, and this loser’s gonna get all the gunge.” She pointed at the opposite stool, where Aoife sat frowning and poking her tongue out.

“What do you have to say to that, Aoife? Think you can draw the series level?”

“Nobody ever accused Eve of lacking self-confidence, did they?” she laughed. “Pride comes before a plunge, that’s all I’ll say.”

“Aaah,” sighed Alexa, turning to face the audience again. “I do love a good squabble. I think we’d better let them at each other! Time, then, to explain the game. It’s called Pie Your Cards Right.”

As a jaunty, music-hall sting played over the PA, three significant pieces of equipment were wheeled out from backstage by a small team of jumpsuited Stagehands, who found their marks on the right side of the set and locked the wheels in place. There was a large video screen, its background a plush red velvet texture, and the contestants’ names in gold letters above score counters, both set to £0. Next to the screen stood two grids of face-down, oversized playing cards on a tall frame. Each grid was arranged into four horizontal rows of six.

“We’ve taken a deck of cards - two Jokers included - shuffled them, and dealt them out onto these boards, one for each player. Each of our contestants will take turns, aiming to make their way from the start of a row to the end, by guessing higher or lower. A classic game we all know! But obviously, here at GungeWorld, we play it with a twist.”

Murmurs of excitement began to build in the crowd.

“Our girls will begin each row in Prize Mode. And so long as they keep guessing correctly, they’ll stay there. Every card turned over will reward them with cold hard cash in their prize pot. Twos to Tens are worth £2 to £10 - makes sense, no? Jacks are worth £20, Queens £30, Kings £40, and Aces £50.”

Pretty decent money, thought Aoife. And surely I’ve got to get a few right, just by the laws of chance.

“Finding a Joker will earn you a cool £100. Reaching the end of a row will net £200. And whoever’s built the biggest cash pot by the end of the game will be tonight’s winner - netting a fabulously generous £500 bonus!”

The two contestants both looked genuinely quite impressed, joining in the audience’s applause.

“However.”

There it was - the turn. Time to learn how Alexa was going to mess them up.

“A wrong guess at any point along the row will… change things. We’ll switch from Prize Mode… to Pies Mode.” Lots of shifty laughter burbled from the crowd. “Firstly, our contestants will have to pay one item of clothing for their incorrect guess. Then, we’ll turn over the remaining cards in the row - and each of them means a messy forfeit.”

She took a moment to swivel and smirk at each player, enjoying their discomfort. A further team of Stagehands emerged from backstage at this point, readying themselves beside the shelves of mess.

“Twos through Tens are worth the corresponding number of pies. A Jack means a bucket of slime. Two buckets for a Queen, three for a King, and four lovely big helpings of gunge if you find an Ace. And then, of course, there’s the risk of a Joker.”

Alexa let that sentence hang in the air.

“Right! I think we should get going, don’t you?”

Her teasing refusal to reveal what a Joker forfeit meant was heartily enjoyed by the audience. Less so by Aoife, who huffed a little. Hopefully I don’t find out.

The host had retreated to the left of the stage, behind a podium. She pulled a silver coin from the pocket of her jacket, and readied to flip. “Call it in the air, Eve?”

“Tails.”

Alexa slapped the coin down on her hand, and revealed it. “Tails it is. Would you rather play first, or put Aoife into bat?”

“I’ll go first, Alexa. Fortune favours the bold.”

Aoife, a smart cookie, tilted her head slightly to hear this. I think she’s made a tactical error there - the more cards you’ve seen, the better your odds. She’d already worked out that there were six spare cards not dealt out, but even so, the final round should be fractionally easier for her.

“Okay. That means you get to pick which board you’d like, Aoife - left or right?”

“Left please, Alexa.”

“Alright then. Eve plays first, on the right board. We begin in Prize Mode. Let’s take a look at that first card.”

The Stagehands had set up some blocky steps at the base of the board - the highest row needed some elevation to reach. The top left card was flipped over - an Eight of Hearts.

Eve noticed that the card had a metallic, golden sheen on it, though the number and symbols were still large and red, nicely visible for the audience. Very Balatro. She also noticed her prize pot counter ticking up to £8, and cooed in surprise.

“That’s right Eve, the first one’s for free! We won’t send you home with nothing. But 8 is a very tricky start. What’s it gonna be - higher or lower?”

Inevitably, as Eve frowned and pondered, the audience began to clamour, shouting out the two simple options as if it even really mattered - this was a 50/50 shot.

“Eh,” began Eve, already looking a little worried. “I’m gonna say… higher.”

“Higher than an Eight. Let’s find out…”

On seeing the Ten of Hearts, Eve let out a huge sigh of relief. “Your first correct guess Eve, and it’s worth a crisp tenner. Onwards we go!”

Eve opted to go lower this time, holding her hands to her face as the card was revealed.

“Dammit!” she cried, and the audience gave a sympathetic “oooh,” when she saw the Jack of Diamonds appear. Her disappointment was immediately intensified by the sound of a minor-key synth riff playing over the PA, and an ominous change of lighting state on the set: dark and moody, save for a bright, wide spotlight over Eve’s chair, and the vivid colours shining from the symbols on the wall behind. It immediately made her heart beat a little faster.

“Oh dear! You didn’t get very far there, Eve. Time for some forfeits - and I’ll need an item of clothing, please.”

After the nervous brunette pulled off her top, she noticed that the Jack on the board now looked different as well. Instead of having a gold sheen like it did a moment ago, it now appeared a deep blue, and it had been defaced by a crude drawing - the outline of a bucket, sketched in splashy neon yellow.

This visual trick had been achieved with the simple addition of UV lighting, installed in the top of each card recess, and some special paint. Alexa had been seriously impressed when Sally showed her the design.

“Starting with a Jack. Remember what that one was, Eve?”

With a sulky frown, Eve nodded that she did. Out of the gloom stepped a smiling Stagehand, who lifted the bright yellow bucket over Eve’s head, and began to pour.

“Yeuch!”

The slop was slightly translucent, silky, and lukewarm, immediately forming a shiny dome over her pretty hair. She shuddered as she felt it slither down her shoulders, starting to coat her back, and soak into the fabric of her simple black bra. The crowd cheered their appreciation of a nice gungey cleavage. Eve squirmed as she felt the slime dampen the thighs of her jeans. Aoife just smirked to herself, enjoying the moment.

“Still need to see a few more cards, please! Keep ‘em coming!”

The fourth card in the row was flipped. In bright neon green, it depicted the outline of a Joker, with a creepy rictus grin. A distorted cackle of laughter burst from the speakers, and the audience whooped in delight and surprise. Eve felt herself tense up. “Wait - no…”

“Oh, you poor thing. And in the first round as well!”

Before Eve had time to further object, her world turned bright green.

From a ring of previously-concealed nozzles in the floor around her stool, a dozen thick jets of green gunge began to squirt inwards and upwards. They were propelled with a carefully calibrated amount of pressure, such that they arced into the air, then proceeded to splash down with some weight over Eve’s unfortunate, cowering form.

An outraged screech erupted from within this twelve-barred cage of messy punishment. Within seconds, the poor contestant was utterly soaked in the colourful goo, and it wasn’t stopping yet. Her figure was only intermittently visible, a squirming shoulder here or a flapping arm there, mostly obscured by the many splatters and splashes, curved planes and roundish dollops of shiny gunge falling down all around her, landing with wet slaps on the white floor.

Naturally, Aoife was utterly delighted by this turn of events. Her mouth was wide open in shock and laughter, creasing up so much she nearly fell off her stool - enjoying Eve’s misfortune even more than the tittering, titillated audience of messy fetishists.

After a deliciously slimy ten seconds, the nozzles ceased spraying, their final trails of gunge slopping wetly down over her head, shoulders and legs. The spunky American had come into this game brimming with wit and confidence - now she looked weak and defeated, her arms hanging limply at her sides. Gunge quietly dribbled from her fingers, and from her bare toes, still perched on the lower bar of the stool.

Slowly, Eve dragged her heavy-feeling arms upwards and wiped her face. She wasn’t sure who to aim a furious glance at first - Aoife or Alexa.

“Very fucking funny.”

“You got that right!” trilled Aoife in response. Eve flicked a few pathetic globs of goo in her opponent’s direction, to save face more than anything else.

“I hope that’s not a portent of how your luck’s going to go in this game, Eve. For your sake, at least.”

“Ohmigod,” teased Aoife. “What if she got the other one straight away?”

“Shut up!”

Eve felt her adrenaline levels start to drop a little, no longer in fight-or-flight mode. Just with her pride very bruised, the full-body gooping such a humiliating start to the show, especially with Aoife clean and smug.

Could be worse, I guess - I might have been naked for that.

Ah, shit - that might actually still happen.

“I feel awful for saying this in the circumstances,” said Alexa, “but we do still have two cards to get through.”

“I know,” said Eve, like a sulky teenager. “Get on with it then.”

The Stagehand flipped the next card: a Jack of Hearts. Eve sat on the stool, shoulders slumped and pouting, as her coating of green gunk became streaked with purple from another nice full bucket.

Her final card was a relatively merciful Four of Clubs. A duo of Stagehands treated her to a big, sticky, pastel-blue pie in the mush, to much cheering, followed by a head-engulfing pie sandwich, and another one square to the face. Fluffy glop slowly gooped downwards onto her bra-clad chest and soaking, sticky jeans.

“Not the ideal first round for Eve,” summarised Alexa. “Aoife’s looking rather more confident - but that could all change! Let’s find out if it does…”

II: Card Sharps

The friendly rapport between the two girls had very much been suspended, and Eve glared daggers at her blonde pal, willing her to fail, and fail hard, in this round.

Unfortunately for Eve, the first card was a much better start. Aoife whoop-whooped, hands in the air, as the King of Clubs rewarded her with £40 on the board, and a pretty good probability of progressing. She had a set, sensible gameplan - play the odds, ignore any troublemaking audience cheers or strange gut feelings.

“I’ll go lower, Alexa.”

The next card was not lower - but neither was it higher. Aoife, remembering the rules of the old TV show, let out a worried squeak. But there was another twist to come.

“Now, if I were Brucie - god rest his soul - I’d be telling you there’s nothing for a pair in this game,” said Alexa, a few of the older audience members joining in with the catchphrase, and earning a wink from the host. “But I had a more interesting idea. Aoife, I’ll let you stay in Prize Mode - but it’ll cost you an item of clothing.”

The girl gave a pained wince, but she didn’t have to think that hard about it. Any way she could stay cleaner than Eve was a pretty good deal, and it offered a chance to build a real cash lead. A few appreciative wolf-whistles rang out as she discarded her silky top, revealing a very pretty white lace bra underneath, giving nice definition to the curves of her pert, creamy tits.

She went lower again, of course, and a Seven of Hearts put her cash total up to £87. Now, though, the odds were a lot less easy to beat. Picking higher, the marginally more sensible choice, she held her breath nervously.

“Bollocks.”

Eve finally had something to cheer about - a Five of Clubs, with the UV lights illustrating its neon blue design, five cartoonish pies in an X-shape.

“Into Pies Mode we go!” enthused Alexa. “And you’ll need to take something else off, I’m afraid…”

Aoife sighed, and stood up from her stool in order to doff her skirt, choosing that over the bra. Though it was only her second GungeWorld appearance, she’d seen enough episodes to know that a set of bare baps would be an immediate pie-magnet.

For now, though, she re-took her seat, squirming quietly in her white twinset, eyes closed, while three Stagehands approached, armed and dangerous.

They really gave it to her. Thrown with a decent heft from short range, the first flan burst against her wincing face in a splatter of sky-blue. Aoife jumped minutely in her seat at the impact, which was immediately repeated. “Mmmph!”

They unleashed the remaining three pies at her face in the same manner, leaving it buried in fluffy, sticky glop and broken fragments of thin pie-crust. She cupped her hands in her lap, feeling clumps of the stuff drop into them, squishing it with fascination between her fingers.

She reached up to wipe her face, dragging fingers over the panes of her big, round glasses. But enough cream had squidged into the space behind them - it was hopeless. Sighing, she pulled them off her face, folded them up, and tossed them carefully aside, onto her crumpled outer clothes.

“A good solid pieing, that,” said Alexa. “But it might just be the start. Next card please!”

It turned out that it very much was just the start. Aoife groaned wearily to see the Nine of Hearts flipped on the board, and braced herself for more creamy debasement.

Alexa’s devilish little helpers were perfectly content, for the moment, with ruining Aoife’s rosy-cheeked face and pretty blonde hair. They set about smearing the pink heart-pies all around her head, rubbing in the cool, thick goo, making her shudder at the strange intimacy of it. Plenty of the glop fell slowly down her body, settling on her shoulders, in her cleavage, over her firm, milky thighs. The floor around her stool - though not as messy as Eve’s - was starting to pile up with thick colour.

The crowd’s applause told her it was safe to wipe her face again, revealing her annoyed pout and slightly saddened blue eyes. And it was just in time to see what her final punishment of this round would be.

Four of Hearts. And this time, the Stagehands clearly felt like expanding their portfolio. One of them - Phoebe, the beautiful plump redhead - stood in front of the nervous blonde, brandishing her double-armful and glaring with a smile. Then she upended them, smushing them down onto Aoife’s thighs, getting them to wiggle in surprise as the girl squealed. Next up was Violet, who enthusiastically splattered one pink pie into Aoife’s belly, and then, with a smirk, smushed the last one into her cleavage, to much appreciation from the crowd.

“A smorgasbord of pies for Aoife, but that’s the end of the round. We’re back to Eve, and we’re back to Prize Mode. She’s trailing in the money stakes - can she catch up?”

Eve seldom let a slimy humiliation bring her mood down for too long, and she was plenty enthused to play again. A Queen of Diamonds was a decent start, thirty quid in the bank.

“Lower please Alexa!”

“Lower than a Queen…”

Next came a Two, then a Seven, Eve’s second round already going much better than her first. She hemmed and hawed over the next decision, cupping an ear to the crowd. “Whatcha think? Hmmm. Ah fuck it, let’s say… lower.”

Right again, and Eve whoop-whooped, doing a little dance on her stool. Aoife wore - alongside her coating of cream - a worried frown. If her opponent got to the end of the row, that’d be a massive lead.

“Higher this time!”

It was as if Eve’s perky attitude had charmed Lady Luck herself. The King of Diamonds meant that Eve took the lead, and she was only one card away from a clean, victorious round. “Lower! Come on bay-bee!”

A Six was turned over, and there it was. Eve erupted into cheers, as did the crowd. A cash machine “kerching” sounded over the speakers, and virtual coins flew around the scoreboard screen.

“She’s done it! A full row of cards, and that’s a two-hundo bonus for our New York cutie!”

Of course, Eve was a terrible, smug winner, openly laughing at Aoife’s frustration, rubbing her fingers together tauntingly. “Look who got that gree-een, bitch!” she laughed, punning on her own gungey appearance.

Alexa eventually put a stop to the fun, and got Aoife’s second round under way, the contestant looking worried but focused. “It’s a big gap, Aoife, but the game’s not even halfway over. We’ve got a Ten of Diamonds to start - you know what the question is.”

“Have to go lower, please Alexa. But oh, I really have a bad feeling about this…”

She breathed a sigh of relief at the sight of a Five, then guessed correctly again, heading up to a Seven. Now things were tricky. But looking at the cards revealed already, she felt confident that higher was the right call, odds-wise.

So it proved, and an Ace of Clubs meant she was guaranteed to survive the next card, too - the worst that could happen was another ace, and a strip forfeit. An excited hubbub built in the crowd. Aoife chose lower, of course, and hit an Eight.

“Final card of the round. This could take you back into the lead, Aoife. What’s the play?”

The audience cheered both options loudly, cancelling each other out. Aoife’s heart was thumping - which made her feel silly. It was just a stupid slapstick fetish game, after all. But her twelve-game Scrabble winning streak against her boyfriend was an indicator of the importance she placed on victory.

“Higher.” She bunched her hands into fists, holding them against her mouth.

“Aoife says higher than an Eight. The board says…”

A doomy riff, and a sympathetic “ooh” from the audience. Six of Hearts. “Bastard!”

“Oh, bad luck Aoife. So close! But you know what that means…”

She nodded sadly, avoiding Eve’s gleeful glare. She reached round, carefully unhooking her bra-strap, and slipped the garment off, tossing it to the floor and slumping her shoulders in resignation. The crowd’s horny, appreciative noises at the sight of her perky little tits were scant consolation.

Alexa took the chance to ask a fun, horny question that she already knew the answer to. “Ever have your tits pied before, Aoife?”

The lass gave a little uncomfortable squirm and screwed up her nose. “No!”

“Well, there’s a first time for everything…”

Aoife let out a quiet quiver as she felt the busty Stagehand Phoebe cosying up against her back, extending two pie-holding hands in front of her, holding them teasingly in front of her chest. “Oh Aoife… look what I’ve got…”

“Nhyy- augh!”

She shuddered, as cool pink cream slopped heavily against her tits, fully enveloping them in sweet, sugary slime. Phoebe made sure to smear and rub in the naughty pie-bra, stiffening Aoife’s nipples immediately. The other Stagehands were keen to get in on the act, though - once Phoebe was done, Violet and Louise took turns to splat her knockers from the front, each pie bursting pleasingly, sending goop and pastry over Aoife’s neck, belly and lap.

Her punishment endured, Aoife did her best to breathe calmly, though it was hard to divert her attention from the sensual smothering feeling. At least Alexa would leave her alone for a while now. Please, please, let her have a bad round…

“£309 plays £167. Back to you, Eve: and you’re starting with a Nine of Spades. Where are we heading, darling?”

“So… we’ve only had one Ace, right? There’s gotta be a few out there. Let’s go higher. Gimme that big money!”

When the next card was revealed as a Three, Aoife gave a quiet little fist-pump. Eve gulped.

“Ooh lordy, Eve. That is not good news. Down at the first hurdle! One item of clothing please - your choice…”

A grumbling Eve took the same decision as her opponent, keeping some modesty for now, standing to unbuckle her jeans. “Whatever. Don’t care.”

She held her head proudly aloft, sitting up straight to take the trio of facial flannings, their splattering cream a delightful shade of lilac. A quick and elegant wipe of the eyes, and a sharp spit of goop. “Okay. Next?”

The Ace of Hearts now made an appearance. Four little sketches of buckets were dotted around its surface, glowing pink under the UV light.

“Yeah. Sure.”

Aoife permitted herself some giggles, as she watched Eve’s assigned sloppers - Dionne and Tanya - readying themselves to pour a substantial quantity of thick slime over her rival. They did so with graceful technique, each bucketful of pink gunk dispensed in a smooth stream over Eve’s head. A constant, gooey dome covered her hair, flowing sensually down over her shoulders and legs, forming a river between her thighs that oozed steadily onto the floor.

Eve was putting a brave face on, but Aoife could hear some whimpers of embarrassment - or possibly horniness, or both - from the opposite stool. It was a lot of slime, and by the time it had all been emptied over her, there was barely an inch of Eve’s figure that wasn’t coated with clingy, slippery pink goo.

“A generous gunging. What’s next for you, Eve? You did say there were more Aces out there…”

She grumbled at the thought. The turn of the next card showed not an Ace - but the Ten of Spades.

Aoife snickered. “Oh, is that a ten? Like, the biggest number of pies you could possibly get? How unfortunate for you.”

“Shut up! I’m still gonna beat- splmph-”

Eve’s defiant reply was muffled by the first pie of the volley, swiftly followed by the second. The two jumpsuited girls scampered back and forth rapidly between Eve’s stool and the shelves, delivering a steady succession of creamy, lavender splats, each one right in the girl’s face. She spluttered, squeaked, her shoulders rocking back minutely with each impact.

Her opponent made a great show of enjoying it, clapping her hands with glee. Of course, Aoife knew there was truth to Eve’s words - the scoreboard wasn’t happy reading, and the gnawing worry of what might happen to a loser dwelt in her stomach. But equally, there was no sense in wasting a good opportunity to laugh at your pal’s sticky misfortune.

So laugh she did. And continued to do so, as Eve drew another slimy card, the King of Hearts. Three more buckets of glossy pink slop were gooshed over her head, a little more slapdash and splattery this time. Aoife could tell that the Stagehands were very much enjoying themselves.

“One more card and you can finally escape this round, Eve,” said Alexa. “What’s it to be?”

The drippy, pouty girl watched the final card flip. Ace of Diamonds.

“Oh come the fuck on!”

“Bwa-ha-ha! More gunge please!”

Eve had barely had time to wipe down her face and hair from the last slathering, and to dislodge the mound of heavy slime and sticky cream from her lap. Her slippery legs wiggled in anticipation as Dionne and Tanya co-ordinated, then delivered a hearty double-bucket drenching from above.

“This doesn’t feel like winning!” complained Eve, from under a smooth coat of bright, custardy yellow.

Next, Dionne got a little cheekier, aiming her next bucket squarely over Eve’s chest. She shrieked in outrage as her modest but firm cleavage filled immediately with slime, soaking her bra, and flowing, shiver-inducingly wet and silky, down into her lap. As Eve aimed a frustrated growl at the beautiful Stagehand, her partner finished the job, another traditional on-yer-head bucketful coating the brunette’s now-invisible hair.

“Now that’s entertainment,” said Aoife with a wink.

Eve dragged her flat fingers over her eyes, cheeks and mouth. She attempted to aim a fiery, vengeful glare at her competitor, but it was somewhat undercut by the quiet wet noises and the yellowy drips. Aoife just smiled, and while she had Eve’s attention, aimed a meaningful glance down at the floor.

When Eve saw the result of her punishment, she couldn’t help but spit out a short, sharp laugh. A mad disc of swirled neon ooze, surrounding her stool’s base and slowly growing as more gunge dripped into it. Very Damien Hirst.

III: The River

Alexa remained as businesslike as ever. “A rather messy round for Eve there, but she does still have the lead, £318 to £167. Aoife - time to play catchup.”

The topless blonde nodded, flicking her hair back, getting her game-face on. Though she did treat herself to the occasional glance sideways, watching her unfortunate rival quietly grumble and preen.

“Here’s where we begin, then: Queen of Spades. That’s thirty more quid already.”

Not a bad start at all, thought Aoife. “Gotta go lower.”

Alexa nodded. “I would, certainly. Let’s have a look.”

The Jack of Hearts appeared, and Aoife gave a little fist-pump. She was still in statistically-decent territory, and her prize pot had now passed the £200 mark. A quiet “hmph!” came from the opposite stool.

“Lower again, please. Let’s keep this going.”

This time, the turn of the card heralded a brassy, upbeat musical sting over the speakers. When Aoife saw it was the second Joker, she instinctively stiffened up and her eyes went wide, remembering Eve’s green slime surprise earlier. But Alexa just laughed, putting her fears to rest.

“Relax, my dear - you’re still in Prize Mode! A Joker’s a good thing - a very good thing, in fact! For a start, that’s a nice round hundred in your prize pot.”

There was an intrigued “ooh!” from the audience as they noticed what this did to the scores. Aoife was now a single pound sterling behind, £317 playing £318.

“And this next card’s a free hit,” enthused Alexa. “So it seems you’re about to take the lead, Aoife! Let’s see what you get.”

The blonde rubbed her hands in glee, while Eve harrumphed about as loudly as anyone had ever harrumphed. The Ten of Clubs emerged, pushing the new leader up to £327, and giving her a reasonable chance of staying in Prize Mode. She took the sensible option, and hoped for a lower card.

Lower it certainly was - a Two of Spades. Aoife gave a fist-pump - and then started to grin. “Oh, that’s good!”

She’d realised that she was guaranteed to finish this round. Even if she paired up with another Two, she still had her sticky little knickers on, and could sacrifice them if needed. That meant a nailed-on £200 coming her way.

“Could hardly be better!” agreed Alexa. “Shall we finish the round?”

“Let’s do it! Higher, obviously…”

As it turned out, she didn’t even have to shed the undies. The Eight of Spades turned over, the screen flashed and blinged obligingly, and Aoife thrust her hands skyward as her prize pot shot up to £537.

She couldn’t help catching Eve’s eye once or twice, even without trying to. Though she’d previously been trash-talking with the best of them, Aoife now felt slightly afraid to jinx her good luck by taunting her opponent. It’d be so painful if she let a lead like this slip. Instead, she just gave apologetic little smiles, and let Alexa do the teasing.

“Oh Eve. What happened?”

“That lucky-ass cunt over there happened,” replied Eve, clearly feeling the opposite way about trash-talk right now. Aoife just raised her eyebrows, and shared a look of well-I-never with the audience.

“Oof! I’d say mind your language, Eve, but I don’t really mind it. However, you might be doing some more cursing if you can’t catch up - this is your final round.”

“Rigged bullshit, I’m never coming back again.”

Alexa ignored her, as did the Stagehands. At the left end of Eve’s final row of cards, the Two of Diamonds was revealed. “See? That’s a good start, Eve!”

“Yeah, whatever. Higher I guess.”

Next up was the Jack of Clubs. Aoife’s brow knotted ever so slightly. She’d better not fucking do this, I swear…

Eve was dispensing with the pleasantries entirely, not even letting the audience do their rabble-cries. “Lower!”

Five of Spades. “Higher!”

Ace of Spades. “Lower!”

Four of Spades.

The audience were frankly losing their minds at this lightning-fast, perfectly correct round, Eve visibly growing in confidence with each barked guess. Aoife, meanwhile, shrank into her stool. Oh no no no no…

“Higher!”

The final card of the row was revealed: the Nine of Diamonds.

“Guaaah!”

That was Aoife. “How? Howww?”

“Same as you did, bitch! But I did it twice! Booyah!”

Eve danced on her stool, as the crowd drank in Aoife’s crestfallen moans.

“Another £200 bonus for Eve! Girls, you’re going to positively bankrupt us at this rate! And that means the scores, going into Aoife’s final round, are £598 for Eve, and £537 for Aoife. My word, this is a nail-biter!”

“It’s the worst,” complained Aoife. “I hate this game!”

She’d really been through the wringer, but she knew she had to quit whining and focus now. It was time to do some rudimentary card counting - just to give herself what little edge she could.

“Aoife - all you need is to score £62 in this round, and you’re today’s winner. Are you ready?”

Aoife had been scanning the boards. She’d already ascertained that all four Aces and all four Kings had been drawn. I think the spread’s low here.

“I guess. Let’s go then.”

Her starting card was a Five of Diamonds. Which was, essentially, no help at all. If the spread was low, then she was probably somewhere in the middle.

She let the audience shout their guesses, stalling as much as she could while she cased the drawn cards some more. There’s only one Three. But what if they’re all in the burn pile? Oh, god…

“I’m gonna have to hurry you, Aoife.”

“Ngh! Ah… this may be incredibly stupid…”

“Oh?”

“But I think I’m gonna say… lower, Alexa.”

She winced as soon as she said it.

When a risky-looking move goes wrong, it’s way more humiliating than a safe tactic scuppered by bad luck. And extra humiliating if the comeuppance happens to involve slime and custard pies.

“Wow! A gutsy move. What’s the thinking?”

“I don’t know! Oh, please please please…”

Eve was truly intrigued, and started expectantly at the board, as the Stagehands carefully flipped the next card.

The stern face of the Queen of Hearts appeared, as the lights went dim, save for the spotlight above Aoife’s blonde hair. A gasp of sympathy rose from the audience, as the loser slammed her fists against her thighs.

“Fuck!”

“Oh dearie me,” cooed Alexa.

“I’m so stupid!”

“You sure are!” said Eve, grinning like a loon.

“Well, that’s the game,” said Alexa. “But before any celebrations, I’m afraid we’ve business to attend to. Aoife - first things first, there’s a toll to be paid…”

“Bollocks! Bollocks, bollocks, bollocks.” Aoife ranted away while she squirmed reluctantly out of her knickers, crossing another personal rubicon - she was now fully nude on camera for the first time ever. She crossed her legs awkwardly on her perch, knowing she’d uncovered a tempting target for naughty mess, but not wanting to make it any more obvious than she had to.

“And we’re starting with a Queen.”

The Stagehands were already in position, one on each side of Aoife, hefting their buckets. She sat stiffly on the stool, hands in her lap and arms tensed, squishing those perky little knockers together.

Two plentiful pours of pink slime tipped smartly over her head, and Aoife gave a frustrated groan of defeat. “Mnyah! Eugh…”

She squirmed delightfully as the smooth slop oozed down her body, and cringed with discomfort as she felt it pooling in her lap. Eve looked on, snickering quietly, pleased as punch.

Before the gunge had even dripped down her legs, Alexa was chivvying on the final round of punishment. “Four cards to go! Give us another, would you girls?”

The Four of Diamonds appeared, and so two Stagehands each double-fisted a fluffy yellow confection, approaching Aoife with much smiling menace. Saucy Phoebe was the first to step up to her, and she wasted no time making the girl nervous, giving a pointed glance down to her exposed crotch - before splatting both pies around her blushing cheeks in a sticky, sloppy sandwich.

While the poor loser spluttered and spat, Mei Ling sidled in and cheekily slapped her first pie onto Aoife’s gooey tits. She yelped in alarm - then yelped louder still, as she felt a cool, squishy smack into the V of her crotch.

“Unhhh! Fffuh…”

A shivery pulse ran down her back and into her legs, down to her curling toes. Pied in the pussy, to the cheering delight of a horny, kinky audience - and her horny, kinky friend. It was deathly embarrassing, yet strangely thrilling.

The sensation would only amplify for the next minute or so, as the final three cards were revealed - all of them promising pies for Aoife, all fulfilled with speed and relish by Phoebe and Mei Ling.

First up, a relatively gentle Three: Mei Ling snuck behind Aoife and did the ol’ pie-bra trick, squeezing and smearing salaciously, while Phoebe splatted her in the face to quiet her quivery moans.

Next was a much less gentle Nine - Eve gave a cackle of delight when it was revealed. This time, it was Mei Ling who kept things straightforward, treating Aoife to five big wet splattery facefuls. The only thing was, they were interspersed by Phoebe repeatedly heaving sloppy gunk into her squirming lap. Aoife’s reaction noises reached higher and higher pitch as her cunt got creamier and creamier, her pulse racing and her breath shortening.

The last card called for seven lilac-purple pies. And the Stagehands clearly felt this called for a little creativity. Mei Ling armed herself with one payload, but Phoebe didn’t head to the shelves - instead, she lurked behind the stool, and as soon as her partner was in position, gave Aoife’s back a gentle shove forward.

“Aghck!”

Aoife nearly lost her balance immediately, and had to flail her arms just to avoid toppling sideways onto the floor. She only just managed to finish standing upright, on the slimy and creamy floor just in front of her previous seat.

Phoebe reached forward, grabbed Aoife’s upper left arm, and assertively swung it to the right. Shouting in alarm, the girl found herself spun around 180 degrees, feet only just keeping purchase, now leaning forward over the stool.

Before she could quite process what this meant for her, she felt Phoebe’s arm cradling her neck, pulling her face gently forward. Then suddenly, their lips were locked.

Her heart-rate spiked through the roof, amazed at the sudden impertinence. But she didn’t pull away. She moaned gratefully through the short but passionate tongue-kiss, while the audience whooped and whistled - but also quietly chuckled at Mei Ling, who was grinning impishly, standing ready beside Aoife’s bare, pale bottom.

Phoebe pulled away, locking her gaze with the dumbstruck Aoife, breath hot against each other’s cheeks.

Then Aoife felt a cool cream pie slam square into her arse.

“N-aaah!”

Phoebe snogged her again, quieting her discomfort. Aoife realised that the big redhead was pinning her hands down against the stool, locking her in place as they kissed.

The randy Stagehand pulled away once more. And Mei Ling slapped two wet, sloppy purple pies into Aoife’s rear, one square in each cheek. She squealed with embarrassment, and shivered at the entirely new feeling, her buttocks and her crack smeared in sticky, slimy cream.

“Fuhhh…”

One more confounding, enthralling kiss - and this time, Phoebe guided Aoife’s hands to her chest, letting her squeeze and grope those magnificent huge bosoms through the jumpsuit. Aoife groaned gratefully, feeling wanton and wicked. She braced herself for another pie-spanking. But instead, Mei Ling cheekily slipped pie number four onto the stool’s round seat, waiting with another in hand.

When Phoebe released her from the clinch, she darted away, towards the shelves. Now Mei Ling took over manhandling the confused blonde - grabbing her hips, spinning her around again, and then hoicking her back up onto the seat.

Squelch. “Waaa-aaah!”

Aoife cringed deeply at the sensation of being forcibly sat onto a sloppy flan, so utterly silly and naughty. Mei Ling gave the audience a short time to enjoy her helpless wailing, before shutting her up with a hearty, splattery facial. It was immediately followed by Phoebe, running in from behind and crescendoing the round with a fierce, explosive pie-sandwich.

The watching pervs, and Eve especially, applauded the sheer naughtiness and audacity of it all. Aoife, meanwhile, was left a cream-faced wreck on her stool, shivering and spluttering. She wiped her face slowly, revealing a slightly sad, slightly astonished look, her mouth hanging open.

“And with that, we’re outta cards. Game over!”

“Bluhhh… holy fuh…”

The bright studio lighting returned. It matched Eve’s cheery mood, as Alexa congratulated her.

“As promised, to our winner - a fabulous bonus of £500! Taking your winning total to £1,089! How does that feel, Eve?”

“I’m a rich bitch! It feels damn fantastic, thank you Alexa.”

“You’re more than welcome. And you’re also 2-0 up in this Grudge Match series - which I imagine feels even better.”

Eve allowed herself to smile smugly over at her unfortunate opponent. “Oh, boy does it. Hey Aoife! Remember I said 5-0? That’s still on, hon!”

“Urgh, shut up…”

“Now, it isn’t over yet - stranger comebacks have happened. But Aoife, I’m afraid you’re going to have to really pull this one out of the bag in the next three episodes. How are you feeling?”

“Erm… kinda bad. Yeah. Messy and bad. This did not go well.”

“A fair assessment, I think. However, don’t worry - you won’t be going home empty-handed, because you still earned £542.”

The sticky, geeky blonde shrugged. “I mean, I’ll take it. Thanks.”

Alexa left a beat. “You know what Aoife - I probably shouldn’t have said don’t worry, just then. Because… you probably should worry…”

Aoife had been waiting for the other shoe to drop, in truth. She knew the GungeWorld MO well enough by now. She let out a nervous keen, waiting for the details of her loser’s punishment - the sliding panel in the floor, or the elaborate gunge tank wheeled in from offstage.

“...about how much slop we’ve got left on those shelves.”

On hearing this, Aoife’s eyes went wide. She simply hadn’t made that connection.

“Bring out the chair!”

IV: Busted

A devilishly funky track started to play, as a panel slid open underneath the green Joker in the centre of the set. A cloud of dry ice spilled outwards - and then, emerging through it, the sight of a bulbous object.

It was an inflatable armchair, made of clear plastic. It was sturdily attached at its base to a thin platform that was thrusting out of the wall. It came around six feet into the studio floor, a little way behind the stools.

Eve was rapt with excitement. Aoife’s stomach felt like lead.

“Girls! Strap ‘er in!”

“Oh god… nooo, please!”

She was already being gently bullied off the stool by all four of the mess-toting stagehands. And she now understood full well that this chair wasn’t just a fun, slippery inflatable - it was a bondage chair. She was firmly plonked down, her creamy pied bum feeling clammy against the plastic.

“You see Aoife, it’d be dreadful to waste so much lovely slop. Mixing the gunge, topping the pies - an awful lot of work goes into this, you know.”

“B-b-but… you don’t have to use it on me!”

Alexa looked quizzical. “Well, it’d hardly seem fair to use it on the winner.”

The chair had inflatable arms a little higher than the seat, and on those were two large, robust arm-straps that fastened with extra-strong velcro. Aoife’s wrists were held down, and quickly strapped in.

“No, I mean… you could… make a cool music video? Uh, a, a, a charity event?”

“Hmmm. Actually, you could say this is sort of a charity event. It’s just that our ‘good cause’ is the Society for the Erection of Gooning Deviants.”

“Gah!”

Next, it was the legs. The sloppy loser moaned as she realised the thigh-straps, of the same design, were housed on the outer edges of the chair’s base. They left her legs spread wide, her blushing, blonde bush on full display.

So much for not presenting a tempting target, she thought sadly.

She was left downright immobile - all she could truly control were her fingers and toes, her squirming bottom, and her head (with its increasingly panicked facial expressions).

It was difficult not to glance around her - the chair was further back in the set, and thus much closer to the arc of shelves than the stools had been. It really drove home what she was in for - the arsenal of mess seemed to have barely been touched!

(Of course, whenever Alexa was involved, the devil was in the details. She had ensured there would be precisely the number of flans and buckets required to cover the full set of cards: 216 and 40, respectively. Admittedly, the rules meant that a certain number of cards would never be used for mess during the game. But that just guaranteed some mess would be kept in reserve for the loser. And in particularly unfortunate cases - like Aoife’s right now - there would be a whole lot more.)

The four Stagehands who had been splatting the contestants were joined by the two who’d been busy flipping the cards. A jumpsuited sextet surrounded Aoife, smiling gleefully down at her. She quivered nervously - but they didn’t seem to be reaching for the sloppy ammo just yet.

Alexa turned to the grinning Eve, sat on her stool. “I’m sensing that you’re rather happy about this.”

“Delighted! Oh, she’s gonna get it so bad…”

“She certainly is. I just wondered - did you maybe want to join in? Help my girls out?”

Eve’s eyes went wide, and she sprang up from her stool with glee, almost slipping on the slimy floor before correcting herself. “Argh! Yes yes yes please!”

“Nooo!” cried Aoife. This was getting worse and worse. Her rival getting to splat her too - Eve would be fucking unbearable in the bar after this.

“That’s what I like to see - real enthusiasm!” said Alexa. “In fact… how about we give you a head start? Choose a colour.”

It took a moment for the meaning of this to sink in, for both competitors. But when Eve cottoned on, she carefully surveyed the four sets of shelves, looking for the one with the maximum amount of slop.

“I’ll take blue, please Alexa!”

This was the Clubs section. It held a healthy arsenal of foamy blue pies - and the ten buckets of blue gunge hadn’t been touched at all, with none of the Faces or Aces from that suit being used so far.

“Absolutely,” said Alexa, as the Stagehands stepped out of the way, giving Eve free reign. “The floor is yours.”

“Fuck yeah,” enthused Eve, sauntering closely past her helpless opponent, looking down with gleeful menace. Aoife just screwed up her face and pouted. “Now where… should… I… start?”

Aoife heard the clunky plastic sounds of buckets being lifted, and it made her toes curl. Eve carried one in each hand, and walked towards the rear of the bondage chair - but then seemed to get another idea. “Oh, how ‘bout this…”

She came around to the front, still drinking in Aoife’s displeasure. And she pulled a deliciously mean and creative move.

Eve plonked one of the buckets of blue goo right by Aoife’s left leg, bound just above her ankle. Then she reached down, and took a hold of the girl’s bare foot.

“Hey! Eve, what are you… yaaah!”

The squeal was caused by her foot being pulled over the rim of the bucket, and dunked into it. Eve adjusted the position of the pail, leaving Aoife’s foot dangling right in the middle of the liquid. And with the restraint above, it would remain there for the foreseeable.

“Oh you fucking bitch…”

“What? Don’t like getting your feet wet, honey?”

“Urgh!”

Eve repeated the trick on the other side, leaving Aoife’s bare feet double-dunked. The poor blonde felt the goo squishing between her toes. Such a strange sensation, and it made her look just that little bit more silly.

It was an extra frustration that Eve had somehow retained her fancy, sexy underwear during the game - not only was she getting to gunge Aoife, she was getting to look seductive and confident while doing it, without everything on display.

“Next…”

There were upwards of thirty pies to get through on the Clubs shelves, so Eve figured she’d better get going. She took a pie in each hand, stepped over to the chair, and sandwiched Aoife’s face.

“Pluhh!”

“I’ll work my way down, I think…”

Two more - and Eve smushed these ones against Aoife’s shoulders, rubbing the cool, sticky cream over her neck and her back. Aoife spluttered helplessly, and felt her breath getting short. It didn’t take a genius to figure out what might happen next.

After a short, maddening pause, there it was - a firm, sloppy, squelch against her pert tits.

“Mmmhhh…”

Eve’s hands didn’t withdraw. She confidently smeared and squeezed for a short while, making Aoife moan quietly, gently playing with the girl’s already-firm nipples.

The next two-handed splat came right in the same place, gunky cream exploding over Aoife’s jugs once again, making her gasp.

“Damn, I fuckin’ love creamy titties…”

Instead of groping her, this time Eve leaned down, licking light-blue gloop from the ripe curves of Aoife’s chest.

“Nyaaah… Eve…”

When she felt Eve’s tongue lapping at her right nipple, she shuddered, her ass shifting in the gooey seat, and her feet splashing away in their gungey prisons.

A satisfied Eve lifted her face away. “I could do that all day, but…”

Two more creamy pies, these ones smashed into Aoife’s belly and smeared over her flanks, Eve rubbing the cream sensually into Eve’s pale skin. Then another two - Aoife could feel her delicate, wet quim twitching in anticipation before they hit. Instead, Eve went for her hips, doing a very thorough job of creaming up every available inch of Aoife’s body, and driving her wild in the process.

With the crowd whistling and cheering, egging her on gleefully, Eve kept at her task. Delighting in Aoife’s horny, frustrated moans, she brought a pair of flans down onto the girl’s thighs, smushing them inwards and running her lithe fingers upwards, just skirting the outer reaches of her crotch. She relished every outraged, horny squeal from above.

Aoife had managed to blink away enough cream to have a hazy vision of her assailant, now. Eve was re-armed, of course, and she was brandishing the pie in her right hand with intent - looking down at Aoife, and nodding happily. Yes, Aoife - it’s time.

Gracefully, and with moderate force, Eve splattered a pie squarely into Aoife’s pussy, much to the audience’s appreciation.

“Fff-uhhh!”

Eve carefully lowered herself to her knees, in front of the chair.

“And this is even nicer than creamy titties…”

She languidly slid her tongue up the left side of Aoife’s labia, drawing a deep gasp and a full-body spasm. Eve revelled in the sticky texture of her friend’s pubic hair, the sweet taste of the gooey cream, and the enchanting smell of her wet cunt.

Eve drew a few more lazy arcs with her tongue, teasing her victim with the slightest of tingly touches against her clit. She slid the other pie onto her strong hand, reached up, and gave the pussy another splattery coating, leaving Aoife squirming with kinky desire. But it was time for a change - Eve stood up, making sure to enjoy the sight of her messy handiwork.

“There’s just so much mess!” she faux-complained. “I’d better get on with this!”

Aoife just groaned, and tried to manage her breathing. This was already so much more intimate than her first trip to GungeWorld. So naughty, and so thrilling, despite the humiliation.

Because of the humiliation.

The next sensation she felt was a thick, wet river spilling over her sticky hair. Eve stood behind the chair, treating her opponent to a classic, deeply embarrassing, right-on-yer-’ead gunging. Naturally, Aoife’s reclining posture meant the lukewarm slop oozed quickly down her naked body, rivers questing over all her sensitive areas. Another bucket followed - her head was enveloped in a dripping helmet now, severely impairing her vision and hearing.

She could hear Eve’s taunts, though. “So much gunge left!” she trilled. “I can use one for each boob!”

Sure enough, Aoife felt her left breast getting thoroughly slimed, a smooth pour caressing and massaging its curves, wet and goopy and breathtaking. Onto the other, and soon the creamy coating on her body was totally replaced by silky sky-blue slop. She shivered at the feeling of it cascading down her belly and over her crotch. It was seeping beneath her too, making the chair outrageously slippery - it felt as if the straps around her limbs were the only thing holding her steady. No other inch of her body could find purchase. It made her stomach flutter.

“Hey loser!” teased Eve. “Guess what?”

“Unnhhh… what?”

“I’m gonna gunge your pusss-aaay…”

“Fah… oh yaaagh!”

The direct spill of slime onto Aoife’s exposed kitty felt astonishing, and looked spectacular - at least if the crowd’s reaction was anything to go by. It had her arching her back and cricking her neck, gasping for breath. She twisted and writhed in her restraints, desperately wishing she could touch herself, could release this maddening tension.

Or for someone else to do it for her. She wanted to be fingered and tongued senseless, or fucked deeply with something thick and stiff. I’ll take all the slop you want. Just fucking let me get off, please…

There certainly was more slop to be taken, though. Eve felt she’d done a good, methodical job so far. Time to mix things up. Nineteen pies and three buckets remained in Eve’s personal stockpile. She decided to roughly intersperse them.

She began with some more sloppy pies. This time, she decided to put her waitressing experience to good use - balancing three on her curved left arm and one on her right palm. She stood over the moaning girl, right beside her, and hurled the first pie downwards as fast as she could, slap into Aoife’s face.

“Splf!”

Working swiftly, she did the same with the other three. Splat, splat, splat - tits, belly, face. Aoife shuddered and groaned, unable to do anything but sit there and take it.

Next, it was back to the bottom shelf. Eve took custody of a brimming blue bucket, and hustled round to the front of the inflatable seat. Taking aim, she swung it backwards, then thrust it forward, casting a curved arc of gunge that hung in the air for half a second, before splashing down over Aoife’s prone form with a delightful squelchy noise.

“Glbh! Fuck! Fuck…”

It had nailed her right in the face and all down her front. Eve was struggling to keep up her pace, so comically pathetic was the sight in the chair. It made her hoot with devilish laughter.

The plan continued. Another quad-flanning - belly, pussy, face, tits. Then another bucket, and another full-frontal gunge-soaking for the bedraggled blonde. Who, unfortunately for her, was now around one-quarter through this ordeal, in pure mess-volume terms.

She spluttered out some objections, even knowing they were useless. “This is… you can’t be…”

Alexa chimed in. “Oh, we can. And we are.”

“I just… eugh…”

Eve continued to deliver her close-range, big-splatter payloads - four in a row right to Aoife’s firm knockers. Another riotously thrown bucket, Eve really motoring now. And finally, the seven remaining pies, each one splattered with enthusiastic power into Aoife’s flushed, spluttering face.

Seeing the shelves empty, the crowd began to cheer and applaud - but Eve wasn’t ready to take her bows yet.

“Hold on! Don’t forget these…”

Eve bent down to Aoife’s feet, and lifted one leg out of its slime-bucket, making her moan. She held her hand under the heel, and made saucy looks to the nearest camera.

“Make sure you get a good shot for the foot-perverts! Those slimy, dripping tootsies… I know what you like!”

Aoife writhed in discomfort at this particularly mortifying turn of events. Her other foot was hoisted out, shiny and goopy, and displayed in the same way, with plenty of mugging from Eve.

That left the victor with two buckets of blue slime. She scurried round behind the captive girl once again, and upended them one at a time over her head. She really dumped them this time, rather than pouring, so Aoife had to endure a thick and loud splatter, brutal and entirely unnecessary. Which was, of course, what made it so very fun.

Now Eve was happy to receive an ovation for her efforts, giving a hammy curtsey in response to the clapping and cheering. But then, a new thought seemed to strike her.

She paced round to the side of the chair, pointing her backside towards it - then gave a sudden hop backwards, propelling her butt over the arm of the chair and into Aoife’s slimy lap - creating a delicious noise and a loud yelp of surprise.

Eve smartly placed her arm around Aoife’s neck, which helped her avoid immediately sliding off the girl’s slippery skin and onto the floor. She comfortably sat there, legs laying over Aoife’s immobile arm, shoulder-to-shoulder with her conquered competition. She gently reached up to wipe slime from Aoife’s eyes, and was greeted with a shocked - but not appalled - gaze.

“Sorry I slopped you,” said Eve softly. “Kiss and make up?”

Eve leaned forward, and kissed Aoife hungrily. It was reciprocated even more fiercely, the sloppy stooge desperately amorous. Appreciative whistles and whoops rang to the studio rafters.

“Now there’s a turn of events,” smirked Alexa, giving a sideways glance to the camera.

Their lips and tongues played wildly and roughly for a long, luxurious time, gasps and moans escaping between slimy, creamy snogs. Eventually, they unclasped, to catch their breath, enjoy the moment, and make some sensual eye contact. Aoife’s big blue eyes looked hopelessly besotted; Eve remained perky and smirky, still radiating a winner’s smugness.

“Erm - a word, Eve?”

Alexa was demanding her attention. Eve looked over, still seeming louche and unbothered. “Yes dear?”

“Just a friendly warning… my girls are rather raring to go, but you’re somewhat in the line of fire there.”

“Oh? I guess I am,” she replied, airily. The six Stagehands were indeed now arranged in a semi-circle in front of the pair, all doubly armed with big sloppy pies from the remaining shelves, pink and yellow and purple.

Alexa shrugged. “I mean, it’s up to you.”

“Just give me one quick sec.”

Eve turned back to Aoife, leaning in close, getting right up to whisper in her ear. She was spine-tinglingly quiet, not even picked up by the studio mics.

“Want me to make you cum?”

The breath caught in Aoife’s chest. “Unh! Yesss…”

With confirmation received, Eve turned back to Alexa, the crowd, and the flan-flinging Stagehands. She threw her free hand into the air with glee, and put on a radiant smile.

“Do your worst!”

V: Two Queens

They did just that.

A dozen pies were propelled at speed through the air, hitting the pair in the chair with an almighty squelch and an aerial riot of splatter. Sitting on top of Aoife and deliberately opening her body, Eve arguably got it the worst, colourful creamy gunk bursting against her lingerie-clad body and laughing face. Aoife got plenty, though, yet more creamy humiliation heaped on her - though it was certainly nicer with some company. The feeling of Eve’s lacy knickers pressed against her thighs was enchanting.

Having survived the first volley, Eve got back to the important business of passionately snogging her sexy friend, while the Stagehands ran for more mess. It turned out that horny, sloppy tongue-kissing was a slightly more complicated business when you were also being custard-pied, the Stagehands stepping in to splurge the creamy flans right into their cheeks from both sides. It led to a lot of pauses for laughing, spitting, snorting, and the like - but never for very long, as they were both keen to keep this intense, arousing kiss going.

Aoife let out a particularly breathy moan as she felt, simultaneously, a huge double-bucket pour of sloppy wet gunge against her crown, and the questing left hand of Eve starting to caress her chest, squeezing her tits, rubbing her shoulder and neck.

Purring with self-satisfaction at her naughtiness, Eve twisted her body, aiming to press herself closer against her playmate, and to make it easier for her hands to wander even lower. However, she soon realised that this was a mistake. Everything was just way too slippery.

“Wuhhh-uhhh-uhhh…!”

For a frantic moment, she scrabbled for purchase, but it was no use. Eve slid sideways off Aoife’s slick thighs, and landed in front of the chair with a bump, right on her pretty arse.

“Owww!”

Aoife cackled with laughter at her goofball friend, and the audience were similarly amused. However, Alexa stepped closer to the action, hands held in the air.

“Hold on! Stop, girls, stop.”

The mess-flinging action ceased immediately.

“Are you OK, Eve? Are you hurt?”

Eve looked genuinely touched, and laughed it off. “Thanks, but no worries. Just a little bump.”

“You sure?”

“Uh-huh.”

“OK, I’m glad. Splat ‘em!”

The suddenness of the restart caught both girls out, and they let out giggly yells as the merciless pummeling in sticky slop resumed instantly. Eve turned her body towards the chair - partly protecting herself from the mess, but partly because she had very particular intentions in mind.

Through the hail of cream-splurges and gungey overhead sloshes, she settled into a kneeling position between Aoife’s legs.

The girl in the chair had just endured a particularly long string of pies right in the face, so she couldn’t see what Eve was doing. But when she felt two firm hands against the top of her thighs, and soft kisses working their way up her inside leg, she understood very well.

“Fuck! Yes, Eve, plea- splugh! Mmpf!”

Eve kept her momentum slow and teasing - making delicate trails with her tongue and lips, in the vicinity of Aoife’s pussy but not venturing there yet. Slowly caressing hips and thighs with her palms, rubbing in each new river slime that oozed down from the carnage above. The noises Aoife made - even though they were muffled by frequent facial splatterings - assured her that she was very much on the right track.

“Unnnh! Please, gmmmph…”

With Eve currently not so convenient to splat, the Stagehands aimed for total humiliation and overwhelm for the rightful loser. Hard splats in the face and pie-sandwiches, raunchy sloppings to the tits with plenty of squeezing and teasing. Gunge hurled and dumped wantonly. It was a riot of yellow, pink and purple deliciousness, with the shape of a moaning, quivering nerd-girl roughly discernible within.

Eve started to tease a little harder - starting to include a darting little lick of Aoife’s slit, or a cheeky flick of her clit, among her oral explorations. She could feel the spasming and tensing of Aoife’s thighs as she did so - very gratifying.

At this point, a few of the Stagehands had hatched a little plan, just to ensure Eve didn’t feel too neglected. She felt her shoulders being pulled back from Eve’s lap - eliciting a disappointed groan from above.

She looked up at the jumpsuited girls standing over her, a naughty and excited smile on her face.

“Just thought we’d help out,” said Phoebe. With that, she stooped down and yanked open the back of Eve’s knickers, then stuffed a nice gungey pink pie into them.

“Yaaah!” cried Eve, mostly with delight. Brandy then did the same for the front of her panties, as Eve squirmed in pleasure. She then giggled her way through a healthy overhead dousing of pink gunge, followed by a very messy pie-sandwich.

Meanwhile, with Eve temporarily out of the way, Aoife’s aching, wet pussy was an incredibly tempting target for mess. So Dionne obliged, firmly splattering three flans right into her splayed twat.

Gone was the prudish squirming of Aoife’s earlier pussy-pieings. This time, each creamy smack was greeted with an ecstatic grunt and a full-body shudder.

The Stagehands thrust Eve’s shoulders forward again, pushing her gunk-covered face right into Aoife’s slop-covered snatch.

“Now tongue-fuck that messy slut ‘til she begs for mercy!”

“Nuah!” objected Aoife. “Spluh, no, no mercy, please…”

Eve’s mission could hardly be clearer at this point. And she undertook it ravenously. She started to steadily massage Aoife’s clit with her lithe tongue, rhythmic and firm. The reaction was music to her ears, her friend gasping in astonishment at the intense physical pleasure.

Aoife was seeing stars, her brain fizzing like mad. She could barely believe this - any of this. That she had agreed to this in the first place. That the mess was so sensual, and the humiliation so thrilling. That the girl she only met a couple of months ago was licking her cunt. That she was about to have an explosive kinky orgasm on camera.

Because that certainly was going to happen. She was on the express train to Cumsville, with a first-class ticket. The Stagehands were well aware of this too - they continued to slather the moaning, quivering blonde with mess, but they slowed the pace a little, trying not to run out of supplies too soon. This also enabled them to hear more of Aoife’s delicious squealing and groaning.

Aoife felt two firm fingers slide gently inside her.

“Yes! Unhhh, Eee-eeeve…”

The happy brunette continued to lick and kiss Aoife’s lips and clit, as she began to flex and curl her fingers, teasing Aoife’s G-spot, not going hard. Aoife would barely need it. Heart pounding, she panted for breath, her eyes screwed up tight, her moans rising in pitch between a final few facial flannings.

“Oh, oh, oh, oh - mffh, pluh, oh, oh, oh…!”

Eve purred with satisfaction to feel her friend’s muscles tighten and shiver. She also purred with kinky delight when she got another bucket of slop over her matted hair, just to make her final sucking and fucking manoeuvres extra-gooey. The taste of sweet, floral slime mingled with Aoife’s wet juices on her lips.

As much as Eve’s talented mouth and fingers were driving her demented with lust, the thing that tipped Aoife over the edge was a final, co-ordinated pie assault. Listening closely to the cadence of her moans, Brandy and Phoebe both waited excitedly, big creamy pies in both hands.

“Yuhh, fuck, aw, oh, fuck, yes, yee-eee-esss!”

When it was crystal clear Aoife was about to climax, Brandy engulfed her pretty cheeks in a sloppy lilac sandwich, while Phoebe smushed hers into the girl’s firm, heaving tits.

“Gnnnuuuh!”

A powerful shockwave of pleasure rippled at lightspeed through Aoife’s exhausted body. She wailed in helpless, beautiful pleasure, lost in a debauched reverie.

“Spluh! Ohhh! Oh, fuck, oh Eve, oh god…”

Aoife spat out some errant cream, and blinked open her eyes, peering out at the set through a fluffy haze of glop. The sound of the raucous, delighted audience came rushing back to her ears, and immediately tightened a knot of embarrassment in her stomach. But it was much-soothed by the beautiful, soft aftershocks, the messy, enveloping joy of it all.

After a few final, gentle kisses, Eve leaned back from Aoife’s crotch, sitting comfily on her bum, and stroking the girl’s sticky, quivering leg.

“Well now,” said Alexa, understated as ever. A laugh swam from the crowd.

“Seems this is becoming a more… friendly rivalry than I imagined, is that right?”

Eve giggled. “I just wanted to show her how we really do things around here.”

Aoife let out a vague noise that communicated she felt very shown indeed.

“So you’re not going soft on us?”

“Never! I’m still gonna five-O this bitch!”

“Emphasis on the O, by the looks of things,” added Alexa. “Aoife might not mind losing some more, if it keeps ending up like that…”

Aoife snort-laughed.

“But I wouldn’t get too comfortable, either of you. Because the series ain’t over ‘til it’s over. And once it is over, we’ll know who’s getting the Grudge Match Super Slopper…”

“The whuhhh?” asked Aoife, suddenly a little concerned. Eve, with her commanding lead, just snickered.

“A punishment for the overall loser, of course. It’ll be utterly demented, hilariously cruel, scandalously rude and diabolically gungey. It’ll make today’s caper look like a walk in the park.”

“...eep…”

“Anyway! That’s a worry for another day. And we’re all out of time here. Once more - give it up for our winner, Eve!”

She waved happily, in her sticky mess on the studio floor.

“And I think we’d better take our messy loser away… say bye-bye, Aoife!”

The weak, blissed-out pile of squidge in the chair gave a rueful laugh, and raised her right wrist, waving awkwardly, the audience giggling sympathetically. The platform holding her chair rolled slowly backwards from whence it came, the green door filled with dry ice behind the set.

Aoife sighed as she retreated, relieved to be heading away from that bright, stark set and its baying crowd. But if she had had just a little more GungeWorld experience at this point - a few more shows under her belt - she might have been bracing herself rather than relaxing.

Because in this studio, when the thing you’re sitting on moves to a new location, it’s absolutely never good news.

Once the platform was a few feet beyond the boundary, it came to a stop. Aoife was framed in the doorway, less well-lit than the studio, but still perfectly visible. Whorls of dry ice lapped at her bound feet.

It was hard to tell whether the impact of the gunge was what sent her eyes open wide with shock, or whether she’d had the realisation just before it hit. In some ways, it didn’t really matter.

Aoife’s latest, entirely unnecessary sliming was delivered by one of Alexa’s favourite dispensers: the trusty GungeWorld Triple Tank. It had three sizable vats of gunge, each with a simple valve. And it was absolutely ideal to use on girls when they were reclined - just align it correctly, and you could thoroughly slime them over the head, tits and pussy all at once.

So that’s what they did to Aoife. All three streams were a rich grass green, thick and glossy, so humiliatingly wet and sloppy and loud as it splattered and splashed off her helpless body.

“Aaa-aaa-AAAGH!”

It was a cry of defeat more than discomfort, cursing her own stupidity. Though she could definitely hear Eve’s loud laughter through the cavalcade of gungey drenching noises.

The sloppy coda was certainly thorough, going on for long enough that Aoife had to gasp and splutter for breath as slime ran down her face. When it finally, mercifully slackened off, she was left a shiny green disaster, sitting at the epicentre of a riotous splatterzone, oozing softly onto the platform below her ruined, green chair.

She carefully blinked open her eyes, and found Alexa’s gaze. Gunge dripping from her adorable button nose, she had only one thing to say.

“I fucking hate you.”

Alexa smiled. Those were her absolute favourite words to hear.

Fin

Just checking in. I hope you had a lovely summer - mine was complicated, but I made the best of it. I certainly overshared in a couple of now-deleted posts. Emotions will do that to ya. I plan to let the Custard Pit remain free of trauma (for my sake and yours).

What’s next? Well, the main barrier to writing sexy gunge fiction is having a Job, and that hasn’t changed. But we all need creative hobbies. Here’s what’s on my “to-write” list for 2025 and 2026.

• Finish my current commission (subtle wink to the pervert who let me do this, it’s fun)

• Grudge Match Episode 2: Pie Your Cards Right (~60% finished)

• One (or more) of the Lovely Jubblies stories from the archive

• A twisted new game I’ve invented called “Yes Please”

• Experimenting with game engines to make an interactive story

I hope that’s exciting!

Either way, thank you so much for being a subscriber. It genuinely makes me super proud that hundreds of folks are interested in what I have to write, and a few more lovely folk are even willing to pay me for it. Without that, I’d probably just pack up shop and launch a lame Bluesky account. So thank you.

Daisy xx

Hello my ensorcelled eclairs,

Presenting to you the final part of this anarchic animated epic! I do hope you enjoy.

I’m so pleased with how this came out - maybe my favourite story I’ve worked on. Huge thanks again to my collaborator Ryan Glop-Sling - a lovely person, a pleasure to work with, and a wonderfully imaginative gunge-pervert.

Ryan, the Witch and the Rabbit: Part 3

(Or start reading from Part 1 or Part 2)

What next?

I’m working on another commissioned story at the moment, and after that I’ll be taking a short writing break - just to get some headspace. However, I’ve been looking back at my old GungeWorld archive - a well-hidden folder of inconsistently named .txt files - and there are some fun tales that would definitely be worth editing and sharing. I’ve been writing big stories from scratch recently, so a change of focus might be enjoyable.

Also, a quick thank you to everyone who’s said nice things or just said hello recently, here and elsewhere. It’s been quite a rough time and my mental health has been erratic, so my apologies if I’ve been slightly incoherent or slow to reply. I really appreciate your kindness, and thank you for reading my silly stories. Hope you are finding your own slimy joy.

Daisy xxxx

Hello my champagne chums,

I do hope you enjoyed the first part of Ryan’s deliciously messy cartoon fantasy. After a somewhat rocky start with the Princesses, things now seem to be heading in a much more fun direction. Whatever will they get up to next?

Ryan, the Witch and the Rabbit: Part 2

(Or catch up from Part 1 if you missed it!)

Daisy xxx

Hello my beastly beauties,

Ooh baby, I’m excited to share this one. It’s a commission from a good friend and great collaborator, whom I shall refer to as Ryan Glop-Sling. When they started to lay out their story ideas, I was instantly smitten. As a lifelong Terry Pratchett fan, writing a magical comic fantasy was an irresistible prospect. And it was very clear that Ryan and I had similar favourite things when it comes to messy fun.

It’s an unapologetic wish-fulfilment fantasy. I hope you’ll enjoy meeting the Witch - she was tremendous fun to write. You will also encounter some royal beauties, whom you might be familiar with, and their unlikely friend from the wrong side of the tracks.

This is the first of three volumes of the story. The other two parts are finished, to be published at the end of February and end of March. It’s a big old tale, so I thought to give each part some breathing room. Plus, I love to leave you wanting more, my sweeties.

Like my other fanfic stories, this one lives over on AO3. If you enjoy, please do leave kudos and/or a comment!

Ryan, the Witch and the Rabbit: Part 1

Daisy xxxx

Hello my fabulous flan-flingers,

I wanted to give you all an update on the status of the blog, and my future plans.

When I started sharing my fiction, the paywall for Premium stories was a bit of an experiment. In many ways a successful one - it’s helped pay the bills, certainly, and I’m hugely thankful for that. At the time, I was in a pretty good writing groove with the GungeWorld stories, and I hadn’t started taking commissions yet. Publishing free and Premium stories intermittently was fairly achievable.

Now though, the situation’s a bit different. Life is placing some demands on my time. I’m very focused on commissions right now - I’m really enjoying that collaborative process. And it still bugs me that my Chun Li story over on AO3 is lurking unfinished. All of this means that, while I’m still writing sexy slimy stuff, there aren’t likely to be any “normal” GungeWorld stories on the blog for a while.

I’ve also had some stress in my full-time job. The added pressure of wanting to provide value for money in my side-hustle: well, it hasn’t been great for the old noggin. So I don’t think the paywall really works as intended anymore. Which is why I’ve decided to do away with it, and make all the stories free to read.

Hold on Daisy - I’m a paid subscriber, does that mean I lose my benefits?

I mean, kind of, but not entirely! Paid subscribers will still get discounts and priority on commissions. They will also get my undying gratitude, and the warm fuzzy feeling of supporting an independent writer.

So you’re not cancelling subscriptions?

I’m not, because I know some of my readers are still happy to chip in. But as what I’m offering has changed, I wouldn’t be in the least offended if you decided to pause or cancel. If you’ve taken out a longer subscription and feel disappointed to hear this news, drop me a line and I’ll be happy to sort out a refund.

(Puts on a different voice) I’m a free subscriber, what about me?

Pretty good news for you, if you like my particular brand of nonsense! The three stories which were paywalled are now free for everyone to read. They’re some of my longest, sloppiest, horniest work, and I’m very proud of them. Hope you enjoy.

(I hope I’ve fiddled with the settings correctly - if you can’t read these, please reply or comment.)

Future plans, then. As I mentioned, I really want to finish that Street Fighter fic before too long. And there are a couple of GungeWorld stories in progress - just not particularly near completion. I’d also like to branch out a little, and publish some different kinds of slop-related content - I’m working on a crit piece about the joys of Messygirl’s pie scenes, which I hope will be a fun and sexy read in its own right.

Finally - thank you, as always, for sticking around. I am so very fond of this kinky, playful, witty community. Much love.

Daisy xx

Hello my sticky strikers,

I love international football tournaments almost as much as I love gunge tanks. Lying in my bed last night, excited for the kickoff of Euro 2024, an idea popped into my head. What if GungeWorld did a Euros special?

This is a one-draft, two-hander mini-story, in which we learn what that could look like. There’s no actual mess - just a description of how it would all go down. You’ll see why below - if I wrote the whole story, it would be massively long and rather repetitive.

But if you’re already planning to watch the tournament, I hope your viewing might be enhanced by the thought of continental cuties getting splatted as the goals fly in. And if you’re not a football fan, maybe this’ll give you a good reason to watch?

Cum on England! xx

The Pitch

“Let’s hear it then, darling! I’m excited. What has your magnificent mind been cooking up?”

Alexa lounged in one corner of the sofa, cradling a fragrant gin & tonic in an enormous crystal glass with plenty of ice. Sally sat at the other end, knees bent, sipping from a bottle of lager. It was a beautiful spring evening in Dulwich, and bright green leaves swished quietly in the breeze outside the open window of their living room.

She knew Sally had been working on an idea for the GungeWorld Summer Special. This was always a one-off, standalone show, something with a theme that wouldn’t work so well over a whole season. A chance to experiment. They’d worked together on a Superhero vs Supervillains episode, with lots of sexy cosplay, then a hot and heavy Boys vs Girls showdown. Last year, they handed over the reins to Cassie’s new character, for Madame Goop’s Summer Fete. This time around, Sally said she’d been working on something, and Alexa couldn’t wait to hear it.

“So I know how much you love big football tournaments.”

“I certainly do.”

“And Euro 2024 is coming up.”

“Every fixture’s already in my GCal.”

“What if I told you we could watch every minute of the tourney, with friends and drinks and snacks, while also covering pretty girls in goo - and live-streaming the whole thing for our subscribers?”

A long pause. “I’d say it sounds wildly overambitious, and a lot of hard work. I love it. Please, continue.”

“Thank you. First job is to find 24 ladies - one who supports each country in the tournament.”

“Not an easy task.”

“We’re in London, though! All life is here. And our network is pretty good. I’m sure we can find at least one Georgian or Slovakian cutie.”

“But can you find kinky ones willing to get covered in slime? Presuming, of course, that’s what we’re intending to do to them?”

Sally pondered. “Okay, it might be difficult. But we can always look further afield. What’s a couple of plane or train tickets, if it makes this work? The investment portfolio did pretty well last year.”

“I’ll indulge it,” said Alexa. “Though if this is happening all tournament long, like you said, we’ll need to factor in hotel bills too.”

“Plenty of spare rooms here,” said Sally, with a subtle smirk.

It was true - their suburban manse could sleep at least ten guests. Alexa’s eyes glazed over momentarily, at the thought of spending four summer weeks with their house and garden full of playful hotties. This idea just kept getting better and better.

Sally ploughed onwards. “Anyway, once we’ve found our competitors, we put them in football kits. Full kit wanker vibes, too: shirt, shorts and socks. Nice and snug,” she added with a flirty wink.

“Every game day, it’s open house at the studios. We turn one of the sets into a giant living room - huge projector screen, comfy seats, mini-fridges full of beer, pizza deliveries all day and evening. And, of course, two very special seats for our contestants.”

“I’m starting to get your drift.”

“So, our girls’ slimy fates depend on what happens in the game. Let’s start with goals. In front of each chair, there’s a splat-cannon. If their team concedes a goal, they get a big heavy splurge of pie-cream, right in the kisser.”

“Delightful. Although what about VAR? Do we have to wait for the replay before we cream her?”

“Nah, we can cream her when the goal goes in. And if it gets chalked off by VAR, we can always do the same - nothing a bucket of cold water won’t fix.”

Alexa just laughed at Sally’s perfect metaphor. “You devil.”

“Oh, and the splatting increases. Concede a second goal, it’s two splats, and so on and so on.”

“Very on brand for us. And there’s usually at least one proper hammering. I already fear for the Scottish lass.”

“Quite. Now, let’s talk discipline.”

Alexa’s eyebrows shot up. “Moving onto whips and cuffs already, are we?”

“I knew you’d say that,” teased Sally, poking out her tongue. “I meant on the pitch - red and yellow cards. Here’s where we get a bit naughtier.”

“Makes sense. Fouls are naughty, aren’t they?”

“Precisely! Yellow cards mean a strip forfeit, with added custard. Because custard’s yellow, obviously. First one is socks off, feet in a bowl of custard. Second one is shorts off, jug of custard down your knickers. Then it’s shirt off, custard in the bra. Any more than that, the underwear starts coming off, and the buckets come out.”

It sounded very pleasing to watch, of course. But Alexa thought for a second, and pointed something out. “That’s bloody clever, you know. Some games have hardly any bookings, others have loads. So the clothed-mess lovers get to see tight football kits covered in gunge, but there’s also some sticky tits and pussy for the rest of us.”

“I thought it was quite neat, thank you! As for red cards, though - that’ll get you instantly naked, and a big, big bucket o’ baked beans.”

“Because red. Yes, a fitting punishment for a sending off, I think. What else?”

“That’s it - until full-time, at least. Then we have to gunge the loser. Back they go, into a special gunge-tank: triple-reservoir design. Filled with the colours of the opponent’s flag.”

At this point, Alexa actually clapped with glee. “Perfect! I hope we see lots of girls drenched in red and white…”

“Yeah - looking at the flags involved, we’ll have to make a lot of red and white, and a fair bit of blue.”

“I bet an Italian gunging looks wonderfully stylish. What if it’s a draw, though?”

Sally had anticipated this question, and her answer too. She put on a poker face.

“Well, neither team lost, so I guess nobody gets gunged.”

She watched Alexa’s face closely, as the brow furrowed, and the mouth dropped open in disappointment. “Wait, are you jok-”

“Yes, I’m joking, you big dummy,” she giggled. “Of course we gunge them both.”

Alexa sighed in relief, annoyed that she was tricked so easily. “Alright, you got me. But actually, we should do that as a bit on the livestream. You tell them that neither’s getting gunged, then I’ll step in and correct your terrible, silly decision.”

“Very fun.”

“Now my love - you know I’m going to dive into the details. Live-streaming? Every game?”

“It’d be easy enough. Split-screen, one camera on each chair: they don’t need to move until the final gunging. And just like on telly, we can do a daily highlights package. All the best sloppings, squeals, and excited jiggles when a free-kick whistles past the post.”

“Who’s editing that, then?”

“I’ll hire some help.”

A pragmatic answer - Alexa approved. She nodded.

“As you know,” said Sally, “the final two games in each group are played at the same time. So we’ll need four girls, four chairs, and four tanks.”

“Yes please! That could be carnage.”

“I certainly hope so. And that’s also the point where teams get unceremoniously dumped out of the tournament.”

Sally lowered her head, and looked down her nose at Alexa, impish and suggestive.

“Let me guess. They also get unceremoniously dunked into something sloppy?”

“Seeing as the tournament’s in Germany, I thought we could do a giant chocolate torte. With lots of thick double cream to pour on it, of course.”

Alexa sighed, happily. I really did marry the best girl. “Glad you didn’t say sauerkraut. So, next we’re into the knockout stages. What have you got planned for them?”

“I’ve not 100% decided. But the full-time gunging will get meaner and slimier every round, that’s for certain. We could use the reclining chairs - I do enjoy a nice full-body gunk-shower.”

“Who doesn’t?”

“I thought if a game goes to extra time, maybe they both get a nice big trifle over the head?”

“Doesn’t make much sense…”

“When has that ever stopped us? And penalty shootouts will be pie-nalty shootouts, of course.”

“Of course.”

There was a comfortable silence. Alexa finished the last of her drink.

“Prize for the winner?”

“Has to be a trophy, doesn’t it? With a nice ceremony. They get to lift the cup, everyone cheering, confetti cannons going off. And then, after we’ve snapped some nice pictures for the socials, the custard cannons go off too.”

Her pitch finished, Sally sat back and extended her legs, gently touching her feet against her wife’s.

“What do you think?”

“I think it’s going to be an amazing summer. I just hope our England lads don’t find a way to ruin it.”

Sally gave a carefree laugh. “Nah. This time it’s coming home, innit?”

Fin

Hello, my deserving dunkees,

I’m beyond delighted to present to you my first ever commissioned story.

This is a collaboration with a lovely anonymous subscriber, whom I have assigned a pen name: Goo Read. If you enjoy this one, we’re hoping to team up again in future! GR was a pleasure to work with, and provided most of the deliciously devious details.

Although I adore a gunk dunk, I’d never written a directly GYOB-inspired story - partly because there’s a wealth of good ones already. But GR’s pitch was hard to resist. I’d get to write a new dommy, messy gameshow host, tormenting two competing pairs who really hit the sweet spot of “squabbling rivals.”

GR also suggested that maybe our new mistress could be in competition with Alexa. Honestly - when I first published a few horny slimy stories, I never thought I’d be launching a GungeWorld Cinematic Universe. (Cine-splattic? No, that’s no good.)

This is the second-longest story I’ve ever published, behind House of Mirrors. It’s a whole-ass, big old filthy gameshow. It’s messy all the way through, though there’s a gradual build towards the messiest and naughtiest stuff. And I’m proud of how the character relationships develop and unfold along the way.

The vibe of this show is just a little different from GungeWorld. The edges are a bit sharper, and I enjoyed that, as a writing challenge.

And it’s a free story for all subscribers! GR wanted to invite you all into the audience for this grimy little slopfest. Many thanks GR (though I also write private commissions, if you’re less keen on voyeurs…)

Before I leave you to it, a quick update on my plans. I’m working mostly on another commission, though I’ve got two GungeWorld stories in the editing pipeline. And I’m determined to finish Exposé with Rainbow Mika before 2024 is out.

That’s enough from me. On with the show.

Payback

A Slop House Story

Words by Daisy D. Duncan
Story by Daisy D. Duncan & Goo Read

Prologue

Dnk.

It made a quiet noise, the slime-green plastic ball bouncing off the side-table. Alexa wouldn’t have heard it at all, if she’d had music or a podcast playing. The sound snapped her gaze upwards from the blueprint she’d been scrutinising, a long-range pie-flinger.

Plok, dnf, dnf.

The ball bounced from the table to the wall, then a couple more times on the carpet, quickly coming to a rest.

Alexa glanced up over her shoulder, reverse-engineering the ball’s trajectory, and piecing together that it must have flown through the open window. She tossed the document down onto her desk, and with a coiled grace, swiftly rose from the chair and exited her office.

She paced across the foyer with powerful urgency, giving Janice the receptionist quite a start, and pushed open the door to the outside with a firm palm.

There was nobody in the car park. The sound of a motorcycle engine was already tailing off into the hot summer air, and within a few seconds, all was quiet.

After a long moment, she went back inside.

“Everything alright, Alexa?”

“Sorry about that, Janice,” she replied, returning across the foyer at a more normal pace. “Nothing to worry about. I think.”

Janice’s eyebrow raised - you think?

“I’ll let you know.”

Much too professional to pry further, her employee went back to her work.

Back in the office, Alexa picked up the unexpected interloper. A light, hollow plastic sphere. It wasn’t until she tossed it idly in her hand that she noticed the writing.

Written in small, scribbly capitals, black ink: OPEN ME.

Her eyes narrowed. She really didn’t have time for some Alice in Wonderland bullshit today.

Had to be done, though. She retook her seat, opened the top drawer of the desk, and grabbed a pair of scissors. Within a few seconds, she’d snipped a slit into the plastic, then widened it enough to prise the ball open. Inside was a folded piece of paper. She looked upwards at the ceiling for a moment, trying to think how someone would slip a note inside a sealed plastic ball. Then she decided that question could wait for later.

Before unfolding it, she hesitated for a moment, trying to cram words like death threat and extortion down into the back of her mind. But nothing would be solved by avoidance, so she opened it up and read the words, clearly scrawled by the same Sharpie as before.

INTRODUCING YOUR COMPETITION:
SLOPHOUSE.TV
ERIS XXX

She navigated to the website, and what she saw as she scrolled made her brow furrow. Soon, she reached down into her handbag, and withdrew her credit card from her purse.

Could have included a discount code, at least. Rude.

Once she’d paid for access, Alexa set the first video she came across to play, watching in silence.

After around fifteen minutes, she paused it, and called Sally, whom she knew was working backstage.

“Hiya.”

“Hey. Uh, just got kind of an important message. Can you come over?”

Sally sighed. She really hadn’t expected her wife to have a horny day.

Reading her mind, Alexa continued: “Not like that. You should see this.”

Oh, okay. Sally could hear the concern in Alexa’s voice. Perhaps this time she wasn’t just being summoned to lick pussy.

“Sure. See you in a mo.”

By the time she reached the office, Alexa had set up the video on the large TV, ready to play again from the start. She sat on the comfortable grey couch opposite the screen, holding the remote. Looking up at Sally with friendly eyes, she patted the seat beside her.

“This is weird. Movie night? Movie… afternoon?”

“Sorry, I know you’re busy. But like I said… you should really see this.”

I: Strife and Discord

A steady, fuzzy electric bassline pulsed, and a lone snare hit the 2s and 4s. The camera was capturing nothing but a bare brick wall. Ten seconds passed.

From right of frame, a figure sauntered in, ignoring the camera entirely.

Her profile was striking. A shiny, emerald-green corset pinched in her waist, but below, she widened immediately, the skin of her round buttocks and thick thighs a rich brown. Her legs were sheathed in black fishnets, leading down to a pair of pristine black Doc Martens that clomped against the floor.

At the top of the corset, her chest ballooned out just as pleasingly, though it was a little hard to appreciate at this angle, seeing as her hands were held aloft. In one, she carried a bottle of Red Stripe, and in the other, balanced on the palm, she carried a large, tasty-looking cream pie.

The woman drank lazily from her bottle as she mooched in front of the camera, like a bored teenager awaiting a friend at the bus stop. She didn’t look down the lens, but while she swanned about, it captured her shoulder-length black hair, streaked occasionally with bright white, which hung asymmetrically over one of her big brown eyes.

She finally seemed to notice the camera. The corner of her mouth that was adorned with two lip-rings - not her only piercings - curved up into a wicked smirk.

“What’s up, perverts? Yeah, I see you staring, you mucky pups.”

Now, she broke into a grin. “Hey. At least you’ve come to the right place.”

Her right arm twisted a little, readying itself.

“I’m Eris. Welcome to the Slop House.”

And with that, she hefted the pie right into the camera. It was a perfect hit, the visual immediately becoming blurred and creamy, and the microphones clearly picking up the sound of a wet squelch.

As the pie hit the protective sheeting, the low bassy riff suddenly transformed into a full-on thrash of punk, accompanied by Eris’s filthy laugh. The camera appeared to jerk around confused for a few seconds.

“Oops! I pied the camera. Ahaha. Come on Wenches, find me another. Quick-quick now.”

Several seconds later, a sudden cut, and now the same imposing, punky mistress was framed reclining, in what looked like a fairly cheap and shabby armchair. Leaning back only accentuated her cleavage, and the look on her face suggested she knew it.

Beside the armchair was a large video screen, higher than it was wide, like a widescreen TV turned on its side. Its frame looked like slightly rusted metal - in fact, just about everything in shot appeared a bit distressed and shabby. The lighting was artfully low, but not too low. Eris’s luscious curves, racy outfit and piercing gaze were being picked up in full 4K HD, that much was certain.

“So yeah,” she began, as the music quietened back down to a low throb. “The Slop House. My little hideaway, slash-club, slash-dungeon. Pretty cool, if I do say so myself.”

Her accent spoke to the east London suburbs, all wide vowels and studied insouciance. She picked up her beer from the side-table, and gave it another swig.

“What do we do here? Oh come on. If you found me, you know damn well. But sure - just in case you’re watching with your grandma for some reason, here’s the deal.

“Do you remember when gameshows actually had some risk to them? When you could lose, and like - bad things would happen to you? I’m not talking celebrity jungle bullshit - just normal everyday people, going on TV, and ending up totally messy and humiliated?”

Eris sighed. “Ahh, I miss that. But do you ever think they weren’t mean enough?”

Taking another swig of the beer, she smouldered down the lens.

“High stakes. Come play at the Slop House, you might get what you really want. But you might get more than you bargained for.”

At this point, she gracefully peeled herself up from the armchair, and stepped towards the screen. In fact, she rather embraced it - the metal edge of it nestling between her breasts as she hovered one hand just above the surface.

“And here’s the best part. You can watch these poor unfortunate souls struggle, live on camera, from the comfort of your own home… where no-one can see how much you’re enjoying it.” She gave a meaningful wink.

“Shall we say hello to the chat?”

With a lithe finger, she tapped to activate the screen. Immediately, a torrent of text began to scroll up it - comments, rendered in a nice chunky font, shorn of their usernames.

FUCK YEAH
SLIME TIME!
ARE U GETTING GUNGED?
SLOP HOUSE FTW

“Ahh, the unwashed plebs. Evening, you ‘orrible rabble.”

She leaned away from the screen, and gestured down at herself, flexing and stretching a little, unashamedly drawing attention to her body.

“What do you think of my outfit? Episode one, I wasn’t sure if it’d go down well…”

The text continued to scroll, and Eris watched closely, hoping the AI-aided system would work. Ideally, it would pick out messages from the real-time chat that were both vaguely coherent and unashamedly horny. Thankfully, it was off to a good start.

OMGGG ERIS
SO FUCKING HOT
NEEDS GUNGE GUNGE HER NOW

“Gunge her now? Oh no, you poor idiot. If you think I’m getting gunged tonight, you might wanna close the stream, cos you’ll only end up disappointed.” She rolled her eyes.

“I hear ya, though, I hear ya. I think we should go and find out who will be facing a slimy fate - and worse besides. But you’ll have to generate some atmosphere, chat. How ‘bout you hit that CHEER button, and get this place a bit lively?”

Obediently, the live viewers clicked the option in their chat box, and a background of raucous whoops and applause began to play, getting louder every moment. Eris smiled at her own ingenuity - again, this was some advanced AI trickery. The viewers could cheer, boo, laugh, and so on, and a sophisticated algorithm would translate their clicks into very convincing audio.

“That’s what I wanna hear. Now come with me.”

She strolled through the set, revealing more of its indie-nightclub decor, her limbs loose, her swagger nonchalant.

As she reached her destination, the camera framed Eris taking her place on another large chair, which stood on a small raised stage. Two tall screens, much like the one before, were attached to the wall, behind each of the host’s shoulders. The stage was flanked by four women - in varying states of comfort.

On the left of the shot were two fairly tall white ladies, who looked in their mid-twenties. The resemblance was immediately apparent - both had straight, smooth red hair that fell to their shoulders, deep green eyes, and rosy cheeks. Their figures were similar too - and quite a sight to behold. Both had large, luscious breasts, straining against bright yellow sports-bikini tops - low-cut, and definitely a size too small, encouraging some outrageous cleavage. Wide, curvy hips were sheathed in yellow bikini panties, not drastically skimpy, but just as enticingly tight. The expanses of skin left bare by these outfits were, on both girls, periodically adorned with tattoos.

One of the girls sat in a similar chair to Eris’s, looking rather smiley and smug, her legs neatly crossed, hands perched in her lap. Her tattoos were intricate and detailed - a large mythical bird of some kind descended from one shoulder, and a female warrior queen stood proudly on the other.

The other member of this pair stood inside a tall barred enclosure with a domed roof - essentially, a human-sized birdcage made of grey metal. Her tattoos were smaller and rather cuter - a love heart here, a cartoon cat there, and the like. She held two of the vertical bars, pouting in discomfort, and glancing with a hangdog expression between the camera and the host.

This arrangement was neatly mirrored opposite. In the cage on the right was a tall and imposing figure, with skin the colour of burnt umber, intense brown eyes, and long, raven hair tied into a ponytail. She seemed older, late thirties perhaps, and her body looked powerfully athletic, lean and toned and muscled beneath her royal blue bikini. She didn’t seem at all sheepish or embarrassed to be locked in this little prison - instead, she held a rakish pose, hands on hips, shooting regular glances at the girl in the chair next to her.

Where the yellow-clad girls were clearly related, the difference between the two in blue could not be starker. In the chair sat a petite, pale girl, maybe the youngest of the four, with wide, innocent blue eyes, an adorable button nose, and a neat blonde bob. Her body language seemed to betray some nerves, her hands fidgeting together in her lap, occasionally tugging absent-mindedly at the fabric of her tight swimwear, as if she wasn’t used to wearing something so revealing.

Eris looked down the lens of the camera, not addressing the nervous girls around for the moment.

“Tonight in the Slop House, we’re playing a game all about sweet revenge. I’ve been kicking around a few possible titles. I thought I might call it Gunge Your Old Buddy. Or, I dunno, Gushing Yuckiness Over Babes. But I don’t like being too clever-clever, and I also don’t fancy getting sued, so I’m just calling it Payback.”

The artificial crowd noise rippled a little louder with excitement.

“Two of our contestants tonight have a real bee in their bonnet about someone else in their life. So they’ve brought them here, to my little den of iniquity, hoping they’ll get to dish out a dose of punishment - and send their nominee to the Mega Mucky Super Sloppy Gunk Dunk!”

More algorithmic cheering rose from the speakers.

“Time to meet our players, I think! Let’s start with the yellow team.” Eris turned to her right, and looked down towards the redheaded girl in the seat. “What’s your name, who have you brought along - and why?”

The lass bobbed her shoulders a little, as if building her confidence, then put on her best perky voice.

“Hi Eris - I’m Bella, and I really want to gunge my younger sister Beattie.” Her accent was a warm Bristolian. “She’s such a little princess - she acts so innocent, and she gets away with everything.”

“That does sound bloody annoying. You’ve brought us some examples, haven’t you?”

Bella nodded. “Mmm-hmm.”

“Roll VT!”

The screen between Eris and the yellow contestants flickered into life, and Bella’s face took up much of the frame. She was filming a video in selfie mode.

“So I’m at mum and dad’s house,” she began. “Here in the living room - look at this.”

Bella flicked the phone around, pointing the camera at a suspicious purple stain on the cream-coloured carpet, beside the sofa.

“Beattie had a party when she was in sixth form, and she got so drunk on red wine, she puked on the carpet. When the stain didn’t come out, she blamed it on the dog! And they believed her! I’m still annoyed about that - I always got in so much trouble for drinking…”

A cut, and now Beattie was standing outside in the garden. “This,” she said, indicating a flowerbed behind her, “was where she used to leave her fag-ends when she went out for a sneaky smoke. Again, mum and dad discovered them - stupid place to leave them - and guess who got blamed? That’s right, muggins here! Just because I was older! Argh!”

One more cut, and this time Bella’s face was trying to suppress giggles. “This one’s just too good. It’s like a week before the show, I can’t believe it. Look at Beattie’s car.”

The camera took in a silver Skoda Fabia. One of its headlights was smashed, and the area around it had been totally crumpled.

“She drove into a bollard. And somehow, she’s convinced Dad to help pay for the repairs! I’ll bet my life she put on the puppy-dog eyes. Little Baby Beattie. I’m fed up with it - you have to let me gunge her!”

The video ended, and the in-studio cameras captured Beattie’s face in the cage, looking mightily annoyed.

“Well, Beattie,” began the host. “Seems pretty damning to me. Playing the sweet innocent little girl all the time - it deffo sounds like a good reason for some slimy punishment.”

“That is so not the whole truth,” began Beattie, thrusting an accusing finger towards her sister. “She’s done so much mean stuff to me, and got me in trouble loads of times. It should be her in the cage!”

“Well, maybe you should have emailed the show before she did, dum-dum. That’s enough from you - maybe I’ll give you a chance to plead your case later. For now, I’m interested to know what the viewers think…”

On the same screen that had shown the video, some chat highlights started to scroll up. Bella snickered, and Beattie blushed deeply, as she read the audience’s thoughts.

YAY FOR BOOBS
GUNGE THE GINGER!
SLIME BEATTIE PLZ
BIG N MILKY
BEATTIE FOR THE GUNGE

It continued much in that vein, before Eris reached back to tap the screen and mercifully shut it off for now. “Looks like gunging you would make a lot of people happy, Beattie. Me included. But we’ve got two more contestants to meet.” Eris swivelled in her seat, and repeated her introductory questions to the girl clad in the blue bikini.

“Erm, hi. I’m Penelope, and I want to gunge my riding instructor, Maria. She’s always… um, she gives me the worst jobs at the stables, and she’s always really harsh on me, even though I try my best and train really hard.”

In the cage, Maria rolled her eyes while Eris cued up Penelope’s video. It began with a striking image - a huge pile of manure.

“So normally, when it’s my turn to muck out the stables,” said Penelope from behind the camera, “I would bring some old clothes to change into. But today, Maria said she’d decided to change the rota at short notice.”

She spun the phone around, and angled it to capture her riding helmet, her starched blouse, and her tight, black jodhpurs. “So I’ve got to do it in my riding gear, so that’s another load of washing for me. And I only mucked them out last week - no way should it be my turn again!”

It cut to her next clip - Penelope was sitting in a changing room, in the same outfit, though she’d doffed her helmet. Her hair seemed straggly, and her face sweaty.

“I’ve just had to do a whole hour of extra practice… Maria said my form was poor on the jumps, even though I cleared nearly all of them. Jemma was so much worse than me, and she got to go home! I swear, it’s a vendetta.” Penelope sighed, and gazed beseechingly into her camera. “So please, please let me send Maria to the Gunk Dunk!”

As the video switched off, the tall Latina lady barked out a contemptuous laugh.

“Just so you know, Penelope,” said Eris, “It’s actually called the Mega Mucky Super Sloppy Gunk Dunk. But I’ll let you off this time.” The meek girl gave an embarrassed wince.

“Now then. Maria. Are you a harsh but fair taskmaster, or just a total bitch?”

“Ha! She’s such a drama queen, this Penelope.” Her voice was loud and defiant, gently inflected with the tones of her native Argentina. “I’m just trying to toughen her up a little. Young people these days - you know what I mean? You have to shovel some horseshit, it’s not the end of the world.”

Eris smiled. “Got a bit of an attitude on you, eh? That might serve you well. What do the viewers think, though?” Once again, she set the top comments scrolling.

DOMMY MOMMY
DUNK HER IN THE MANURE
STEP ON ME MARIA
GUNGE PENELOPE INSTEAD!

The last comment had the petite blonde squirming in her seat, and Eris very much noticed. “Youch, Penelope! Looks like not everyone’s on your side. Never mind though - maybe you can win them over.”

Penelope tried to keep herself calm. Now that the cameras were rolling, she was much more nervous than she’d expected. And Eris’s continuing spiel didn’t help.

“So how do we decide who gets to throw their nemesis into a huge tub of cold, stinky, horrible gunge? By playing some silly games, of course. Silly messy games - in case any of you were daft enough to think you’d get away clean…”

None of them were quite under that impression - they knew the rough shape of what they’d signed up for, if not the full details.

“No time to waste. Let’s get these squabbling sluts ready for our first game. We’ll see you after a quick commercial break. Buy the products, you consumerist sheep!”

A sharp, rocky musical sting took the stream into break mode. Those watching live were presented with a fairly diverting slideshow - adverts for sex toys and lube, fetish porn subscription offers, sneak previews of upcoming Slop House content. Those watching on catchup - including Alexa and Sally - got a trimmed-down version that only took around 30 seconds. Alexa wasn’t tempted to skip past it - she wanted to see what sponsorship deals this show had managed to land.

Back on set, however, Eris stood sharply up from her chair, and began to bark out orders. There was very little difference from her on-camera demeanour.

“Right! We’re live again in five, so let’s get moving. Get ‘em out of the cages please. On your feet, you two.”

A couple of the stagehands - or Wenches, as Eris had dubbed them - efficiently opened the cage doors and let Maria and Beattie step out. These Wenches were distinctly on-brand for the Slop House - punky-looking girls in distressed clothing, lots of dyed hair and piercings.

“Follow me - quickly now.”

The foursome obeyed, having to hustle to keep up with Eris’s brisk walking speed, her Dockers thudding against the floor. The sisters in particular jiggled deliciously as they did so. They followed through a nearby set of double doors, into a room with the same distressed brick walls, but a much higher ceiling. Standing in front of them was the apparatus for the first game - a gargantuan inflatable edifice. In contrast to the usual neon hues of these things, it looked to be entirely black and white.

Above and around the bouncy mountain were various industrial-looking pipes, vats, and other nonsense. But none of the wide-eyed girls had a proper chance to suss out what they were in for quite yet.

“Costumes! Maria, Beattie - these are yours.”

With the time pressure of a live show, there wasn’t breathing room for a proper costume change - and besides, those tight two-pieces were intentionally chosen. So the two nominated girls were each handed a short burgundy shoulder-cloak with “ermine” trim, clearly bought from some basic party-supplies store. With an amused glance at each other, they fastened the clasps around their necks - the fabric draped a little down their upper arms and back, but didn’t cover much else.

The costume was completed with a pair of shiny gold plastic crowns. “Looking good, girls,” said Eris, with a noticeable dose of sarcasm. “That way - the Wenches will help you up to your perches.”

Next it was Bella and Penelope’s turn - they were each given a prim white hat, something a French peasant woman may have worn, and a neckerchief. The fact that it was all rather slapdash only added to the charm.

After a slightly nerve-racking ascent up a pair of tall stepladders, Maria and Beattie ended up at the top of the giant inflatable, easily twenty feet off the ground, sitting in big squishy chairs. Now that they were situated, the gooey potential looked much clearer - Maria continued to laugh blithely to herself, but Beattie winced a little as she assessed her surroundings.

Dangling from the ceiling was one vertical, round-ended pipe, not quite over her head - a little in front, in fact, which was puzzling. Less puzzling was the large, rusty-looking vat that hung ominously above and behind her. And there was also a tall vertical pipe that stood beside the inflatable, jutting up from the floor - at its top, it kinked back down to aim at the side of Beattie’s head. The whole arrangement was mirrored on Maria’s side.

The two of them were also able to look down at the course below. The whole thing was split in half, with an inflatable divider between the sections. Each half had a wall at the back with a wide slot in it. In front of that wall was a shallow, square pit, clearly filled with a couple of feet or so of bright gunge - yellow slime for the blue team, blue slime for the yellow team. Another pair of standing-pipes stood ready to spray into the pits, and a pair of tipping-vats hovered above the back wall, too.

In front of the pits stood Bella and Penelope, ready and waiting. And in front of them was the inflatable hill they would have to traverse - not too steep an angle, and there was a knotted rope dangling down to help, but it was still a decent climb. At the top, on the barrier that separated the slope from the “royals” in their chairs, was a row of five thick, oversized playing cards on each team’s side, stuck there with velcro.

Before the Wenches descended, with time running out before the end of the break, they tapped Maria and Beattie on their shoulders, handing each of them a large tin bucket with a sturdy handle.

“You’ll need this. Break a leg…”

Beattie swallowed down her nerves. Well, if I might be getting very messy later, I might as well try and get used to it now…

II: Haves and Have-nots

Eris had an ascent to make too - into a tall umpire’s chair that was able to look down over the playing field, and the waiting, nervous contestants. She ensured her mic was clipped on correctly, and then boomed out some instructions, which were amplified by the PA.

“We’re live in twenty seconds. I’m not bloody repeating myself, so when I explain the game for the viewers, I suggest you all listen up too. Clear?”

Butterflies fluttered in stomachs, as all four of them nodded towards her.

“Good. In five! Four! Three!”

She left the last two numbers silent as she addressed the camera again. Her facial jewellery glistened under the studio lights.

“Welcome back to the Slop House, deviants! I’m sure you’re all firmly anticipating our first game. It’s called Royal Fl… oh, wait. Yeah, the whole ‘not-getting-sued’ thing. Let’s call it… The Queen is Dead. Here’s the lowdown.”

The multiple cameras swivelled, stretched and panned to match Eris’s breezy, sarky voiceover. In the control room, tech Wenches smartly cut between shots.

“Our high-and-mighty queens sit atop the castle. But the peasants are thirsty for revenge - and vive la révolution, I say! To depose the queens, the peasants must climb the castle walls and claim the five playing cards affixed there.”

The cameras cut back to Eris, who was giving side-eye and raised eyebrows. “Look, the analogy isn’t going to hold perfectly, OK? Anyway. Once they get hold of a card, they will place it in the slot down there. Carefully, I would recommend.”

Penelope glanced behind her at the slime-pit, understanding she’d have to wade through it just to progress in the game. She tried not to think about slipping over and faceplanting into the stuff.

“Of course, the rich cunts always have ways of keeping the plebs out. Our queens will be able to fill their buckets with gooey ammunition, to defend themselves.” The overhead pipes were in shot at this point.

“But just to introduce a little sorely-needed democracy to this scenario, our viewers will be able to side with one of the queens.”

Eris pointed a finger directly into the camera lens. “Yes, that’s you, dumbass! Whichever queen you favour will be supplied with more gunge, to better quell the uprising. Just click the button. It’s not hard.”

The cameras captured a quick competitive glance between the two nominees atop the hill.

“The first peasant to deposit all five cards will be the winner. Their queen won’t get the guillotine - but they will get something that starts with G…”

A hammy glance upwards and backwards at the hanging vats now, from both Beattie and Maria. Even though she was trepidatious, Beattie had to admit that the thrill of the lights and cameras was getting her a little excited. She really hoped she’d get plenty of gunge to slather over Bella down there.

“Oh - one more thing. Let’s sprinkle in a little chaos. Four of the cards on each side are Queens, fittingly - but one of them is a Joker. Deposit that card, and things might get a little sloppier on both sides of the class divide.”

Eris held her hand up in the air for a moment, as if commanding the contestants’ attention.

“Ready. Steady. Goo!”

The speakers burst into life with artificial cheering, and a scuzzy rock soundtrack began. Bella and Penelope were both taken aback by the sudden start, but quickly sprang forward, grasped the ropes in front of them, and began to pull themselves upwards.

Eris, for her own amusement as much as the viewers’, provided running commentary.

“And they’re off! Which peasant will depose their tyrannical ruler? Slam those buttons people, let’s make some noise and pour some gunge!”

From on high, two surprised shrieks cut through the noise. The pipes above Maria and Beattie had both instantly begun pouring a stream of grass-green slop. Beattie was lucky - she’d been holding the bucket neatly on her legs, which is exactly where the gunge fell, though its loud, splashy impact into the pail was alarming. Maria, meanwhile, had been holding the bucket to the side - and for that, she got a wet, sloppy slathering of slime against her muscular thighs. Shocked, she hurriedly rectified her mistake and positioned the bucket, which began to fill. She squirmed, feeling her slippery legs slide together underneath it.

“Ooh, it looks like our viewers are arming Maria with more slime… interesting…”

The bouncy white runway up the hill was still clean and dry, so both Penelope and Bella found their first ascent fairly straightforward, and they were soon near the top. The queens, meanwhile, were faced with a choice - try to pour some slime from their seats, or lean forward under the stream for a better angle?

Beattie chose the first option, though her bucket was hardly filled at all. She thrust it forward, wincing as the stream splashed over her legs. And the result was disappointing - a pretty pathetic slosh of gunge over the lip of her enclosure. Bella gave a startled “yip!” as she felt a few splats hit her hair and arms, but she clung on.

Maria, meanwhile, seemed much more determined to hamper Penelope’s progress. She gathered as much gunge as she could, then leaned forward. She ducked to the side a little, so the pouring goop slicked over her cloak and down her back. Upending the bucket, she slathered a decent helping of the green stuff directly down over Penelope’s head.

“Eugh!” Penelope tensed up as she received her first ever gunging, holding fast to the rope. It was lukewarm, clinging wetly to her hair and shoulders, dripping down her button nose, and knocking her silly little hat clean off. She had to grab a card, and fast.

Anticipating that things would only get trickier as the game went on, she swung her weight to the left, then lunged to the right, grabbing the outermost card on that side. It came away easily, and as soon as she confirmed it was safe in her grip, she dropped onto her bum, and let go of the rope, hoping her momentum wouldn’t send her sliding straight into the gunge pit at the end.

Bella had also grabbed a card, her central one, and the two contestants were neck-and-neck. They both slid to a halt a few feet short of the gooey hollow, then shuffled forwards and carefully lowered their legs from the bouncy runway. With little hops forward, they both waded into the thick, knee-deep gunge, Penelope making little noises of disgust.

Eris had spotted something. “Fuck yeah - I think Bella might have picked up the Joker there. This should be a good laugh…”

Both contestants carefully slotted their playing cards through the opening. Bella had just turned around to wade back through the pit, when a loud hissing noise on her left grabbed her attention. She turned to look - only to receive a blast of foam right in the face.

“Guaaagh!”

The standing pipe next to the inflatable had begun to spew a fluffy white torrent down into the pit. As she cowered away, Bella felt the stuff coat her shoulder, back and hair. It felt light and slightly damp, but it was squirting out at a rapid clip, in a widening cone, starting to fill the pit with foam.

A similarly-accented wail of shock had come from the top of the inflatable, too. The pipe aimed at Beattie had also turned on, pumping its soggy stream right over her head and shoulders, knocking off her crown and soaking her cheap cloak. She turned away, trying to keep the bucket steady and catch more gunge. Her squeals of discomfort only grew louder when she realised it didn’t seem to be stopping. Maria, turning her head to see what the fuss was about, cackled with delight.

Bella scurried to the edge of the pit, flustered, and jumped forwards onto the runway. The foamy surprise had put her a little behind the determined Penelope, who was already climbing once again.

“A little gap opening up now,” narrated Eris. “Will it stay that way?”

The audience votes, though, had continued to lean towards Maria over Beattie. That advantage - plus the extra time afforded by Penelope completing an entire trip down and back up - meant the riding instructor’s bucket was now full and heavy with thick green slime. She carefully watched Penelope climb, and then when she was in range, Maria leaned forward once again, not seeming to care about the splatter from above.

“Oh Penelope…” she teased, with a wicked grin. The petite blonde didn’t look up - she just held onto the rope and tensed.

The bucketload of goo exploded over her head and shoulders with a loud splurge, and she screeched in alarm. Her chest and thighs were immediately coated in clingy, slippery slime - as was, unfortunately, the sloping white runway below her, great green rivers slithering down it.

Penelope’s feet began to slip - she scrabbled for purchase, then fell forwards onto the slimy plastic, desperately gripping the rope as she did so. Maria pealed with laughter, already sitting back to fill up her bucket with the generous allowance of slime from the viewers.

“Ooh dear! Score one for the monarchy! But wait a minute - she’s actually clinging on…”

She may have been small, but Penelope was strong. With difficulty, she dragged herself to her feet, and inched as high up the rope as she could go, before lunging for another edge card, sticking to her strategy. Again, once she had a firm grip, she allowed herself to fall, away from Maria’s menacing gunge-bucket, righting herself as she went, pointing her legs forward.

This time, the extra slime imparted extra slidey momentum, and her eyes widened as she approached the goo-pit. But she decelerated just enough - and in fact, using her rider’s poise, made a graceful dismount into the slop, staying on her feet and paddling quickly through to deposit her second card of the game.

Bella was making a second climb too, and squealing through a dousing from her sister, slightly better-aimed this time, despite the distraction of an ongoing foam-shower. Just as she grasped a card, one of her feet slipped - and though she managed to keep hold, she fell awkwardly onto her front, her generous chest squishing against the already-slimy runway as she slid backwards.

She stopped thankfully short of the pit at the end, and breathlessly righted herself, already red-cheeked and panting from exertion. Then she gave a little squeal of trepidation, remembering that she’d have to plough through the ongoing foam shower to even score. The white fluff had already piled high onto the surface of the slop below, enough to engulf anyone wading through.

“Bella’s got quite a hazard to navigate now! Poor thing.”

She really didn’t have a choice - and so, swearing to herself, she plopped down into the trough and fought her way through the spraying foam, sensibly using the oversized card as a moderately-effective shield. Once she’d deposited it, and navigated her way back out, she sighed in annoyance to see Penelope way ahead, already at the top again.

The diminutive horse-girl had adjusted her strategy this time - before she was in range of her taunting coach, she dropped to her knees, hauling herself up the rope with her strong arms first and foremost. It was a smart decision: as expected, Maria mercilessly dumped another huge slosh of gunge right over her. It left her hair covered by a shiny green dome, and her bikini top was sodden, her perky little breasts feeling slimy and strange, starting to show some firmness at their tips.

Penelope was a woman on a mission, though, and she’d left herself an easier task by going for the edge cards first. It was much simpler to pluck her next one - she did so, and smartly turned around to escape once again, riding down on her bum beside the rope. A little more slippery, and a little faster, this time - with a quivering cry, she fell right into the goo, landing on her behind in the pit with a splat.

The sensation - her whole legs and hips suddenly swamped in thick yellow gunk - made her shudder, though in fascination as much as disgust.

“Oops! A slimy splash-landing for Penelope. Is she getting too hasty?”

As she stood wearily up, extracting herself, she did notice this card was a Joker. The madness on the other half of the playing field hadn’t escaped her attention, so she prepared herself before slotting the card through. As the foam began to spray down, she hurriedly retreated back onto the runway, not getting too slathered. She looked up with some satisfaction, watching Maria shout in alarm as her own splat-shower started to gush down.

Beattie was now buried in a mound of this silly, airy fluff, loudly complaining about the voters siding with Maria. “Help! Give me more gunge, she’s coming!”

Her sister was indeed approaching again - though not with great speed or grace. She was tired, slimy, and not a strong climber at the best of times. After enduring another comparatively light splattering from above, she jumped to grab a card - and completely missed, falling onto her side and losing grip on the rope.

“Nooo! Fuuuck!”

“Swing and a miss from Bella!” taunted Eris, as the bouncy redhead flailed and slid, very nearly tumbling headlong into the goo at the bottom. “Let’s be honest - this is only ending one way, isn’t it?”

This prediction proved accurate. The rest of the game was pretty much a formality. Gritting her teeth, Penelope fought her way up the slimy hill, grimaced through another thorough gunging from Maria, and claimed a fourth card. She slid into the goo, pawed her way through the foam, and emerged again for the final climb.

“I think the end is nigh for the Blue queen…”

To her credit, Bella didn’t give up - she gathered herself, addressed the rope again, and managed to grab her third card. But Penelope was right beside her. Maria, soaked in gunge and foam herself, delivered one final bucketload. It was no use, though - Penelope grabbed her final card, and the two contestants slid back down together. Frantically dashing into the foam, they slotted them into the goal at nearly the same time - Bella just a fraction before.

“And that’s the game!”

Just to underline the host’s point, a loud klaxon boomed from the PA. Penelope rushed out of the spray and hopped up onto the runway, wiping fluff away from her face, eyes trained with anticipation at the top of the inflatable mountain.

The two ammunition-pipes both ceased pouring gunge, and the foam-sprayers quietened too - including, Penelope noticed, the one at her back. It gave a slightly clearer view of Maria, who was hunching her shoulders, pointing a furious finger down at Penelope, and shouting.

“You little- aaaghck!”

The vat above Maria tipped downwards with incredible swiftness. From its wide mouth, an enormous wave of thick yellow gunge sloshed out, all at once, right over Maria’s inflatable throne.

It was a veritable explosion of slop, fast and heavy and brutal. The slap of slime against plastic and skin was incredibly noisy. Beattie yelped as she got some gooey arcs of collateral damage over her bare legs. Maria screeched and swore in fury. And Penelope watched in silence, entranced by the sight and sound, her heart pounding like a drum.

When the dousing was done, Maria sat there, as stiff as a statue, mouth wide open, absolutely dripping with thick yellow gunk. The virtual audience’s cheers and laughter were at fever pitch, though a few boos were sprinkled in, fans of the Latina firecracker defending their queen. Beattie, in the adjacent seat, looked over with eyebrows hoisted high, glad to have avoided that slopping.

“Penelope wins!” shouted Eris. It was music to the blonde girl’s ears.

“I suppose I should dish out some points,” the host continued. “But one more thing to do first. Queen Maria’s reign is over, and Bella’s revolution has failed.”

She left a teasing beat. “D’you know that saying, consigned to the dustbin of history? Well, I prefer gunge pits to dustbins.”

There was a sudden mechanical noise at the top of the set, between Beattie and Maria’s seats. Sections of the inflatable walls shifted, in neat and carefully-crafted ways. And out of nowhere, a small diagonal channel opened - leading from Maria’s enclosure straight into the sloping runway on the other side.

Well before Maria could process this information, her entire seat tipped forwards at an angle. Accompanied by much yellow goo, and spluttering in shock, her toned body was thrown from the chair into the channel, landing on her flank.

“Whaaa!?”

Lubricated by a whole game’s worth of slop, Maria’s confused, flailing body absolutely pelted down the sloping runway.

Thinking the game was over, Bella had sunk onto her knees, trying to catch her breath. And now, she was suddenly confronted by the sight of a gungey loser, hurtling towards her at a rate of knots. She barely had time to swallow in fear.

Maria barrelled sideways into Bella’s kneeling form, and the two of them slid down into the pit of blue slime in a tangle of limbs, their outraged noises slightly louder than the gungey squelches and the audience’s cheering.

For a long moment, neither of them even knew which way was up. Everything was skin, and slime, and squirming.

The two losers spluttered and swore, finally managing to separate themselves, dragging themselves to their knees, dragging exasperated palms across their face, spitting out gunge.

Naturally, this was the moment the vat above the pit tipped, treating them both to another humiliating deluge of thick purple slime.

If a photographer were asked to capture the emotion of pure delight in a single image, they might have trouble choosing between Penelope’s face and Beattie’s face, in this particular moment.

“Puta madre!”

As Penelope gawped over the dividing wall, and Beattie laughed from on high, the two losers simply knelt there, dripping and defeated, absolutely soaked in thick, wet, multicoloured slop. Maria’s cocksure manner had turned to rage, but Bella was quieter, processing her deep embarrassment, and shivering at the physical sensation.

It was so clingy against her skin. Kneeling there in the pit, which was rather deeper after the vat added its payload, she felt the hug of the gunge against her sodden bikini bottoms. And the sensation of the tight top, squishing her big boobs together, so slimy and slippery…

Her reverie was broken by Eris’s voice, though she barely had the energy to listen or react.

“Like I said - points. I probably should have mentioned them before, but hey - who gives a fuck? Penelope got five cards, and Bella got three - or so my slo-mo Wenches tell me, that was a close finish! 50 points to Penelope, and 30 points to Bella. And a bonus 10 points to Penelope, for winning the game.”

The gooey blonde tilted her head a little. Obviously, she’d had no idea there were bonus points, but on hearing it, she instinctively felt that 10 was a little stingy.

Still, Maria got it fucking good, she thought. And Bella.

And Bella.

A few unwieldy thoughts finally clunked together in her head. For the first time, Penelope properly realised that even as the ‘nominator’, she was in no way protected. Though in retrospect, it seemed so obvious now.

All bets were off here.

She felt a tightness in her thigh muscles.

“60 plays 30 - that’s the sitch. Time for another break, while we hose down the talent. Hope you enjoy the slo-mo replays. See you in ten.”

There was the smallest of pauses, as Eris confirmed that the stream had cut from live.

“Right then! Shower time for our gungey ladies. Ladders, please!”

The Wenches sprang into action, and the four exhausted contestants - Maria and Bella especially - had to be cajoled into action. Eris took care of that herself, still casting instructions from her umpire’s chair.

“Never mind, you might win the next game! But I do need you to climb out now, so you can get ready to play it…”

Penelope was first out, and was guided to one side of the set by the Wenches. Beattie got down from her perch next, and joined her. Then, full of sloppy, humiliated ire, Bella and Maria emerged over the inflatable wall, carefully and slimily mounting the ladder and touching down on the hard studio floor.

Maria began striding towards Penelope, a trail of slop left in her wake, her gunge-matted ponytail swishing behind her.

“Tonta! What kind of game have you-”

“Nope!”

One of the Wenches was dressed in a slightly more flamboyant outfit than the rest. A little more makeup on her brown face, a little more cleavage, a little more colour in the outfit. She deftly shoved her wheelchair into the space between the furious Maria and the cowering Penelope. Her sheer presence made Maria halt in her tracks.

“We don’t have time for arguments. Settle it on the field - that’s what this whole show’s about. You lost. Get over it.”

There was a tense silence, none of the four contestants having a clever word to say.

“You all need a shower, don’t you?”

Four nods.

“Right then.”

The tension was in no way defused, just quietened. The contestants were guided to a nook around a corner, hidden from the cameras, which contained four small cubicles, doors ajar.

Nell, the commanding Wench in the wheelchair and Eris’s second-in-command, gave unambiguous instructions. “You’ll need to shower down in your clothes. No need to get every last drop of gunge off - I doubt you’ll be surprised to hear that there’s more to come. Just look presentable. There are towels in the nook, and a hot air function to help you dry off. Meet me out here in five minutes, and I’ll take you to the next game. All clear?”

There was little else to say. The four slimy maidens sheepishly entered the cubicles, and began cleaning up.

While they did so, the stream viewers were treated to a series of action replays from the first game, interspersed with the sponsorship plugs. They watched Penelope taking those large bucketfuls of slime in super slo-mo, the splatters hanging deliciously in the air. Shocked faces caused by sudden foam showers, slippery squishy falls, and of course those outrageous final gungings for Maria and Bella. More comments from the chat were displayed on the screen: the common themes included excitement for game two, appreciation of the thick sloppy gunge, and admiration of the yellow team’s generous figures.

Around five minutes later, the four contestants obediently emerged, not wanting to risk a tongue-lashing from Nell. They were all clean and dry enough to look convincing on camera, at least. Penelope caught Maria’s eye briefly, and was rewarded with a steady glare. Bella also side-eyed her sister, who was looking unbearably smug at how the first game had turned out.

“Proper break is after the third segment,” said Nell, a little more warmly than before. “Come on now - let’s get you all situated.”

III: Builders and Breakers

It was a short walk to the next cavernous studio, and the next piece of outlandish, soft-play equipment. It was flat, unlike the previous one, and it was divided into two distinct sides, with a six-foot wall in between. Solid, overhanging platforms at each end held potential messy menace, and on one of the sides, more dispensers of some kind dangled from the rafters.

Penelope and Bella were given flimsy hi-vis waistcoats to don, and led up onto one of the sides. With some concern, they inspected what awaited them - each was situated near an array of five small pits, recessed into the bouncy floor, arranged like the spots on a dice. The outer ones seemed to be filled with white, fluffy cream, with colourful objects poking through the surface. Looking at the larger pit in the centre, it became clear what those objects were. This one was not filled with goo of any kind, only a pile of large plastic bricks - red, blue, green, and yellow.

There were, however, two ominously wide openings in the overhead canopy, right above those larger central pits. The two contestants fidgeted, preparing themselves for another gooey ordeal.

Maria and Beattie were led to the other side of the set, a longer runway. They were provided the same costume, but there was something more to affix. Two shallow gunge-pits, much like in the first game, sat at the back end of the runway. And draped loosely through each was a sturdy bungee-cord, its middle buried under the gooey surface, emerging finally onto the runway, ending in a belt-like harness. The two girls exchanged pained looks as the Wenches strapped the harnesses around their waists.

That was it: the setup was done, and Eris swanned out from backstage, having enjoyed a little break. She took up position in her surveillance chair, and immediately snapped back into a commanding, haughty tone.

“Glad to see they got you cleaned up. Same deal as before: pay attention, yeah? You wouldn’t wanna miss the details.”

The broadcast countdown started, and Eris was back into host mode.

“Welcome back, degenerates! Thank you for rejoining us - I know it must be… hard to wait patiently when there’s this much messy fun to be had. So without further ado, welcome to Over the Garden Wall.”

The four contestants bounced nervously on the inflated plastic, awaiting instructions.

“Our good girls-”

She used the term with hammy air-quotes.

“...are plagued by nosy neighbours. So they want to add a little height to the dividing wall between their gardens.”

Eris paused, and took a deep breath, like a secondary school teacher dealing with an unruly class.

“Can I just make it clear - anyone posting ‘Build the Wall’ memes in the chat will be instabanned. We’re about dirty fun, not dirty fascism.”

She delicately cleared her throat, and changed her tone.

“Anyway, moving on. Oh no! Some careless builder has left the bricks in mucky holes in the ground! Our contestants will need to find the bricks that match their team colour, and whack them on the top of the wall.”

Eris now gave a teasing glance to the two girls in the harnesses. “Unfortunately, the neighbours are right wankers. They’ve written to the council about your planning application, and they’re not above sneaky tactics. They’ll be trying to disrupt your project as best they can.”

She wiggled her eyebrows to the camera. “Should be fun. Now, viewers - don’t forget to cheer! But also, don’t forget to vote for the Splat Zones above our nasty neighbours. They both have four lovely goo-sploshers above their garden path, and it only takes 100 votes to activate each one…”

There was more wincing from Beattie and Maria, but what could they do at this point?

Eris fast-talked towards another sudden countdown.

“Two minutes on the clock. Most bricks on the wall at the end wins. Ready. Steady. Goo!”

As artificial whoops and cheers crackled from the speakers, Beattie and Maria began to bounce their way down the tracks towards the wall, testing out how much they were encumbered by the belts and weighed down by the bungee cord.

Penelope and Bella, however, had more of a choice to make, and for the moment at least, they both opted for the known over the unknown. With two cute yelps, they both stepped forwards, and slipped down as gracefully as possible into the nearest pit of cream.

“Yeugh!”

This wasn’t the watery foam that Bella had been coated in for most of the last game - it was sticky, sweet and cloying. As her bare legs slithered past the blocks inside, she cringed. But there was work to be done.

In a quiet riot of fluffy goo, both of the girls fumbled through the contents of the pit, trying to find their correctly-coloured bricks, coating their arms in bright white gunk. Bella had the first success, heaving out a yellow block, and planting it firmly on the runway.

“Yes!” She quickly heaved herself out of the pit, then stood up, grabbing the brick on the way, and made towards the wall. Even though it was covered in glop, Bella realised one side of this prop was covered in sturdy velcro, so she shoved its rough side firmly down onto the wall, where it stuck easily.

Within a couple of seconds though, it was yanked away by Beattie, who had taken a short run-up from halfway down the track, then sprinted forward, straining against the bungee. She easily lunged upwards to pluck the brick from its position. Bella was immediately back to square one - and worse, she saw it happen.

“Oh, arse! Fuck off, Beattie!”

Penelope, meanwhile, was using her smarts. While Maria bounced around impotently on the other side of the divide, she delved with purpose into the gooey, creamy little hollow. She unearthed one blue brick, slapped it down at the edge of the pit, then checked if there were any more.

Yes, there were. After more sticky, fluffy rooting around, Penelope managed to get hold of a second and third blue brick. She climbed out as best she could, and after figuring out the correct orientation of the velcro, plonked all three bricks onto the wall in the space of a few seconds.

Maria saw her targets, braced herself, and ran forward, straining against the harness. She firmly grasped a brick, then tossed it off the inflatable runway, as she bounced back a little. After resetting her position, she did the same again, managing her momentum with ease, and successfully plucking a second brick from the wall.

“One-nil so far,” snarked Eris. “Disappointing progress!”

At this point, shrieks emerged from Beattie’s side of the playing field. One of the overhead machines had activated - the one right above the curvy redhead. Its lower surface simply fell open, and an airdrop of gooey payloads was suddenly unleashed onto Beattie: two dozen fragile, gunge-filled balloons.

The orbs of slop burst over and around her, and she wailed in confusion. Bright pink goo splashed against the runway, her bare skin, and her flimsy outfit. She stood, cringing in discomfort, for a long second, before the sight of her sister plonking two more bricks on the wall spurred her into action.

This particular slop recipe, she quickly realised, was sticky rather than slippery. She positioned herself for another lunge, and winced at the unpleasant tacky sensation against her feet. It was harder this time, but she still managed to stretch the thick cord enough to remove another brick from the wall.

Over on the blue team, Penelope had been diligently working away, deciding on her plan and sticking to it - even though it meant her entire lower half and arms getting utterly slathered in thick, sweet pie-cream. She managed to unearth four bricks in the second goo-pit before too long, and once she’d pulled herself out, she busily stacked them up.

Votes from the live stream continued to pile in. Unfortunately for the viewers, when they activated Maria’s first bombardment of gunge-balloons, she wasn’t standing underneath their chosen device.

“Ha!” she barked into the air, throwing her head back. “Missed me!” Still, she knew she’d have a more difficult task from here on out.

The game proceeded at pace, with the builders delving through the cream-pits, and the bungee-clad wreckers galloping awkwardly across the gooey runway. Beattie was once again not favoured by the viewers, and the slop-drop nearest the wall was soon unleashed, splatting her almost as well as the last one. Still, her sister’s clumsiness was starting to become apparent - Penelope’s wall was building quicker than Bella’s, five blocks to two.

“Come on, you useless reprobates,” shouted Eris into the camera. “Hammer those voting buttons! There’s not enough gunge for my liking!”

Bella had also noticed how far behind she was - and she now knew that losing games would probably lead to an unpleasant, slimy surprise. So it was time to take a risk. A deep breath - and she hopped down into the largest pit, clean and full of tempting bricks.

As soon as she landed among the hunks of padded plastic, she regretted this move.

A thick, fast stream of sloppy purple gunge immediately began to spill over her head from the aperture above. She’d been trying to stay steady on this uncertain surface, but any hope of that was immediately dashed. Bella fell awkwardly onto her side, the rain of wet, slippery slime coating her flank and her juicy arse.

“Gmph-ah! Fuck, splf….”

The more she squirmed in alarm, the further down she slithered into the pit of soft bricks, now lubricated by gunge. It was a trap, good and proper, and she’d jumped right into it.

“What the f-splhhh!”

With some effort, she managed to plant her feet on the foot of the pit and stand sort-of upright, but it was barely any use - she was still encumbered by the bulky canvas-coated blocks, so slippery against her skin. And the gunge was still mercilessly raining down on her.

Penelope caught this out of the corner of her eye, and stopped in alarm, her breath catching in her chest.

Well, I won’t be doing that.

Much like the last game, this was a foregone conclusion from halfway through. Penelope simply excavated every brick she could from the smaller, cream-filled pits, as quickly as possible. Maria did a decent job of plucking some away, only two of her gunge-zones activating. All four of Beattie’s payloads were set off, leaving the runway very gunky, and she did take another minor splattering from one of them. But neither of them tested the bungee enough to risk falling back into the slimy pits behind them.

Swearing and spitting, Bella did somehow manage to drag herself out of the central gunge-pit, not even bothering to try and take any bricks with her. She sat on the plastic surface, her shoulders slumped, purple slime oozing down her curves. As soon as she’d escaped, the river of gunge from above immediately ceased.

“Fuck this fucking game…”

“Twenty seconds remaining!” cried Eris. On the other side of the wall, Beattie was readying herself for one last heave forwards - then she took a moment to assess the situation. Penelope was ahead by four blocks - and though she hadn’t been able to see Bella’s sloppy misfortune, the cursing sounds and splattery noises had clued her in to her sister’s struggles.

This game was over. She saved herself the risk of a sticky, slimy fall, and stood with her hands on her hips, waiting for the time to run out. Maria had also realised it was done and dusted, and sat down on her bum with a frustrated growl, glaring enviously at her opponent.

“Three… two… one… game!”

Penelope smiled quietly to herself, and wiped the fluffy cream off her arms. Bella, meanwhile, dragged herself sulkily to her feet, trying not to slip over.

A small ladder was placed at the side of the inflatable, and one of the studio Wenches was sent up there at Eris’s command to make the final count. She first plucked the yellow blocks off the wall, as Bella pouted in disappointment.

“One, two, three… and that’s it! Blimey, Bella, that’s some sloppy workmanship. Very sloppy at the end there, in fact!”

Penelope suppressed a giggle at Eris’s teasing, and listened happily as her bricks were counted up. 

“...five, six, seven! Penelope wins. And Bella loses. So, obviously…”

The Wench who’d been counting the bricks turned towards Bella, and with two hands, firmly shoved her into that central pit.

She gave a horrified shriek as she fell backwards. Obviously she’d been expecting some consequences for losing, but the cruel swiftness of it took her by surprise. Her juicy arse impacted the gooey surface with a damp splat - and of course, as soon as she was in, gallons more gunge began to pour in from above, its heavy purple stream sloshing right over that jiggling, heavy chest.

“Gyaaah! You fuckers, smlph…”

Bella flailed her arms helplessly, and just like before, every squirming movement only dragged her down into the pit, trapping her under the rushing torrent of lurid slop, which now splashed out in great arcing waves from her head and shoulders. Penelope had to hop backwards away from the outer splats of it, giggling with relief at avoiding this forfeit.

It was a mildly frustrating thing to hear from Beattie’s perspective - the high wall meant she couldn’t see her sister’s humiliation, even if she bounced up and down on the spot. At least I’ll get to watch the video later, though…

After thoroughly drenching Bella, the thick column of violet goo ceased. The pit was now full to the brim with slippery gunge, and the poor girl was submerged up to the shoulders, quivering in disgust and wiping off her face as best she could.

Time for the scores. “I’ll award ten points for each brick - and double the bonus points this time. So that’s 30 for Bella, and 90 for Penelope! Bloody hell, you’re racing away, little blondie, aren’t you?”

Penelope responded with a shy shrug, as the host continued, looking over to the other side of the wall. “Scores on the doors: 60 plays 150. So if it stays like this, Maria, you’ll be heading to the Mega Mucky Super Sloppy Gunk Dunk.”

She left a pause. “Oh, and guess where you’re heading right now?”

Maria’s eyes went wide, and a Spanish expletive rang through the air, as the bungee cord contracted, dragging her backwards across the plastic runway at quite a clip. In no time at all, she was tumbling backwards into the shallow slime-pit, landing awkwardly in the wet yellow goo with a loud splat.

Just as she managed to sit up, still loudly complaining, the hole above the pit began to dish out her loser’s forfeit, a gushing waterfall of lime-green gunge.

Her curses turned to helpless splutters. Gallon after gallon of shiny, opaque slime sloshed relentlessly down, right over her long raven hair, splattering over her upraised knees. She held her head in her hands - both rendered invisible under the splashy waves of goo.

Once it had finally ceased, Maria simply sat there in the slop, quietly regaining her breathing as her heart rate stilled. It had filled the pit up a fair bit, and her legs and hips were totally submerged in it, the surface sloshing about around her firm chest. Beattie had the same look of guilty delight that Penelope had enjoyed moments earlier.

“And with that,” chirped Eris, “we’re done here. Time for another break. Back in ten minutes - go grab yourselves a beer.”

IV: Prosecution and Defence

Just like last time, the losing ladies were helped out of their slimy predicaments, and all four contestants gathered on the studio floor. The looks between the two pairings were even more ice-cold than before, though their tempers remained contained.

Nell led them back to the showers. The two sisters paced beside each other, one of them leaving a decidedly wet and sloppy trail behind her. Quietly, so as not to rouse Nell’s ire, Beattie snuck in a quick taunt.

“Not going how you thought it would, eh, Bell-end?”

“Shut your sodding pie-hole, Sweaty Betty,” came the hissed response. “It’s not over yet…”

It was a case of rinse and repeat, quite literally. Once again, the four girls peeled off the flimsy, tangled hi-vis jackets, washed off as much slop as they could, and used the powerful all-over driers, before stepping back out in those tight, sporty bikinis.

“Last game of the first half,” said Nell, businesslike as ever. “You’ll be pleased to know that you can get a proper shower and a short break after this one.”

That did indeed sound good, to all four of them. But for the moment, it was onwards into a new room - this one just as grungy-looking, but a fair bit smaller, than the high-ceilinged arenas they’d been in so far. Eris was sitting at the other end, about thirty feet away. Flanking her seat was a pair of perspex cubicles, with some complicated apparatus above, and those tall chat-screens beside each. Two more armchairs sat empty nearby, one on each side.

After Nell drew the group to a stop, a few legs quietly quivered with nerves, amplified by childhood memories. Those were quite obviously proper gunge tanks.

“Different intro this time,” said their handler. “Eris is going to welcome back the viewers, then she’ll call you over. So hold your horses.”

From afar, they watched their mistress adjust her hair, find her camera, and - looking cool as a cucumber, as always - count backwards through the transition. They could hear her loud and clear through the studio PA.

“Hello again, goo-fiends. I enjoyed reading your comments during the break - you perverts really have no filter, huh? Although, for the record, I do agree that Penelope’s chest looks very nice covered in cream.” On hearing this, the willowy blonde felt a pang of embarrassment in her stomach, and had to stop herself glancing down at her now-clean bikini top.

“Time to welcome back our foolhardy foursome. Give them a big virtual hand, please - it’s the least you can do…”

Nell ushered them forwards, and the quartet of ladies strolled uncertainly towards the set for this game. Eris was on her feet before they got close, and was holding open the transparent, half-height door of the rightmost gunge tank, the one with blue trim around its front. There was a clear, cylindrical reservoir perched above it, containing no gunge - yet. However, the two metal pipes protruding from the wall, pointed into the overhead vat, made it clear that wouldn’t be the case for long.

“Right then! In you get please, Penelope.” It was accompanied by a welcoming gesture of the arm.

Penelope stopped in her tracks, one of the cameras sneakily capturing her reaction - a hand placed against her chest, and wide eyes.

“Uh… me?”

“That’s right. Come on blue-eyes, get in the gunge tank, we haven’t got all day.”

What other choice did she have? With a deeply pained wince, Penelope paced over to the open booth, and took a seat on the stool within. A slow bubble of artificial laughs and cheers was already sounding over the speakers.

Eris walked over to the other tank, pulled open its door, and fixed a smirking gaze at Bella.

“And on the yellow side… Bella, your seat awaits.”

Where Penelope had been nervous and meek, Bella radiated a quiet but obvious indignation on her journey into the tank. As she sat down, her face was scrunched and tight.

Her thoughts were a jumble of ire. She was supposed to be the one gunging Beattie! Yet already, she’d endured two humiliating sloppings - and now, she was in the gunge tank! Everything seemed upside-down - and for a moment, she entertained a horrible thought.

What if this was all a set-up, designed to punish her for applying in the first place? But no, surely it couldn’t be. Penelope had applied too, and if she’d lost either of the games, she’d have been… but wait, maybe Penelope’s a stooge, a paid actor…

Bella shook her head sharply, trying to dislodge the racing paranoia. No, no. This was just a cruel, sloppy gameshow, where apparently everyone was in the danger zone. She’d just have to go hell-for-leather in the rest of the games, and hope that she somehow, somehow, came out on top.

Because she really did want to gunge the fuck out of her smug little sister.

Beattie and Maria, looking noticeably cheerier than thirty seconds ago, took their places in the armchairs at the sides, facing each other, and easily able to see into the tanks.

Once again, Eris wasted no time in getting down to business. “Turnabout is fair play, so they say. At the top of the show, Penelope and Bella made all sorts of dreadful accusations about the other girls. But I’m sure they’re hardly angels either, hmm? This game’s called Splatback.”

Even the game’s title made the lasses in the tank squirm in their seats.

“I’m going to give Beattie and Maria a chance to dish the dirt on their nominators. They’ll have fifteen seconds to convince our audience - and then I’ll allow a fifteen second rebuttal from inside the tank. We’ll move onto the next pairing, then it’ll be back and forth.”

Bella was feeling particularly uncomfortable. They were sisters, after all - that meant Beattie could call on a lifetime of petty squabbles and teenage misdemeanours.

“All the while, our viewing audience will be listening - and then voting on who’s the biggest, meanest hypocrite. Their votes will be counted in the form of gunge, supplied to the overhead vats. When one of the vats is full - well, if you can’t guess what happens next, you really haven’t been paying attention.”

It was nearly time. “Maria - because Penelope’s winning, I’ll let you speak first. Whichever girl escapes their gunge tank clean will win 30 points. Ready, Maria? Got something suitably embarrassing to spill about Penelope?”

“Oh, I think so…”

“Good. Oh - before we get started - let’s have the chat on, shall we?”

The two screens flickered into life - their angle made them readable from both the gunge tanks and the comfy armchairs. Already, there was a steady stream of excited, goading comments, the watchers desperate to start voting with their slime. Penelope tried her best not to read them.

“Excellent. Maria, your first fifteen seconds starts… now!”

A steady beat and bassline began to mark out the time, as Maria levelled a wicked glare at her nervous nominator in the gunge tank. The studio lights had dimmed, but a brighter spotlight lit up Maria’s chair.

“Ha! So innocent, with the big eyes. But I think it’s all pretend, no? I think Penelope is a naughty girl. I think she has some very strange desires.”

This was all delivered slowly, with a lusty and devilish lilt. The viewers were loving it.

PENELOPE IS WELL KINKY
HORSE GIRLS AMIRITE?
JUSTICE FOR MARIA

They were voting, too - the two pipes were already pouring thick opaque slime, pink and orange, into the tank above Penelope’s head. She could hear the loud splatters of the heavy liquid against the surfaces, and she shivered a little.

A quick trio of beeps indicated that Maria’s time was up - the spotlight went off, and the interior of Penelope’s tank was lit up, which made her feel very exposed.

“Ah! I mean, that’s bullshit! She’s just making stuff up! Is that even allowed?”

“Depends if people believe her, doesn’t it?” answered Eris.

“Well they shouldn’t! She’s a liar. She just doesn’t want to get gunged, even though she totally deserves-”

Penelope’s time was up, and the microphone in her tank abruptly cut out, leaving her last words inaudible on the stream. There was no breather in the action - Beattie’s turn now.

“Hard to choose!” began Beattie, talking quickly. “How about deliberately stealing my boyfriends? She read my diary, found out who I fancied, and then tried to get off with them. Did it twice! And of course it worked, because she was older and she was the first to get big t-”

Beattie’s mic, affixed to her chair, cut out at a wonderfully opportune moment. Bella, who had been grimacing through this accusation, seemed very flustered, and a good amount of blue-green slop was getting loaded into the tank above her, in sympathy with her sister.

“God, you’re obsessed with that! It was ages ago! And you were just as bad. Remember when you lied about me snogging Mark Carpenter, just so Darren Leathy would dump me? And he did! I cried for a week!”

The siblings’ sparring was also enjoyed by the audience - though after one round of back-and-forth, Penelope’s tank was looking fuller.

LOOKS LIKE BEATTIE CAUGHT UP ON THAT FRONT
I’D SNOG BELLA ANYDAY
FUCK IT, GUNGE ‘EM BOTH

When play returned to Maria, she resumed as if she’d never been interrupted.

“In fact… I think little Penelope maybe has a crush on me, huh?”

This accusation made Penelope’s skin flush beet-red, and her hands fidgeted in her lap.

“You think I look sexy, all covered in gunge? This is your thing, isn’t it, yes? Oh, I knew you were naughty, but this is something else, Penelope!”

When it came time to rebut, Penelope had to avert her eyes from Maria’s wide, cat-like grin. “God! No I don’t fancy you, and no, this isn’t my thing. This is about justice! Justice, I tell you!” She flapped her hands as she talked, a picture of frustration, and not really convincing at all. As such, the goo above flowed slightly faster - it was well over halfway up the tank now, not that Penelope could see.

Beattie next, and she seemed to take some inspiration from her opposite number.

“That’s a good point. I mean, this is obviously a pretty kinky show. Isn’t it a bit weird to bring your sister onto something like this? Your little sister? I tell you… Freud would have a field day…”

Affronted yelps emerged from Bella’s open mouth. “What are you saying? That didn’t… that wasn’t… you’re the one that said it! I think you’re the pervert here, if anything! Hmph!”

The comments, and the slime, flowed steadily as the game entered a third round.

“I wonder what she gets up to at the club?” cooed Maria. “All that slimy mud. You do seem to fall off your horse a lot, Penelope. Do you like it? Do you go out in the woods and have a little… time to yourself?”

Maria let the last few seconds tick past, watching an infuriated Penelope bash her fists against her thighs, until finally her light came on.

“I bet you fucking do!” she wailed. “This is all projection! And besides, I only take falls because you gave me the world’s most bad-tempered horse! You’re always-”

A loud klaxon rang out, and the bright white light in Penelope’s tank suddenly changed to a sickening yellow. She screeched in alarm, and instinctively looked upwards, burying her hands in her hair, expecting a deluge of slime.

Then she heard a loud hissing beneath her, and felt something against her bare legs.

Maria hooted with laughter, clapping her hands slow and loud, as she watched the base of the tank fill up quickly with thick, pastel-pink cream, pumping in from several hidden dispensers. Penelope’s legs wriggled in discomfort, and she sat frozen, a horrified expression on her face, the anguished anticipation racing around her veins.

Within a few seconds, the sticky pink mass had fully engulfed Penelope’s lower half. And at that moment, the stopper underneath the vat above quietly slid open.

“Gyaaah!”

Penelope felt a heavy impact against the crown of her head. As the pinky-orange slime gushed down in a wide river, deflecting off her blonde hair, it made noisy splatters against the perspex of the tank. Her hands, still held nervously against her head, were instantly slathered in thick, slippery gunk that oozed between her trembling fingers.

Soon, she felt it start to flow in great, lukewarm streams down her back and shoulders. She shuddered in disgust and humiliation. Her bikini top quickly became sodden and heavy with slime. The thick foam below seemed to soak up some of the slopping, but it didn’t take long for a pool to form in her lap - the sensation made her keen quietly in embarrassment. And it was still going - there was plenty of this neon goo in the tank, and its slimy slapstick rain went on for a good ten seconds.

By the time it was empty, Penelope was slicked all over with pink and orange glop, viscous and gooey. Beneath the dripping dome that coated her hair was a sad pout, looking quietly down into the tank, still not wanting to meet her tormentor’s eyes. Hearty AI cheering ran out, and Bella gave a relieved round of applause from inside her own tank, turning for a moment to poke her tongue out at her unsuccessful sister.

Penelope’s stomach felt heavy with embarrassment. Yes, she’d been soaked with plenty of slop by Maria in the first game. But there was something particularly mortifying about this one: being trapped helplessly in the gunge tank, hearing that sudden, taunting klaxon, and getting punished like a dumb dorky loser, all the cameras trained on her.

“Looks like they believed her after all, eh Penelope? That’ll probably be why you’re covered in gunge. Oh well, hard luck! And Bella - that’s 30 points for you. Along with a little bonus too!”

Without warning, the vat of blue and green slime above Bella’s tank, about three-quarters full, pivoted on some unseen mechanism. Its mouth tipped rapidly downwards - aimed right towards Beattie’s chair.

She was taken completely by surprise, as a wave of gunge rushed in an arc through the studio air. It sloshed with a mighty explosion over her face, shoulders and chest. There was about two seconds of obscenely loud, splashy, squicky noise. And then a shocked silence.

It was broken by Bella, who let out a loud peal of glee. It really was a nice bonus, to witness her sister getting blindsided by this very mean, very sneaky gunging.

Beattie was frozen, too shocked to even squeal or jump. The chair she sat in, and the floor around it, was a brightly coloured explosion. She wiped her mouth with a palm, and took a few deep breaths, trying to control her heartbeat.

“Uh… you…”

Thoroughly slopped and entirely discombobulated, she felt the gunge slowly oozing down her red hair and her flushed body, covering her cute little tattoos, soaking into the seat below her. Eris blithely continued onwards, wrapping up the first half of the show.

“Today’s lesson: don’t gossip if you’re not prepared for the consequences! That’s the end of Part One - after the break, it’s time for our final game, and then of course, someone will be taking a trip to the Mega Mucky Super Sloppy Gunk Dunk. The scores stand at 150 to 90 - Penelope’s got the upper hand, but it’s all to play for! See you in 30 minutes, when Payback returns!”

After a cheery wave goodbye, Eris waited for confirmation that the cameras were cold, and quickly stood up from her central chair.

“Break time, girlies! I’ll leave you in the capable hands of Nell and the Wenches.”

Stretching her arms, and barely making eye contact with any of the contestants, she started to stroll away. But before leaving the set, she cast a comment over her shoulder.

“Thank Christ you won that one, Bella - I was beginning to think there’d be nothing to play for in Part Two. Nobody likes an anticlimax.”

And with that, she was away.

“Thoughts?”

Sally stayed quiet for a moment, carefully weighing her response.

“Pains me to say this, but it’s good. She’s good.”

Alexa nodded in agreement.

“Do you feel like she’s ripping us off?”

A shrug. “We didn’t invent the concept of messy gameshows.”

“That’s fair. Are you worried?”

Now it was Alexa’s turn to mull over an answer. “Honestly? I don’t know. Some healthy competition might be good for us.”

“Perhaps.”

There was a comfortable silence between the two of them, broken by Sally.

“We’re gonna watch the rest, right?”

“Abso-fucking-lutely. Shall I make a pot of tea?”

“Ooh, yes please. And bring the chocolate Hob Nobs.”

Beattie sat, dripping and slowly breathing, while the cheery Wenches started to cajole the contestants into action. She felt Bella’s mocking eyes on her as the perspex door was opened, and her frustratingly clean sister stepped out of the gunge tank.

A sudden thought gripped her. Trying not to give away her intentions, Beattie made a real show of wiping her face again, and getting up from the chair slowly and laboriously, trying to look as weary and abashed as possible. 

Then she lunged forward, arms thrust forward in a rugby tackle around Bella’s waist. The sound of her sister shrieking in alarm as she delivered a slimy bear-hug did a lot to brighten her mood.

“Yaaah! Fuck off fuck off fuck off!”

Bella wriggled and fought, the slippery gunge making every flail of her hands towards her sister go slightly off-target. The Wenches did nothing to intervene - if anything, they watched approvingly.

After Bella finally landed a fist with moderate force on her shoulder, Beattie released her grasp. She realised she was breaking into breathless laughter, standing there dripping goo onto the floor, surrendering herself to the stupidity of it all.

“Fuck’s sake, Beattie!”

Bella’s upper half was now rather well smeared in green and blue. She cursed inwardly for letting her guard down.

“Oh chill out, Ding-Dong. We’re gonna get a shower. And this whole thing was your idea. Your incredibly stupid idea.”

While this was happening, Penelope was also being released from her slimy little prison. She had no thoughts of trying the same manoeuvre - she was too deep in her own embarrassed thoughts. And besides, Maria’s smug grin felt like a forcefield to her right now.

Penelope contented herself with watching the sisterly tiff, while clearing as much gunge from her hair, face, and arms as she could. Looking downwards, the coat of sticky pink foam around her lower legs caught her eye - it looked like she was wearing those fluffy cybergoth boots from 90s club nights.

Still, though. She was well ahead on points. As long as she didn’t lose her head, she’d hopefully avoid too much more messy humiliation.

And I’ll get to dunk that arrogant bitch. Oh, please please please.

Nell had arrived too late to prevent the yellow team’s scuffle, but she soon calmed it down with a few withering words and businesslike instructions. The four girls followed her to the showers - a different facility this time, with the doors spaced further apart. Before they were allowed in, there were more instructions to heed.

“Like Eris said - half an hour’s break.” Nell looked down at her watch. “Well, 27 minutes now. You’ll have different outfits for the next game - they’re in the wooden drawers. You can leave the bikinis in the basket. Do take the chance to relax - after the break, we’re going straight through to the end of the show.”

It all sounded rather straightforward, though the mention of new outfits made Penelope nervous. She hoped it wouldn’t be anything too silly or too revealing.

“Back here on time, please. See you soon.”

The four contestants headed for their assigned shower rooms, leaving Nell to wait for them outside.

Beattie ran a hand through her matted hair as she surveyed the room. It was basic, but pleasant enough. There was a roomy glass shower cubicle; an armchair; a small wooden table, topped with a hairbrush and some basic cosmetics, a drawer just beneath; a plastic laundry basket; a full-length mirror; a clock on the wall; and a coat rack that held two towels and a bathrobe.

She was quite tempted to open that aforementioned drawer and sneak a peek at her next outfit, but the sensation of her gungey feet sticking slightly to the grippy plastic floor persuaded her it would be better to get clean first. So she headed towards the shower instead.

It wasn’t easy to peel off the tight bikini, laden with gunge and clinging to her squishy curves, but she managed it, and tossed both halves of the thing into the basket. Breathing a sigh of relief, she entered the cubicle and set the water running, stepping into the stream once it was hot and steaming.

Ahhh…

Outside the showers, Nell scrolled through Twitter, enjoying the peace and quiet. For about fifteen minutes, at least. It was at this point that Bella shoved open her door, and strode angrily out, dressed in her bathrobe with a towel around her hair. She was holding some kind of black and white garment aloft in her fist.

“Seriously? I’m not gonna wear this!”

The tattooed girl looked up from her chair, entirely unflappable.

“It’s the only outfit you’ve got. So, it would seem, you are gonna wear that. Or nothing, I suppose.”

“You can’t expect-”

“We do expect. You signed up for the show. So you have to play by the rules - and that includes looking the part.”

Bella stuttered in frustration, quite taken aback by the stern tone. Nell looked down at her watch again.

“Ten minutes. I suggest instead of shouting at me, you get dressed, and then cool your jets a little. Maybe do some mindfulness exercises, I dunno.”

“But this is… and if we’re running around…”

“Maybe try and run carefully? Go on now, please.”

Defeated, Bella let out a sulky sigh, turned on her heel, and trudged back into the shower room.

Penelope could hear Bella’s remonstrating outside. And though she wasn’t feeling brave enough to complain, she certainly agreed that the outfit was ludicrous. Looking at herself in the full-length mirror, she had to accept that any hopes she’d had of dignity or modesty were long gone.

She’d seen French Maid costumes before, but nothing that could compare to this shocking, skimpy, slutty getup.

The top barely existed at all. It was mostly just black spaghetti-straps, over the shoulders and round her bust and back. Two small triangles of black fabric sat over her nipples, each adorned with a layer of frilly white. It provided no structural support - the fact that it fastened good and tight was the only thing keeping her pert, perky breasts in place. God knows how Bella’s going to manage, she thought.

It was a similar story below. Instead of a full skirt, a teasing black garter belt hugged her hips instead, with straps reaching down to hoist up a pair of sheer black tights, topped with intricate lace. The belt was rendered more “maid-ish” by a hanging semicircle of white frilled fabric at the front, which was the only thing obscuring a clear view of her black cotton thong.

Considering the outfit’s clear intent was to titillate, Penelope was almost surprised that she’d been provided knickers at all. Small mercies. The finishing touch was a cute little tiara-style hat, which slotted into her hair on a sturdy band.

In the room next door, Maria was having a much better time. The dress that she’d been provided was surprisingly elegant, while also being daringly risqué - and she loved it.

It was made of a shimmering, baby-blue fabric. Two thin ribbons of this material cascaded down from her neck, over her shoulders and chest, widening and merging to create a figure-hugging skirt that came to an end a few inches down her muscled thighs. There was just enough tension in the straps to keep her proud, firm bust constrained. Just as Penelope had done, Maria wondered for a moment how her well-endowed opposite number would cope.

For the first time today, she’d also been provided shoes - some killer stilettos that perfectly matched the hue of the dress. I guess I won’t be bouncing around this time, she deduced. Getting messy is one thing - breaking both ankles would be quite another.

The deadline approached. None of the four contestants in their shower rooms were sitting down and relaxing - instead, they fidgeted nervously, watching the clock, touching up the simple makeup they’d been provided, fiddling with their hair or their sexy, revealing garments. Even cocksure Maria’s heart was beating a little faster now - she knew the current scores meant she was the leading candidate for a very messy dunking.

A loud whistle from outside snapped them all to attention, and the girls all pushed their doors open, stepping uncertainly into the hallway.

Beattie had been worrying about her strappy, revealing dress - but when she clapped eyes on what her older sister was wearing, she couldn’t help but give a shocked, delighted laugh. It had been a while since she’d seen all of Bella’s elaborate tattoos at once.

“Shut up!”

“Now now - let’s not get started fighting again. You’re needed on set…”

V: Mains and Desserts

Nell led them through another set of double doors, into the large studio that would host the final game.

The closest fixture of the set, and certainly the first thing that drew the eye, was the enormous wooden table. Wide, round, and expensive-looking, it was adorned with a white tablecloth - and on top of that, an array of huge, decadent, sloppy, creamy cakes, about a dozen in total, looking pretty on their shiny foil platters. The variety of icing colours, oozing sauces, and daintily-placed fruit segments would, in most other circumstances, be a mouth-watering delight. Here at the Slop House, they were just an indication that someone’s impending creamy obliteration would be especially colourful.

Surrounding the table was a small but lavishly-appointed set - it looked rather like a high-end restaurant, with a handsome burgundy carpet, and walls made of mahogany panelling.

There were no chairs pulled up to the table, though. The only visible seats were two fancy upholstered dining chairs, which were placed within cuboid recesses in the wooden wall. Looking upwards only made those booths seem more ominous: above each seat was a perspex funnel, its wide mouth at the bottom coning out into a much wider one at the top.

Behind this plush, posh set was some other part of the game arena - it was hard to see, but it did look a little bit like a kitchen, perhaps - there was definitely the glint of metal ventilation pipes overhead.

“Right then. Follow the Wenches - time to get in position.”

As the setup began, Bella and Penelope were soon able to breathe a sigh of relief - this time, it was their counterparts who were ushered towards the fateful cubicles, while they were led into the back.

Once there, the slutty waitresses discovered that the entire floor of their “kitchen” consisted of another white inflatable runway. Seeing this, Bella quietly grimaced, and blushed beet-red, her fears confirmed as to just how impractical this outfit might become.

At the end of the runway closest to the “dining room” there were two sets of stairs, made of padded black plastic. Six wide steps rose up on each side, leading to a vantage point right above the gunge tanks. At the other end, the runway split into two distinct hollows, which both ended with a curved wall.

Those walls each held five large, shiny metal panels around their arc. No, not panels - machines. Penelope scrutinised one of them as she approached. An enormous red button, about shoulder-height, with some kind of indicator light - currently not illuminated - above it, plus a small display screen. And then, well above head-height, a curved metal pipe, arcing downwards.

The wide mouths of all those pipes were pointed at a flat, shallow dip in the inflatable floor, marked with the image of a target, red and white concentric rings leaving little doubt about their meaning.

Just outside this circle of messy potential was Penelope’s starting position, which she was led towards. It was right at the jutting end of the separating wall - so Bella must be on the other side, she reasoned, correctly. There was another panel here, made of the same brushed metal, but instead of a huge pipe and button, it contained five rows of colourful magnetic letters - the kind you’d stick to a fridge, only larger and sturdier.

Penelope examined the phrases that the letters spelled out, eyes narrowing with puzzlement.

HE UP MY ASS
NAKED BABES
FREE BY VAG
SEDUCE A BRA
POLISH ONE NUDE COCK

On the other side, seeing the same array of phrases, Bella’s eyes lit up. Ooh, are they anagrams? I might have a chance here. She always had a good crack at the Saturday crossword, and she harboured a longstanding ambition to appear on Countdown, though she hadn’t yet got around to applying. Let’s see. What’s that first one?

Back in the dining room, Beattie and Maria’s smugness about their comparatively classy outfits hadn’t lasted long. Not only were they instructed to sit in the wooden tanks, but the Wenches quickly went about restraining them. Each girl’s wrists were firmly fastened into two leather loops in the sides of the cubicle, a little higher than their shoulders, leaving their arms raised up like the top of a corkscrew.

“Oh, I don’t like this,” moaned Beattie quietly, looking across the set and catching Maria’s eye. The Latina lady seemed a little less uncomfortable - or perhaps she was just hiding it better. Once they were both fastened in, a knee-high wooden door was closed in front of them.

Both sets of contestants were informed that Eris would be taking them live very shortly. And Bella and Penelope were each handed a large metal bucket before the Wenches departed.

After a short wait, the mistress of the Slop House emerged. She silently scanned her eyes over the set and the competitors, seemingly checking that everything was in order.

“Looks like we’re all set. Good work, Wenches. And hello again, ladies. Hope you had a nice break.”

That was all Eris offered in the way of pleasantries, before ascending to her perch on the high umpire’s chair once again. After some final checks, confirmations being passed between the control room and the studio floor, one of the Wenches signalled to Eris that they were ready to go live.

“Off we go then. In five, four, three…”

Another punky musical sting rang over the PA, and Eris made her best sultry eyes at the camera.

“Welcome back! Did you miss me?” She poked out her pierced tongue, teasing the audience. In response, their ersatz cheering rose in volume over the speakers.

“Sounds like you did! Well, I hope you can keep that excitement going. Because we’re getting to the business end now. If you thought Part One of Payback was mean, messy and madcap, then trust me - you ain’t seen nothin’ yet! Oh, it’s gonna get atrocious.”

Eris’ choice of words set toes curling across the set.

“Now, don’t get upset with me, but I have some bad news for you online deviants. I know you enjoyed voting to slop your favourites, but your little reign of terror is over. As this is the final game, I’m making it a fair fight - a straight-up showdown.”

This provided a bit of reassurance for Penelope, whose efforts in the first half had been hampered by the majority of viewers siding with Bella and Maria.

“So, your job is just to make some noise - hit those cheer and laugh buttons, and enjoy the show.” She arched a wicked eyebrow. “Can probably do that with one hand, eh?”

A wave of laughter filtered through. “That’s the spirit. Right then - the game!”

With two disparate parts to the set, there was a certain amount of cutting between shots needed for this next part, but the smart Wenches behind the cameras and on the broadcast rig were more than up to the task - capturing every nervous blush, revealing outfit, and ominous device, while Eris set the scene.

“Our glamorous girls-about-town, Beattie and Maria, have booked a fancy dinner at the hottest new joint in town - Maison Gloppé! Apparently, they offer a very exciting and unusual dining experience.”

The sight of the two nervous hotties strapped into their cubby-holes got a hearty laugh from the online crowd.

“But there are problems in the kitchen! Some naughty pot-washer has scrambled the names of all the dishes on the menu. Our waitresses, Penelope and Bella, will need to activate the food dispensers by untangling the anagrams. Once they’ve done that, then they can proceed to serve our diners an… unforgettable tasting menu.”

Eris leaned forward, looking down directly at the girls within the dining room gunge tanks. “Now you two, this might come as a surprise, but the floor beneath each of you is actually a sophisticated weighing scale.”

This definitely was a surprise, and both betanked ladies gave a confused frown. “Don’t worry - I’d never tell! But now that you’re comfortably seated, we’ve set the scales to zero. That’s because the waitress who can deliver the most food, by weight, in the next three minutes, will be our winner.”

Something about the very thought of slop being measured by weight made both girls cringe. They shifted uncomfortably in their seats, indisposed and powerless.

“I’ll give points for every dispenser the waitresses can activate, as well as a hearty bonus for the winner. And just as a little extra treat - they’ll get to serve the dessert course, too…”

A meaningful look down towards the pie-strewn table from Eris now, accompanied by more quiet moans of trepidation from within the gunge tanks.

There was nothing further to be said - it was time to decide the foursome’s final fate.

“Ready! Steady! Goo!”

As the crowd noise amped up, Penelope stared at the wall of letters, trying to jumble them in her mind. Bella, however, had been keeping half an eye on the puzzle all throughout the explanation. She began swiftly moving letters about, and within ten seconds, she’d turned HE UP MY ASS and NAKED BABES into MUSHY PEAS and BAKED BEANS, respectively.

The lights on two of the machines lit up green, with the names of the foodstuffs appearing on the small screen above. Penelope was slightly perturbed to hear the clear pinging sound that accompanied them - she’d only just figured out BAKED BEANS, and was still shifting the letters around to spell it.

For a moment, Bella considered picking up her bucket and heading into the messy mayhem. But hold on, she thought. Why get messy yet? There are points for activating them, after all…

She continued to scrutinise the board of letters. That one can’t be too difficult. Beer? Veg? Oh wait, maybe it’s gravy… aha!

Penelope, however, was so hell-bent on victory that she wasn’t thinking at her clearest, and didn’t even consider Bella’s eminently sensible, puzzle-first tactic. Trying not to bounce too hard, she loped over to the only machine she’d activated so far, the one promising to dispense the beans. She stood beside the wall, next to the large button, looking upwards, trying to judge the trajectory. It has to be aimed at the target… but will it start straight away?

She took a deep breath and slapped the button hard with her palm, answering her own question in the affirmative. An arcing stream of sloppy, lumpy red mush began to gush forth from the pipe, instantly slathering the target in front of her with slimy tomato sauce.

“Augh! Oh god, oh fuck…”

Knowing it could shut off at any moment, she shuffled forwards, thrusting her bucket out in front of her with both hands, as far as it would go.

But the pool of savoury slime was rapidly expanding as the beans showered down - and as Penelope inched forward just a little too much, her stockinged feet made contact. It made her muscles jump in shock - and that proved disastrous.

“Yuuurgh!”

Her footing was gone, her centre of gravity was all askew, and her hands were wheeling into the air, desperately trying to balance - to no avail. Penelope went down, landing on her side at the edge of the recessed hollow that the beans were pouring into.

Competitive spirit compelled her to thrust the bucket upwards towards the stream - but this was another bad idea. It just twisted her exposed body on the mucky surface, and she shuddered as she felt soft beans squish under her flank and her pert little butt.

The loud, splattering rain finally ceased, and she panted for breath, drawing herself up onto her knees.

“Blimey,” Eris taunted on the commentary. “It’s absolute chaos back there! This is no way to run a kitchen, surely!”

Penelope looked desperately into the bucket. Sitting sadly in the bottom was a pathetic amount of baked beans - barely even a tin’s worth.

“Fuck! Fuck, fuck, fuck!”

Manically, she tried to scoop up some of the glop with her hands, but it was barely effective, a few more cold morsels sliding into the bucket’s mouth. “Bastard!”

She looked over at the dispenser button. It was still green. Did she only get one chance, or could she try again? Surely, surely she’d fare better a second time, now she’d fucked it up once already. She made the decision, and slithered towards the dispenser, on her knees this time. Wrinkling her nose in disgust at the smell, she avoided glancing down at herself. The mocking cheers of the AI crowd were already telling her she looked a foolish mess.

Her second attempt was better-prepared. She faced towards the target before pressing the button, still kneeling down, and activated it with a backwards slap over her head. Then she grasped the bucket firmly in two hands, and bounced forwards as quickly as she could.

The feeling of her knees sliding into cold baked beans was no more pleasant than the first time. But at least she was more in control of her momentum - and she did manage, at least, to steady the bucket under the flow (though not before getting a nasty splash against her tensed forearms).

When the dispenser’s second volley was finished, the central recess was filled with a slick of mottled red, oozing around Penelope’s lower legs, her fancy tights already soaked and heavy. But finally, she had a nice heavy bucket of gooey beans at her disposal. Now it was just a question of pouring them over that bitch.

Bella smiled to herself, almost feeling guilty, as she heard the heavy splatters and loud wails of discomfort from the other side of the set. She’d quickly solved anagrams three and four: BEEF GRAVY and BREAD SAUCE. Just the last one, and she’d already spelled out CHICKEN.

“Soup? Soup’s there. But what’s the rest?” She moved the glyphs around. “Let’s try, S-O-U-P… what’s left - aha!”

CHICKEN NOODLE SOUP was the fifth answer, and with a final ding, all of Bella’s dispensers were now activated. “Fuckin’ nailed it!”

Now I actually have to set them going, though. Ah well. It was fun while it lasted…

Emitting a steady stream of frustrated growls, Penelope had by now dragged herself to the steps that led to the funnel above Maria. She hefted herself up the first one, carefully planting the bucket to avoid spills. These wide padded platforms were much more solid than the bouncy mayhem below, to her immense relief. Slowly and carefully, she attempted to stand. When she didn’t immediately slip over, she continued deliberately upwards, carrying the bucket by its handle to keep it low.

“Looks like it’s finally dinnertime,” cooed Eris, seeing Penelope ascend. “Hungry, Maria?”

Though she was glad of the warning, Maria was still tensed and cringing - she screwed up her eyes and simply waited. Penelope, feeling a tiny burst of triumph, poured the bucket of beans into the funnel as fast as she could.

The screech that came from below was immensely satisfying. But there was more work to be done, so she turned on her heel and padded back down the slimy steps.

Beattie’s eyes went wide with shock as she watched the helpless Maria get drenched in cold, gungey baked beans, no way to dodge or defend herself. The funnel did an excellent job of delivering them right over her head, dousing her raven hair and falling, heavy and sloppy, down her shoulders, chest and back.

“Aaargh! Oh it’s cold, oh you fucking bitch! I swear…”

Unable to wipe her eyes, Maria just quietly smouldered, shivering at the feel of lumpy little legumes sliding down her bare skin, getting under the fabric of her dress.

Back in the kitchen, Bella maintained her tactical thinking - a dramatic reversal from the first two games. Let’s start with the hardest one. She carefully moved to the back of the dispenser array, next to the panel that promised beef gravy, hugely aware that her chest bounced temptingly for the viewers with every step on this inflatable.

Obviously, she didn’t love the thought of getting splattered with that stuff. But she was behind on points, and winning was the only option. She readied her bucket.

A smack of the button, and she started forwards, looking up at the rich brown stream that erupted from above. Baring her teeth, and hoping for the best, she dropped to her knees just before she reached the target, then held up the bucket, grasping it tight, shuffling forward towards the horrible splashing mess.

“Ack! Yeugh, oh my days…”

The smell was deeply, unpleasantly meaty - that unique funk that hits you when you open the fridge, of a cold food that should only ever be served hot.

“Ugh ugh ugh, please stop…!”

Bella only just managed to hang on to the bucket as it got heavier and heavier, gravy splashing out of its lip and bothering her fingers. But the rain did finally stop, and Bella took a moment to assess her situation.

Yes, for the next few minutes, she had to bounce around in a gross, slippery mire, dressed in the world’s tartiest maid outfit. But right now, she was holding a big bucket of awful gunk, ready to pour over her snooty little sister’s head.

Take the positives, eh?

With a sigh, she began to drag herself towards the stairs, mirroring Penelope’s knee-slide tactic.

Beattie had been wondering why her sister was taking so long - not that she was complaining. But the rising volume of the viewers’ cheers over the speakers clued her in, and she braced herself, anticipating that her clean state wouldn’t last much longer.

Bucket in hand, Bella reached the top of the stairs, and couldn’t resist shouting down into the funnel before she unleashed. “Hey sis! Dinnertime!”

The thick brown gravy sloshed through the tube and poured onto the blushing redhead, who immediately began to scream blue murder, as the thick texture and savoury stench assaulted her in tandem.

“Aaagh! Spluh, ugh, aaagh! No, no, no…”

A disgusted shiver ran down Beattie’s back as the cold glop splattered off her bare shoulders, and ran in great oozing globs down her body. The muck formed a grim little pool in the lap of her skirt, and its questing streams caressed the pale skin of her barely-constrained tits.

Maria raised her head a little, and aimed a sympathetic smirk at her opponent.

“So this fucking sucks, huh?”

Beattie only nodded in response, her mouth turned downwards in a sulky pout.

“Finally, both waitresses have served up some nosh!” said Eris, clearly enjoying herself. “But there’s plenty more where that came from!”

Penelope had finally unscrambled her second anagram at this point, and the dispenser for bread sauce was ready and illuminated. Having tested out a decently successful tactic, she once again knelt in front of the button before unleashing the goo, then bounded forwards as quickly as she could.

This gunge was even more awful than the first - thick and beige and sticky, like a savoury porridge. The noise of it splatting into the shallow pool of beans felt obscenely loud, and the sound of it starting to fill her sticky bucket was just as gross. She almost overbalanced, and had a worrying moment of wobbliness, but ultimately managed to keep the payload in her grasp.

Meanwhile, it was onto the mushy peas for Bella. She grimaced as she pressed the button, and jiggled towards the emerging stream of cold green mush, thrusting her bucket upwards. “Blech…”

After filling their buckets, the two waitresses - already both very smeared and sticky - reached the steps in tandem. “Another helping for both our dirty diners!” laughed Eris. “Look out below!”

Wails of displeasure echoed from the tanks, as Maria got a gloopy drenching in bread sauce, and Beattie got slathered in thick green pea-gunk. The booths already looked comically mucky, great colourful splashes marring their walls.

“Why is it cooold?” moaned Beattie, feeling thick globs of gunk fall from her hair.

“Oh dear - there must be some problem with the ovens,” replied Eris. “What a shame!”

The game was halfway through, a minute and a half left. Bella’s task felt fairly straightforward - just activate the various gunks, fill her bucket, and slop her sister. Wrinkling her nose at the increasingly unpleasant smell of her “kitchen”, she pressed the button that dispensed bread sauce.

Unfortunately, as she bounded on her knees towards the pouring stream of slop, she suddenly slipped, falling onto her front with a yelp. It wasn’t too hard to push herself back up again, but the impact had dislodged her flimsy excuse for a bikini top. She blushed at the sight of her plump knockers hanging free - but the precious gunge was still pouring!

Though it made her cringe with exposed embarrassment, she took the split-second decision to try and collect some goo, rather than fix her top straight away. The result wasn’t bad - at least half a bucketful by the time the sticky stream ceased.

Bella leaned back, away from the increasingly deep swamp of sticky foodstuffs, and parted her legs, planting the bucket between her thick thighs. With a little whimper of discomfort, she yanked the tiny top back down over her breasts, trying not to listen to the simulated wolf-whistles that were coming through the speakers.

Penelope was also feeling frustrated and embarrassed - but by her mental agility, rather than her clothing. She’d finally figured out the beef gravy one, and before setting out to collect more nasty muck, she took a moment to stare at the other two. But nothing was coming to mind. God’s sake, Penelope! It can’t be that difficult!

Her opponent was now hefting her third bucket of goop up the stairs, very carefully, wary of any further wardrobe malfunctions. Here we go…

She broke into a sly smile on hearing Beattie’s indignant spluttering, as the bread sauce poured into the tank. This game had been pretty horrible so far, but at least it gave her these satisfying moments of petty revenge.

On the other side, Penelope managed to collect a decent amount of cold, thick gravy from her machine, without falling or getting too splattered. Her confidence was starting to build now, and she shuffled quickly round the side of the sloppy target pit, towards the stairs.

Unfortunately, all this sticky mayhem had also taken a toll on her stringy top, and suddenly, she felt it ride upwards slightly, exposing her dainty, firm nipples. “Eep!”

In a panic, she placed the bucket down in front of her, freeing her hands to adjust the top - but this bouncy surface was a terrible place to do that, and the pail immediately toppled over, spilling a great slick of cold gravy onto the white canvas.

“No! Oh, you bugger!”

By the time she’d righted the bucket, at least half of its contents had sloshed out - and her boobs remained on show. The whole situation was making her blush a deep crimson.

Finally, she managed to reach the stairs, and balance the bucket, now much lighter, on the first step. Huffing in frustration, she adjusted the straps of her top, and covered her nipples again. Then she sulkily made her way up the steps, so that she could pour a rather disappointing splatter of gravy over Maria. Better than nothing, and there was a satisfying squeal from below - but she was really starting to worry about losing this game now.

Bella’s next trip to the machines was less eventful for the viewers than her last. A golden stream of chicken noodle soup sloshed into her bucket, and once it was finished, she carefully started out towards her sister’s gunge tank.

“Thirty seconds left!” cried Eris. “Feeding time’s nearly over!”

“Fuck!” muttered Penelope, still blanking on her final two anagrams. And now there was no time to stand and stare at the board. She tried to figure out which gloopy foodstuff might be the heaviest of the three available to her, and settled on the bread sauce. She had to get one last big bucket of the stuff, and hope that was enough.

As she mounted the steps, Bella was also thinking about the time left. She hurriedly sloshed the soup into the funnel, and headed down the steps, not even waiting to enjoy Beattie’s squeaky cries of horror.

Those cries were rather amplified this time. As the cold liquid broth, filled with slippery noodles, washed over the helpless girl, she felt the slimy, wet straps of her dress sliding inwards, nestling between her full, heavy breasts - which spilled outwards, gently bobbing under gravity. “Nooo! Help, please… this isn’t… spluh!”

“Blimey,” said Eris. “Did somebody order a couple of large melons? Wonder how much they weigh…”

Beattie just spluttered in response, overwhelmed and humiliated.

Time continued to tick away. Making the most of the seconds she had left, Penelope hit the bread sauce button, then bolted forwards as quickly as she could, her knees sliding into the commingled muck that swamped the target, just so she could capture as much of this horrible gunge as possible. “Come on, please please please…”

Eris gave a ten-second warning just as Bella had reached the button to activate her final dispenser, the baked beans. Again, she made a quick mental calculation - and realised there was no way to achieve her goal by being measured and cautious.

She slammed the button, and launched herself forward, bouncing heavily down onto her knees, her entire focus on holding the bucket steady. She felt her top get dislodged again, her gorgeous sticky tits bouncing freely as she collected the tomatoey gloop.

“Five!” shouted Eris.

The bucket wasn’t quite full, but there was no time - she shifted her weight and slid forward as fast as she could towards the steps.

“Four!”

Penelope had reached the top, and unleashed a final sticky bread-sauce gunging over the furious Maria, who was left soaked in a dome of beige goo, squirming and swearing.

“Three!”

Bella scrambled desperately up the steps, a slimy bouncy mess.

“Two!”

She reached the top, and fell forward, hurling one last big slosh of goo into the funnel.

“One!”

Down in the tank, Beattie squealed, feeling cold tomato sauce and squishy beans flow down her hair and shoulders, then over her exposed breasts, the liquid caress hardening her nipples, despite her wailing embarrassment.

“Time’s up! Waitresses, lay down your buckets!”

Penelope gave a deep sigh, her shoulders slumping, as she knelt on the top step. Bella was flat on her front, boobs squished against the canvas, panting with exertion and wiping her mucky face.

“Lordy lord. I have to say, girls, you really are messy eaters. Perhaps we should have given you bibs. And that’s before we even get to the standard of service!”

The joke wasn’t much appreciated by any of the slathered, smelly girls, but the viewers at home responded by generating a hearty fake laugh.

“Oh well. Let’s see how our waitresses did, shall we?”

Eris clicked her fingers, and two Wenches stepped out onto the dining room set, standing at opposite sides of the table. Both punky girls were holding some kind of tablet, which they lifted over their heads, like a ring-girl at a boxing match. On both of the screens - which were double-sided, so Eris could see the result too - a counter read 0.0kg.

“Activate the scales!”

All four contestants watched intently, as the weight indicators began to tick upwards, accompanied by a tense, gameshowy rumble from the speakers.

They both reached 10 kilograms, then 20, then 30. Just to add to the drama, the count seemed to get slower as it rose higher. 35.

The screen on the blue team’s side of the set hit 39.6kg, and then stopped counting, the figure turning red. Penelope let out an anguished cry of frustration - and Bella a laugh of triumph. The figure on her screen ticked up to 51.0kg, and then stopped as well, turning victory-green. A sarcastically naff little fanfare parped out from the speakers. In her tank, Maria looked relieved - while Beattie looked utterly horrified.

Does that mean…? But Penelope was quite far ahead… 

“We have a winner! Congratulations Bella!”

The sticky redhead had, by this time, managed to drag herself upwards and fix her top. An exhausted but delighted grin adorned her smeared face.

“Penelope, though. How disappointing.”

Her eyes wide and sad, the losing girl pouted.

“Never mind though. You’ll be happy to learn there is a nice staff benefit to working at Maison Gloppé.”

Now she frowned. Staff benefit?

“At the end of your shift, you get a free meal! Wenches - service please!”

“What? No! Nooo!”

In a flash, Penelope was accosted by two of the Wenches, who had quietly snuck up behind her. They grabbed her shoulders, span her round, and began to forcibly march her down the stairs.

She knew it wouldn’t be much use to struggle - but she couldn’t stop herself loudly objecting. “Don’t, please, don’t!”

A few more steps forward, and then a mighty shove. The laughing Wenches propelled Penelope forwards and downwards, towards the shallow pit that she’d just spent three minutes filling with various disgusting slops.

She took a full, squelchy faceplant into the murky mire, accompanied by a chorus of rapturous, digitised laughter. Bella watched from the top step, aghast, giggling a little but also feeling dreadfully sorry for the poor girl.

Spluttering and spitting, Penelope levered herself up on her arms, gagging at the taste of the cold, salty muck. Her stupid top had come loose again, and her firm breasts were fully slicked with goopy, barely-edible slop. Desperately, she drew herself to her knees and pawed the stuff away from her face.

Just as she managed to take a breath, the loud hoot of a klaxon sent a jolt of tension through her muscles. All of the lights on the dispensers surrounding her flashed red at once.

“Nooo-ooo!”

Five colourful streams of thick, savoury gunge arced down towards her, meeting in a riotous, exploding splatter over her cowering head.

It was a spectacular sight to witness, and an utterly mortifying one to experience. Penelope’s brain turned somersaults, as gallon after gallon of lumpy, sticky, cold slime rained down on her from all directions, slathering every inch of her barely-protected body. She buried her face in her hands, her shoulders wiggling in embarrassment.

When the dispensers finally stopped pouring, Penelope just knelt there, soft whimpers emerging from behind her upraised hands. Gunge oozed down her bare skin into the pit, which had filled up to hug her lower thighs. More AI laughter echoed in her ears.

“Nnnh… ah… what…”

She finally wiped her face, revealing a miserable frown, quiet breaths escaping in short bursts.

“Tasty!” shouted Eris, puncturing the atmosphere. “Let’s leave her to marinate for a while. Because Bella - you’ve still got work to do! Come on down, if you please.”

The redhead gave a last, sympathetic glance back towards her poor rival. But she remembered what came next, and it made her tremendously excited. She walked down the stairs, then bounced carefully out of the inflatable kitchen, coming around the side of the set into the dining room. It was a relief to be on a sturdy floor again.

Catching sight of her sister, she couldn’t help but titter gleefully. Slathered in goo, tits hanging out, arms strapped fast to the tank. Total humiliation, and yet more to come. The best thing about it, though, was Beattie’s quiet, angry glare. Bella drank it in like a fine wine, returning the smuggest, bitchiest smirk she possibly could.

“Tell me, Bella. How would you like to throw a load of huge, creamy cakes at your sister’s face?”

“Heh heh heh. I’d like that very much, Eris.”

“In that case, be my guest. Time for dessert!”

Grinning like a loon, and taunting Beattie with her eyes, she stepped over to the table, and made a real show of picking out her first cake. “Whaddya think, sis? Any particular flavour you fancy?”

“Go fuck yourself.”

“Hmm. I don’t think we have ‘go fuck yourself’ on the menu, sorry! Let’s just go with this one.”

Bella carefully slid the foil tin onto one palm, and giggled, feeling the oozy mass of chocolate cream wobble as it moved. It was drizzled with thick, dark chocolate syrup.

She slowly waltzed over to the tank, and leaned in, brandishing the cake right under her sister’s nose. Beattie just closed her eyes and silently smouldered.

“So pretty!” cooed Bella. “A tasty treat for my little sis who I love sooo much. Ready, Bee?”

There was no response, Beattie refusing to rise to the taunts. She just wanted this over with.

“Here comes the aeroplane. Open wide!”

With a flourish of her arm, Bella hurled the cake at her sister’s wincing face from close range. It exploded, with a gorgeous squishy noise, against Beattie’s cheeks, the foil plate falling cleanly away onto the tank’s floor. A sticky mass of brown and white rendered Beattie’s eyes and mouth invisible - just the tip of her button nose protruding through.

She opened her mouth, and spat. “Guhhh!”

The virtual audience laughed and applauded, and Bella clapped delightedly. Eris, though, gave her a very gentle warning.

“Alright Bella. I do like watching a girl squirm, but if you take that long with every cake, we’ll be here all night.”

Bella gave a shrug and a nod in reply. “Fair enough. Splat her a bit faster? Not a problem.”

In the tank, Beattie felt thick globs of cream slowly falling away from her face. They quietly dotted onto her ample boobs, and the sodden lap of her dress. The cream, at least, was much less horrible than the savoury goo from before, but the scent of them both mixed together was still pretty rank. Fearing another sudden caking, she tried to blink open her eyes…

…and immediately had to close them, as another fat, sloppy payload rushed towards her face, splurging its fruity cream out in great gouts behind her head. Then another, hurled with girlish glee, Bella absolutely having the time of her life.

There was a short pause. Beattie exhaled through her nose, snorting cream away. One more fat pie, something banana-flavoured, was hurled against her cringing face. Then she let out a horrified gasp, as she felt cold, slimy cream slapping hard against her left breast.

“What the fuck, you psycho! Leave my tits alone!”

“Nah, don’t reckon I will!”

“I’m gonna kill- mmmf…!”

Beattie was interrupted by her other boob getting a creamy splat, making her chest jiggle and her hips shudder. Her entire upper half was a fluffy, slapstick disaster zone now, but Bella wasn’t done.

“How about that slutty little dress? Far too clean for my liking!”

“You already covered it in- yeuch!”

Two more gloppy, semi-liquid cakes flew into the tank - one smashing against her belly, the other against her barely-protected thighs. The once-yellow fabric of the dress was now a smeared paint-pallette, heavy on the white.

“You know what? I think I like the classic way the best.”

There were five cakes left on the table, and one by one, Bella splattered them with joyful enthusiasm into her sister’s spluttering, outraged face. Eris was quietly impressed. This girl’s a natural. Maybe I’ll get her flinging pies again some other time.

“What a feast! Positively bacchanalian. Maison Gloppé is now closed for the evening. But the fun’s not done - we’ve still got to tot up those final scores.”

Eris said the next part slowly and deliberately. “Now, girls. In a moment, I’m going to gather you all together for the big announcement. And I’m sure emotions might be… running high, as it were. But do remember, we are streaming live. So if any of you punch, strangle, or otherwise assault each other, there will be very clear video evidence.”

Penelope, kneeling sadly in the stinky glop, barely felt like she had the energy to swat a fly. Beattie, meanwhile, made a quiet resolution. She’d play nice for now, and strangle her bastard sister after the show.

VI: Champs and Chumps

In a change from the previous games, the stream viewers got to see the aftermath this time. Bella, still rather giggly and excited despite her smearing of salty goo, was guided out of the dining room set, towards a fairly ordinary-looking part of the studio. Just a brick wall behind her, but the area was lit with the same professional care as the other parts. “Wait there, if you please.”

The team of Wenches were mostly occupied with helping the less fortunate girls back onto their feet. Penelope was finally allowed to drag herself out of the swamp, and off the inflatable surface of the kitchen.

Thank Christ, she thought, as she finally stood on a hard surface. If I never see a bouncy castle again, it’ll be too soon. Even with that small relief, she had to endure the indignity of walking towards whatever came next, dripping a wake of awful muck behind her all the while.

Beattie and Maria were carefully unstrapped from the walls of their tanks. Maria shook her arms off, waking her muscles up. She’d been rather irate a few minutes ago - but half-hearing the noises Penelope made as something awful happened to her, and then seeing the cruel cake-fest that she’d avoided, had both lightened her mood somewhat.

She looked into Beattie’s gunge tank as she passed. The poor humiliated girl didn’t look too keen to stand up, even after her arms were released from their suspension. Maria glanced sideways at the Wenches, conveying something subtle. Getting her drift, they stepped back.

“Hey babe,” said Maria, placing a hand on Beattie’s shoulder. “Unlucky, unlucky. C’mon - someone needs a hug.”

Beattie dragged her palms down her face, a snow-plough that dislodged huge splats of sweet fluff into her lap. But she appreciated the moment of kindness, and looked up with thankful eyes. “Uh, gimme a moment.”

She did the same for her chest, then attempted to draw the unruly straps of the dress back over her boobs, preserving some tiny bit of dignity. To her surprise, it just about worked. She tried to stand, weary and wobbly - it was a very unfortunate moment to be wearing heels. Maria took her hand, steadied her ascent, and then guided her into a sticky hug. They exchanged reassuring words, bonded slightly by their recent “dining” experience.

“Only a game, hey?” said Maria. “And we still don’t know who won. Don’t worry.”

“I am worried.”

“Ha! Yeah. So am I. Good luck.”

“Thanks. You too.”

The foursome were finally gathered together, with Nell close at hand to stamp out any unruly behaviour - though honestly, most of the contestants were too sticky and tired-out to start any fuss. Eris followed, and addressed the contestants from a safe distance, cameras still rolling.

“Bloody hell, get a load of you lot. Not looking very presentable for the moment of truth.”

“Hardly our fault!” complained Beattie.

“True enough. But I’m afraid we don’t have time for a full shower break right now. Wenches - the hoses, please.”

Seemingly from nowhere, four of Eris’ assistants were suddenly brandishing rubber hosepipes, tipped with spray-nozzles, which trailed away behind them into a water supply somewhere.

They unleashed without warning, and the mood among the girls instantly shifted from sulky to outraged, as they were assaulted by pressurised jets of cold, clear water.

A chorus of screams filled the air. The Wenches made sure to surround them, leaving nowhere to turn away from the chilly blasts for any of the poor ladies. Their delicate outfits were once again distressed, flushed breasts spilling out as they squirmed and cowered.

It was a thorough job. Once they’d been hosed down, the girls stood breathless and open-mouthed, dripping wet. A huge pool of watery slop around their feet quietly trickled away into drains in the floor. They exchanged glances of disbelief - for the first time, everyone had got the same rough treatment from Eris, and it almost felt like there was a little solidarity in the air, even if that might not last long.

“If you’ve finished whining,” the host began, “I can actually tell you the final scores.”

The hot studio lights at least took some of the cold-water chill out of the contestants’ muscles, as they stood in a line, facing the cameras. Even after hurriedly fixing their outfits, they were all still bedraggled, damp, and nervous.

“Before our final game, Penelope was in the lead. Has Bella done enough to catch up? Well, the ginger smartypants completed all the anagrams, and activated five dispensers - so that’s 50 points. Dumb blonde over here,” said Eris, cruelly gesturing towards Penelope, “only got 30.”

After frowning at the insult, Penelope tried to do some mental maths. That’s cut the deficit to 40, but Eris did mention bonus points, and it’s the last game… oh, please no…

“And for claiming the overall win, Bella gets a tasty 50-point bonus!”

“Aaagh!” Penelope’s sharp cry of anguish turned everyone’s head.

“Wow. You really were keeping a close eye on the scores. Way to ruin the surprise.”

Bella and Maria’s faces were breaking into broad smiles, but they didn’t seem ready to celebrate until it was confirmed. Beattie bowed her head, looking down at the floor.

“But yeah, she’s right. Bella wins, 190 to 180!”

The AI crowd went suitably nuts, as the victors thrust their fists into the air triumphantly, instantly beginning to poke fun at their unfortunate counterparts.

“That’s not fair!” protested Penelope among the clamour. “You never said it was 50 points! Why didn’t I get that much for the other games? You’re just making this up!”

Her reaction only seemed to make Eris more delighted. “Er - this is my Slop House, little madam, and I can be as unfair as I want! But FYI, the scoring is actually decided beforehand. I can show you the Google Doc, if it’ll shut you up.”

Penelope just balled her fists in response, and glared daggers, wincing as she heard Maria humming some jaunty little tune in celebration.

Eris continued to twist the knife, turning towards the other team this time. “Oh Beeea-tiiie… Beattie sweetie… you know what this means, don’t you?”

The flushed and flustered redhead lifted her face, just enough to catch Eris’ eye. She gave a slow, sad nod, while her sister cackled at the teasing.

“That’s right! You’ll be taking a trip to the Mega Mucky Super Sloppy Gunk Dunk! Are you looking forward to it?”

Beattie shook her head.

“Correct! It’s gonna be horrible and humiliating! Ha ha ha! Oh, I love my job. First, though, you two will actually need to go and tidy yourselves up a bit - it’s the grand finale, after all. Wenches - take them away, please.”

The two sisters were led off-set, one skipping, one skulking. Eris turned her attention towards the blue team.

“Penelope. Oh dear. Fell at the final hurdle, there. Disappointed?”

Her response was quiet and muttered. “Yeah, kinda.”

“And Maria. You’ve escaped a trip to the Mega Mucky Super Sloppy Gunk Dunk. How does that feel?”

“So good. Oh, it feels fantastic.”

“No hard feelings, then? Not annoyed that Penelope brought you here, slandered your good name, tried to get you gunged, and ultimately… wasted your valuable time?”

Eris was glaring into Maria’s eyes, suggestively, hoping she’d pick up the hint. Penelope could see this going on, and her stomach started to churn.

“Hmmm. She did do all that, it’s true. Not very nice.”

“Not very nice at all. I think maybe there should be consequences, don’t you?”

Penelope keened quietly. “Please… I already… you already…”

The mistress of the house was having none of it. “Ahem! Happy to dish it out but not take it, eh? Well, I know what might fix that attitude. Come on - this way!”

Accompanied by plenty of AI cheering, a terrified Penelope was cajoled onwards through the studio by four Wenches, Eris and Maria following in her wake. Her heart was beating fast, and she was acutely aware she was still in that shockingly slutty maid outfit. An opportunity to change clothes seemed very unlikely.

What she saw through the next set of doors made her jaw drop.

This small room was ostentatiously grimy-looking, even more so than the rest of the Slop House. The lighting was dim, the brick walls looked dank and crumbling, and the floor under her stockinged soles felt like cold concrete.

There were two trestle tables standing against the back wall. Each of them held an array of worrying-looking stuff - buckets, pies, other things that Penelope couldn’t quite make out. On the wall above the left-hand table, drawing her eyes, was a neon sign. The bright blue tubing was bent into a simple symbol - the outline of a head and shoulders, with a round halo adorning it. Above the right-hand table was something similar - only bright red, with horns protruding from the head instead of a halo.

Naughty and nice, thought Penelope.

Much more worryingly, there was another flat surface between them. It wouldn’t be much use as a dinner table, though. Firstly, the shape was unwieldy - a large black wooden X. And secondly, there were the brass manacles at the end of each extremity.

No, no no no…

As a final touch, something was hanging from the rafters above the black cross. A large, scuzzy-looking cauldron held up by metal chains, similar in size to a small hot-tub. One more neon sign was affixed to the front of it - a question mark, in bright green.

Penelope had barely a couple of seconds to take this all in.

“What do we do with naughty girls?” said Eris with relish. “That’s right! We gunge ‘em in the dungeon! Strap her in, Wenches…”

The poor blonde shrieked in trepidation as she was manhandled towards the cross. She resisted slightly, not knowing what else to do, but the Wenches’ grip was firm, and she was soon bundled onto the flat surface, her limbs forcefully splayed into the appropriate positions. With four firm clicks, the manacles closed tightly around her wrists and ankles. She whimpered, helpless and scared.

“So, Maria,” began Eris, looking at her watch. “In about… thirteen minutes, Beattie’s gonna get it good. Wanna watch that happen?”

“Aha! Yes, definitely.”

“Thought so. In that case, let’s put ten minutes on the clock.”

Eris stepped towards a tattered-looking analogue timepiece on the side wall, whose hands were all vertical, pointing towards the twelve. She began to turn a small crank in its flank. The slim second hand spun round quickly, with the minute hand following gradually, until the dial showed ten minutes past the hour. Once Eris released the dial, the clock began to tick backwards, counting down.

Before Eris could explain further, she was interrupted by another nervous wail from Penelope. The surface she was splayed on had been raised upwards at an angle by a series of sliding poles beneath the surface, slotted into place by the Wenches. She was now resting at a diagonal, about 45 degrees, and she could feel the pull of gravity against her shackled wrists.

“Prissy Penelope in the perfect perilous position,” said Eris, making Maria giggle. “You’ve got ten minutes, Maria - I’ll leave you to it. She’s all yours.”

It took a moment for the ramifications of those words to sink in. But once they did, Maria beamed with naughty excitement.

“Okay!”

“See you at the finale, then. Oh, and in case you hadn’t figured it out - this lever here is for…”

Eris glanced upwards at the vat, meaningfully, as she began to walk away. Maria nodded; Penelope winced.

And then there were two - well, besides the Wenches who were quietly capturing everything on camera. Maria turned towards her helpless victim, eyes sparkling.

“Oh, I’m going to enjoy this.”

There was a tremendously sexy swagger to her gait, as she drew closer to the squirming girl on the cross, blue high heels clicking on the floor.

“Now. What would you like me to start with? Nice… or nasty?”

Penelope stayed silent - she wasn’t going to play along. She would just have to grit her teeth, and endure.

“Fine. I’ll choose, then. I think we start with nasty. Get it over with, hmmm? Now, what’s this?”

Maria moved towards the table lit by the red neon sign, and peered into the large tin bucket that rested on it. Inside was something thick, sludgy and grey-brown. She pressed one lithe finger into its surface, and brought it to her nose for a sniff.

“Oh look - it’s your favourite, Penelope! Mud!”

The only response Maria received was a quiet quivering noise. She grabbed the pail by its handle, and approached her prey. Without further warning, she plunged her hand into the bucket, and scooped up a fat dollop of the cold, sticky matter.

Penelope gasped as she felt Maria’s hand splatter against her right cheek, then smear the cool mud down her face, over her neck, and onto her shoulder.

“Enough for a good coating…”

She slathered another helping over the bare skin of Penelope’s right arm, sliding it up to her bound wrist. And then another, slapped rudely onto the belly, and painted over her right flank.

Penelope felt her toes curl in embarrassment as Maria worked quickly to cover her in the damp, earthy gunge. An enthusiastic slopping of her thighs, accompanied by some shameless squeezing, was particularly mortifying. She tried her best to stay silent, and not give Maria the satisfaction, but she couldn’t help little staccato breaths emerging from time to time.

Maria finished off by slathering the mud over Penelope’s shiny black stockings, from knees to feet - and then, with the very last clump in the bucket, splattering her in the chest, massaging the gunk into the upper curves of her firm breasts. Penelope shivered.

There was plenty more to come. Maria cooed as she picked up a clear plastic jug, holding it up in front of Penelope’s face. She shook the jug, watching its contents jiggle.

“How do you like your eggs, Penelope?”

“Ugh! No…”

“Yes. And I have an egg-cellent idea.”

When she felt Maria tugging at the frilly lace that topped her left stocking, Penelope let out a moan of despair. And then there it was - the slippery, liquid sensation of several egg yolks, and a good slosh of white, pouring into the stocking and slithering down her trembling leg.

Once she’d emptied half of the jug’s contents, Maria held the stocking open for a long moment - then let the band snap back into place. Penelope yelped - the garment squeezed the egg yolks, and she felt some of them breaking, splatting into liquid form against her skin. A few of them remained, however, gross slimy orbs pooling around her restrained ankle.

Unsurprisingly, Maria repeated the process with Penelope’s right stocking - it was every bit as unpleasant the second time. Though she was trying not to meet Maria’s eye, Penelope did sneak a glance to check if the jug was now empty - when she saw it was, she gave a quiet sigh of relief.

There was another pause, as something small on the table caught Maria’s eye.“Madre mia. What are these?”

Every word out of Maria’s mouth only made Penelope squirm more. She closed her eyes tightly, trying to calm her breathing.

“Oh, I think I understand! That is exciting.”

Penelope felt strong hands tugging at the straps of her skimpy maid’s top, yanking it upwards and exposing her breasts. She felt herself flush deeply.

Maria was delighted to discover the sight of two extremely firm, sensitive, pink nipples. “Very nice. Looks like you’re ready for these.”

“For what…?” she gasped quietly, unable to help herself. And then she felt a steady pressure, squeezing her left nipple. “Unh! What are you…”

“I don’t know why these are on the nasty table,” said Maria, while she affixed the second small clamp onto Penelope’s other breast. “I think these are fun.”

The pinching sensation - insistent, though not overly painful - sent blood rushing to Penelope’s chest, and her pulse quickened while Maria re-armed herself.

“We’ve got some pies here too. They look tasty.”

She lifted one of the three foil trays, and held it close to her face, looking down into the mound of white goo that it contained.

“Yeuch! But they don’t smell tasty!”

Standing by Penelope’s waist, she lifted the pie into position. The bound girl simply scrunched up her face and waited.

“You know, I almost feel sorry.”

There was a tremendous wet squish, and Penelope felt a riot of splurge envelop her face. Every muscle in her body tensed, and she hurriedly snorted air from her nose, trying to breathe. The smell hit her right away, and she gagged. It was rich, funky, tangy. But her brain was too addled to identify its exact makeup - cottage cheese and mayonnaise.

Gloop oozed down her cheeks, splatting quietly onto her shoulders and the top of her chest.

Maria didn’t give a verbal warning for the second one, and Penelope twitched in shock as it splattered into her face, eyes still firmly shut. Then a third, just making the facial coating so much more humiliatingly thick and sloppy.

She prayed to high heaven that was the last of these gross flans - she thought she remembered three pies on each table, but she could have been wrong.

To her immense relief, she could hear Maria’s high-heeled footsteps clacking away in front of her, sauntering over to the “nice” table. They were followed by a deep, raunchy laugh. And then a quiet, steady thrumming noise.

The hum got louder, as did Maria’s filthy giggles. Suddenly, Penelope felt something against her ear. Something firm, and insistently buzzing. It set her heart pounding like a techno beat, and she gasped, spitting out creamy, savoury goop as she did so.

Maria slid the massage wand down to the neck, applying a firm pressure. She leaned in close, and whispered in Penelope’s ear.

“You’re going to cum soon, aren’t you, Penelope?”

The blonde girl yelped in shock, affronted. “Gnh! No way!”

“Oh, I think you are. Because you’re a kinky little slut. And you love this humiliation.”

“Fuh! Fuck… fuck you…”

Maria dragged the wand lower, tracing lazy circles on Penelope’s shoulder.

“Oh. you think you’re good at hiding it. But it’s really so very obvious.”

The wand travelled between her bare breasts, which rose and fell with her frantic, flustered breathing.

“And in just a moment… when I reach into your little knickers…”

“Nnnh!”

“I know for sure what I’ll find.”

Maria lifted the vibrator from Penelope’s skin, shutting it off, and placed her right palm against her prisoner’s belly. The overwhelmed, whimpering blonde didn’t say a word as she felt Maria’s fingers slip into the waistband of her garter belt and underwear.

When she felt Penelope’s soft bush, heavy with the musky dew of arousal, Maria smiled. She slid her hand out, having very much proved her point.

“I knew I shouldn’t feel too sorry for you.”

Maria placed the wand on the table, leaving her hands free to claim more of the messy spoils it held. She decided on another jug, this one gleaming golden in the low studio light.

Much of the cheesy white gunge had fallen away from Penelope’s face by now, but she still held her eyes closed, hearing Maria’s deliberate movements. It was only now that she realised there was no jeering crowd noise coming over the speakers - though she knew they would still be watching, of course. The thought of it sent an electric current down her spine.

Maria had tasted the jug’s contents with a dab on her finger, and she’d found a suitable target.

“You have very nice tits, you know. But I think this will make them even nicer.”

Penelope felt a warm, slow caress against the lower curve of her left breast, and moaned softly.

Holding the jug aloft, Maria poured a steady, gentle stream of golden honey all over Penelope’s flushed chest. The assertive squeeze of the nipple clamps, paired with the sweet sticky massage of the honey, made the trapped beauty positively purr with pleasure. Her thoughts raced, and while this gungey domination left her feeling deeply mortified, there was an edge of relief to it - after Maria’s words, she knew there was no point trying to hide her arousal, her kinky secret, any longer.

There was another large tin pail on this table, and Maria carefully lifted it by the handle, before resting a hand underneath it, bringing it up to her face and verifying its contents.

“Ha! I will never understand you British people’s obsession with this stuff. But it’ll be useful for now, I guess…”

When she felt the first warm, damp splat of custard against her blonde hair, Penelope let out a short gasp. Another small gungey impact followed, and another, Maria tantalising her. And then suddenly, it was cascading over her head in a thick, sloppy rush. Custard slicked over her face in a gooey sheet, leading to some terribly undignified blabbering, spluttering sounds as she tried to ensure she could breathe.

The feeling of the balmy river oozing down her almost-bare body was quite incredible.

With her custard-bucket now emptied, Maria glanced at the clock - three minutes left, which was much less than she’d expected. Wow. Time really does fly when you’re having fun. And now, it was time to make those three minutes count.

Enjoying the soundtrack of squelchy noises and soft moans coming from the restraining cross, she picked up and activated the vibrating wand again. The sound of its thrumming made Penelope twitch in anticipation once more.

Maria was able to hold the device in one hand, while also carefully scooping up the tray of a large cream pie, one of the final bits of ammunition she had available.

“I thought Jemma was a handful,” she began, positioning herself. “But you have to be the most troublesome, disobedient, disrespectful girl at the club, Penelope.”

“Ngh!”

“Say sorry.”

“I’m s-”

The fat cream pie smashed into Penelope’s face, rich dairy filling her open mouth. And just after its impact, she felt the teasing buzz of the wand against her belly again. It moved downwards as she gasped and spat, tracing against the line of her garter belt.

A quiet few seconds, while Maria re-armed herself.

“Say sorry.”

“Uh, I said-”

Penelope’s face was assailed again, sweet fluffy whipped cream exploding against her cheeks. Then a buzzing against her inner thigh, absolutely enthralling. Another short pause.

“Say sorry.”

“Agh! I’m sorry, I’m sorry!”

Penelope gasped, amazed that she had been allowed to get the words out. And she gasped again, feeling firm pressure from the vibrator against the front of her knickers for a few long seconds.

“Apology accepted.”

Maria splattered the last pie into Penelope’s panting face. She shut off the toy, and stood for a moment, looking down at her handiwork. The petite blonde’s trembling body was so satisfyingly filthy, smeared and sploshed with all manner of muck.

“But that doesn’t mean we’re done here. You know that, don’t you?”

Penelope murmured a quiet “mm-hmm,” very aware that she wouldn’t escape being covered in whatever slop was lurking in the giant vat above.

Before that, however, Maria had one more treat for her. The cream pies on the ‘nice’ table were expended, but that still left their bigger, badder cousin. A black forest gateau sat in wait, looking utterly delicious. Oozy and boozy, thick with liquid cream, rich chocolate ganache, and sticky cherry liqueur sauce.

Picking up its tray carefully, Maria indulged in a little more teasing, bringing the gateau up to Penelope’s face. “Look what I’ve got.”

Blinking her eyes open, Penelope couldn’t stop herself letting out an excited moan.

“And I know just the place for it.”

Maria moved around the cross from Penelope’s side, and stood between her splayed legs. When Penelope felt the waistbands of her garter belt and underwear being firmly pulled away from her waist, she softly cried out. “Oh…!”

Keeping one eye on the clock, Maria kept every movement slow, drawing out the tension. She angled the cake, pressing one gooey edge of it into Penelope’s belly. And then she pressed it forwards, and downwards, shoving as much of the cakey goo as she possibly could into Penelope’s knickers. The resulting succession of whimpers and groans from above was music to her ears.

There wasn’t a lot of containing fabric in the skimpy garment, so a good proportion of the chocolatey mush slid straight out, sticking to Penelope’s quivering thighs.

Still holding both waistbands open, Maria set the wand buzzing once again. She angled it downwards, and set the head against Penelope’s skin, just below her belly button. Then she began to move it lower.

The slow movement of the vibrator, into the sticky cake, towards her aching, hungry pussy, made Penelope shiver with enthralled anticipation, barely able to contain herself. “Nuhh… oh Maria, oh my God…”

Her moans intensified as the head of the wand came to rest over her firm, twitching clit. Maria carefully watched Penelope’s face, and listened to her gasps, to judge when she had the position just right. Gradually, she released the pressure in the waistbands, until they were tight again - pressing against the handle of the vibrator, and holding its thrumming tip firmly inside Penelope’s gateau-filled knickers.

“Oh my… fff-uh, gnnn-hhh… ahh…”

The bound girl’s head was swimming, a heady mix of exhibitionist thrill and submissive humiliation. As the toy pulsed in her underwear, she felt herself racing steadily towards a filthy, kinky climax.

“Thirty seconds, Penelope. Are you ready to get slopped?”

Maria was now standing by the fateful lever, a few feet away, safely out of the splatter zone. She was going to enjoy every second of her allotted ten minutes, and she was ready to pull the lever right at the last possible moment.

She watched Penelope writhe, as did the camera-Wenches - picking up every contortion of Penelope’s gasping, cream-covered face in full HD. The fingers of her restrained hands clenched and unclenched, and her legs shook with intense pleasure.

“You didn’t answer me,” continued Maria. “Maybe I’m wrong - maybe you don’t want it? Twenty seconds.”

“Unh! No, please… fuck… please…”

“And you’ll stop complaining about the stables? Will you be a good girl, Penelope?”

“Yes! Oh, anything… haa-aah-fuck…”

“Ten seconds.”

“Mmmph… oh God…”

The sheer adrenaline of the countdown was sending pre-orgasmic sparks through every muscle of Penelope’s body. She could feel so much raw potential energy, all centred on her soaking, quivering snatch. It felt like a huge case of fireworks just waiting to be set off.

“Five. Four. Three.”

Her breaths grew shorter, and she gasped for air. Her heart thumped madly in her chest.

“Two.”

“Oh god!”

“One.”

“Oh fuck!”

“Zero.”

Just before the clock on the wall hit its final mark, Maria firmly tugged the lever. Right away, it caused the vat to tip over sharply, casting out a sloshing wave of something bright green from its leading edge.

The instant Penelope felt the first heavy splatter of slime against her helpless head, she burst into a fierce, bone-shaking orgasm.

Maria laughed delightedly, as she watched an enormous, thick stream of chunky green sludge instantly obliterate the bound figure of her rival. It made a thunderous noise, weighty splatters going absolutely everywhere, hammering against the hard studio floor. And it looked spectacular, a chaotic green maelstrom, only vaguely in the shape of a girl.

Underneath the rushing, splashing pour, Penelope shuddered and juddered, gasping for breath. Within barely a second, the torrent had sloppily soaked every inch of her upper body, and it was still pouring. She could feel the texture against her skin - lumpy and bitty, like a milky porridge. It was lukewarm, and smelled gently chemical. 

It took maybe four seconds for the vat to fully empty. The intense torrent dwindled to a dribble, and Penelope spat away some goo, hungrily gulping down air into her lungs.

She was still cumming. It was a litany of wordless noises, growls and yelps and moans. Everything worked together to keep her atop this cresting wave of filthy pleasure: the wet embrace of the slime, the incessant purr against her clit, the delicious mocking laughter from Maria, the perving gaze of the viewers at home.

It was almost a relief when she felt Maria finally pull the vibrator back out of her slop-filled underwear. Waves of orgasm continued to ripple through her body, softer each time.

“Maybe I’ll keep hold of this,” said Maria with a smirk. “Clean it off, and take it with me to the finale. It turns out I rather like seeing helpless girls covered in goo.”

Penelope couldn’t manage words yet, only soft breathing and low murmurs of exhausted pleasure.

“I guess I’ll see you after the show. If they even let you out of here,” laughed Maria. She turned and walked away, one of the Wenches ushering her towards a suitable spot to watch the mayhem that was to come.

“There’s no time for a shower,” said the Wench. “Sorry.”

Maria hardly cared - she was in a fantastic mood.

VII: Gunked and Dunked

Eris had given strict instructions to her team on creating a pleasing transition into the finale.

Before Penelope was finally let out, to clean up and recover her sanity, one camera-Wench took a slow panning shot down her gunge-splattered, barely-clad body, and finally onto the floor, zooming in to the slick of lumpy green gunge pooling under her restraining cross.

There was a fade effect, and the gunk seemed to change colour. It had the same vaguely gross texture, but instead of green, it was now a swirling mixture of unappealing hues - purple, blue, grey, beige.

The camera zoomed out again, to reveal that this gunge was somewhere else entirely. More precisely, it was the gunge that filled the Mega Mucky Super Sloppy Gunk Dunk. And around this ominous, final swamp of goo was a scene to whet the appetite.

Over the PA, the online crowd’s excited laughter and cheering was already bubbling away.

Beattie’s eyes were wide, and her usually-rosy cheeks actually looked a little pale.

She was perched above the lip of the dunking vat, maybe six feet above the surface, in a kneeling position. Her sturdy thighs were placed on each side of some kind of saddle - it was similar in shape to a Sybian, but with a shallow central dip into which her crotch was nestled. Her hands were held behind her back - not that she had a choice in the matter, seeing as they were firmly cuffed.

Beattie’s plump, beautiful body was squeezed into a tight one-piece swimsuit, although not one that she would ever have picked off the rack. The fabric was so utterly sheer that it was almost transparent. Her heavy tits, which squished deliciously together, were on near-open display - as was her range of cute, subtle tattoos. And it had a decoration: across the belly, in bold yellow capitals, was the word LOSER.

Moving away from Beattie’s worried face and exposed body, the cameras took in what lurked behind and above her. An angled metal runway, about twenty feet long, extended up towards the studio wall at the rear. It was marked with numbers - Beattie’s current position was next to the zero, and behind that were lines at regular intervals, marked one to five. Straddling each of the marked lines was a rusty-looking metal arch, feet planted either side of the runway, like the ribs of some iron giant. Hanging from the apex of every arch was a blocky perspex reservoir of gunge, increasing in size as they ascended.

Swivelling around, the camera captured another face - this one incredibly smug. Bella gave a cheery wave down the lens. Her costume was also a tight one-piece, but much more dignified - the swimsuit was opaque for a start, and it was a shiny, shimmery golden colour. The word WINNER adorned it across the belly, which Bella pointed to with a wink while the camera was still on her.

She was sitting much more comfortably, perched in a vintage armchair, which sat inside a free-standing booth, wide but shallow, with an open top. Its walls were striped red and white, giving it a fairground feel. In front of the seat were two large levers, protruding from the floor: one a bold red, the other one shiny and golden.

Bella didn’t seem overly perturbed by the devices lying on the floor nearby, two contraptions made of white plastic piping, each with a paddle pointed at her that held a thick, creamy pie. A pair of Wenches was on hand, too, standing beside wooden shelving units, fairly laden with more of the same.

Opposite Bella’s seat, on the other side of the dunking vat, was some kind of display board, not illuminated for now. There were also two of the tall chat screens, flanking Beattie’s elaborate runway, and angled inwards to ensure she could see the taunting messages - which were already flooding in.

DUNK TIME
WHAT AN OUTFIT LMAO
BEATTIE’S ABOUT TO GETTT ITTT
SHE LOOKS TERRIFIED, AMAZING
<3 KNOCKERS

Finally, the camera zoomed backwards, capturing a wide shot of the whole set - including the array of wide-mouthed, rusty metal pipes, six of them in all, that descended from the studio ceiling and converged inwards, all aiming towards the epicentre of the sloppy pool below.

It was time for the host to make her entrance.

“Ready for one last blowout, you filthy little perverts?”

Eris could barely contain herself, skipping and spinning onto the set with delight, making frequent, grinning eye contact with poor doomed Beattie, and taking her place beside the blank display board on the left side.

“Fucking hell, I am excited!” began her spiel to camera. “Why? Well, because a naughty slut is about to get plunged into an enormous vat of my coldest, thickest, lumpiest, smelliest slime!”

Beattie squirmed. Eris wasn’t kidding about the smelliest, either. The scent had been making her stomach turn since the Wenches had plonked her down and cuffed her there. It wasn’t even a familiar kind of stench, like rotten eggs or sweaty socks. It was some truly weird combination of aromas, each assaulting her nose for just a moment, then getting replaced by something else. Boiled sprouts, sour milk, detergent, cod liver oil, paprika, tobacco… what the fuck was in there? She tried her best not to think about it.

“A fitting punishment for a smarmy, goody-two-shoes little sister, who gets away with everything - wouldn’t you agree, Bella?”

The victorious sister nodded enthusiastically.

“It’s Payback time. Welcome to the Mega Mucky Super Sloppy Gunk Dunk!”

Eris left some space for the wave of algorithmic cheering, and the flood of teasing, horny comments, to roll in. Then she held her hands palm-down, and made a gesture to quiet them.

“Alright, alright. I don’t want to keep you horndogs waiting too long, but I’ve just got to ask…”

She turned to the platform above the dunk. “Beattie. How ya feeling right now?”

The hangdog, uselessly-pleading expression was a delicious sight. “Don’t like it! I wanna go home!”

Eris cackled. “Aww, poor baby! The only place you’re going right now is down!”

Then she paused, and addressed the viewers again. “Actually - that’s not strictly true. As you can see, Beattie’s currently at the bottom of a nice big runway. But wouldn’t it be more fun to plunge her from right at the top - really hurl her in, with a huge, mucky splash?”

A chorus of agreement sounded at the thought. Comments reading CRANK HER UP were already filling the screens.

“Well, that’s what her sister will be trying to do! Hiya Bella, how’s tricks?”

“Pretty good! Thanks, Eris. I’m excited too.”

“Fuckin’ betcha are! Now, I’m sure you’ve noticed, you are in the Pie Booth right now.”

Bella rolled her eyes a little, and gave a flirty laugh. “I did notice. Seems a little unfair - aren’t I supposed to be the winner?”

Eris flirted back. “If you’d seen what happened to Penelope, you wouldn’t be complaining, trust me!”

This made Bella dial back her cheekiness a bit, as the host continued. “I just thought we should add a little extra slapstick entertainment for the loyal viewers.”

She tapped the screen next to her, which revealed a game-board of some kind: there were two large empty squares in the upper half with a plus sign between them, and a longer box underneath them.

“Bella’s gonna be playing a game I call Smush ‘Em. I’ll give two clues with answers that overlap in some way. She just has to smush ‘em together. Example: if the clues were the name of my slimy club, plus a posh wooden room full of lying wankers, the answer would be the Slop House of Commons. Geddit?”

Another little ripple of laughter. “Now, just to put her off, we will be cream-pieing Bella in the face while she comes up with the answers. Hopefully she doesn’t have to think too long…”

Bella wrinkled her nose and stuck her tongue out, but she was still in a giddy, fun mood. However many pies she got hit with, it’d be nothing next to her sister’s fate.

“Her reward for a correct answer? Well, she gets to pull the red lever. And what does that do to Beattie?”

There was no way for AI to simulate the joy of this, so Eris had instructed every Wench in the studio to join in on this part. Watching from behind the cameras, draped in a comfortable armchair, Maria added her voice to the chorus. But loudest of all, naturally, was Bella.

“Crank! Her! Up!”

“That’s right! Higher and higher she goes. Unfortunately for Beattie, there’s loads of sloppy gunge waiting for her on the way up, too! And, just maybe, some other naughty surprises.”

Beattie’s nervous, quiet pout had transformed into pathetic little whimpers now, all the teasing only making it so much worse. She couldn’t believe her bitch sister was actually going to do this.

“Five questions - and ten seconds to answer each question. Think you can drag her all the way to the sloppy top, Bella?”

“Yep, for sure!”

“Ooh, I like the confidence! Here we go then - your timer will start when I finish reading the clues. Question one!”

There was a classic gameshowy shift in the studio lighting - it became moody, purple and dark, but with bright spotlights on the host and the two contestants. As Eris read out the answers, they popped up in the boxes on the screen.

“An act of fellatio, plus the place you go to sign on the dole.”

A large red “10.00” appeared on the screen, and began counting down. At the very same moment, one of the pie-flinging devices was unleashed. A heavy cream confection, travelling at quite a clip, slapped into Bella’s right cheek with a gooey splatter.

“Eep!” The red number continued to while away, as Bella tried to get the clues straight in her mind. Word games were definitely her wheelhouse, but the addition of slapstick missiles certainly increased the difficulty level. “Blowjob… job… spluh!”

Another flan hit the other side of her face, and she spluttered, pawing cream away from her mouth.

“Job… ah - Blowjobcentre!”

Her answer wasn’t quite in time to prevent a third pieing from the catapult, but the loud “ding” over the PA made it clear that it was correct. The clock stopped, and Bella thrust her arms upwards in triumph…

…only to cringe back down again in surprise. Bella had no idea that there was a Wench on a raised platform behind her booth, crouching down out of sight. At the sound of the bell, she quickly stood, and sloshed a bucketful of royal blue slop over Bella’s head and shoulders.

Laughter pealed from the speakers, as Bella gawped in shock, aiming an accusatory look at Eris. Her colourful backdrop had a great blue slosh down it, and her hair was slicked in a gooey dome.

“I got it right! What’d you do that for?”

Eris shrugged. “Eh… for a laugh?”

There wasn’t much of an answer to that. Bella just flapped her sticky arms and let out a rueful laugh, while Beattie had the good sense not to gloat.

“Never mind Bella - now you get to dish it out! Come on, pull the lever and… Crank! Her! Up!”

She didn’t need to be told twice. With a grin, she grabbed the red lever and firmly yanked it towards her, watching her sister’s nervous face with glee. The lever snapped back into position, ready for next time.

A scuzzy, punky riff began to play out as Beattie’s platform groaned into life. And it wasn’t the only thing that activated - a gasp came to her throat as she felt the bulky device below her begin to buzz softly. “Mmh!”

The dip in its middle meant that her barely-covered crotch was hugged by a cradle of plastic surface, all of it imparting a gentle vibration.

Beattie had barely adjusted to this new development when the rising platform stopped, with a loud clunk, at the first marker. And immediately, a glossy stream of lukewarm slime, forest green, was unleashed over her head. “Eeyaah!”

With her hands clasped firmly behind her back, there was no protecting herself. It wasn’t poured from tremendously high, which reduced the humiliating splatteriness, but very much increased the quantity of smooth gunge flowing right down her shoulders, back, and chest.

It sent a shudder down her spine, as the sticky goo slathered over her sheer swimsuit. The garment was tight, but the valley of her magnificent cleavage still encouraged a little bit of the slime to start seeping inside it, down her front.

There was no way to wipe her face - she just hung her head, blinking her eyes, as the last of the gunge soaked her from above. Bella’s mocking laughter from below stung, much more so than the AI jeers of the crowd. She was glad that her predicament made it tough to read the comments, though they were continuing, and her sister was very much enjoying them.

SLOP THE SLUT
CRANK HER UP!
MORE GUNGE

“Question two, Bella?”

After seeing that little display, the older girl objected much less to the mess she had to face in this little game. Beattie was already well-slathered, and that was just after the first question!

“Bring it on!”

“Here we go then. We’ve got a bounty hunter from the Star Wars films, plus another word for kink.”

Splat - the first pie once again nailed Bella’s face as soon as the timer started, though it was a little easier to weather the storm now she’d figured out the pattern - they were alternating sides, and she seemed to get a pie every couple of seconds, so she could at least turn away and not get cream in her eyes and mouth.

The first clue was hard, and she racked her brain a little, as another gooey splurge hit her cheek. What about the second? Oh, fetish maybe. Who’s that one guy?

“Yes! Boba- ghhh!”

She was interrupted by another splurge before finishing her answer, but persevered. “Boba Fettish!”

Her success was confirmed by the bell - and the bucket. She squeaked with embarrassed laughter as purple gunge splashed over her head - and her own swimsuit was now getting quite slimy too, not to mention the chair. But this was just the price of doing business, and she chorused along this time as she got to torment her sister further.

“Crank! Her! Up!”

“Nooo… unhhh…”

Beattie felt the thrumming beneath her intensify ever so slightly, quickening her pulse. And within a few seconds, she had been dragged back to the next marker, so it was time for another slimy shower.

“Guhhh!”

This one was a lurid, snotty lime green. Just like the last one, it was slow-ish and silky and sensual, slathering down her body impudently, hugging her curves. Her bound arms were already covered in damp goo, as were the front of her thick, kneeling thighs.

Even as she cringed in humiliated disgust, she noted that Eris at least seemed to be saving the really cold, smelly gunk for later.

“Look at that, Bella,” cooed Eris. “Pretty sight, ain’t it?”

“I know! This is fun,” came the reply, Bella’s eyes sparkling.

“Another question then! Here we go. It’s… a female pleasure organ, plus a dickhead who somehow became Prime Minister in 2022.”

Bella giggled her way through the smack of gooey pies. She’d solved the first two riddles before half the time was even up, and she was pretty confident on this one, just trying to piece together how to say it out loud.

“Clitorishi Sunak!”

This time she raised her arms again, and even did a little cheery dance while she got splattered from above, swaying her lovely plump body in the chair. Having all the power over her bratty little sis was doing wonders for her mindset, her confidence and charisma.

Another chance to “Crank! Her! Up!” was gleefully taken, Bella cackling as she tugged the red lever.

Beattie knew the drill by now, not that it helped much. The seat below her intensified its vibrations once again, and she let out a low gasp. And then, a few seconds later, she took another plentiful drenching in smooth, slippery gunge, this one custard-yellow.

It was already noticeable that each reservoir held more slime than the last, and Bella gave a naughty, delighted squeak as she watched - there was so much slop! By the time it had finished, the platform beneath Beattie and the lower half of the metal runway were absolutely slick with a river of gunge, steadily oozing off the edge into the swamp below. 

Bella watched her sister squirm, wanting to remember this moment. And she just now noticed how Beattie’s thighs seemed to be twitching, her lower body shuddering. It didn’t take long to piece together what the device beneath Beattie was doing to her, even though she hadn’t been told. Bella bit her lip, a little bit scandalised and a little bit thrilled.

THIS IS SO FUCKING HOTTT
PLEASE DUNK THEM BOTH!
BEATTIE’S GONNA CUM LOL

“You’re smashing this so far, Bella! Can we take her all the way?”

“Hope so!”

“Let’s see, then! Question four: we’ve got an item of badminton equipment, plus a sex toy that’s placed around the penis.”

This one was easy - Bella only got pied twice before she confidently shouted “Shuttlecockring!” then hunched her shoulders and giggled through another sloppy pink bucketful from above.

She really did look incredible: her pretty red hair was all matted and sloppy, gunge and cream oozed down her shoulders and chest, and her naughty smile was utterly infectious.

The Wenches chorused along with Bella, Eris and Maria once again. “Crank! Her! Up!”

Every time they jeered the catchphrase, Beattie felt herself cringe more deeply. Especially as it wasn’t just her platform being cranked up. The buzzing against her slimy, squirming pussy was really quite something now, making her blood run hot. She could feel her slippery boobs rub together every time she moved, and her juicy nipples were rock-hard, straining against the practically transparent swimsuit.

And then, as she clunked into place at the fourth level, another huge, humiliating shower of gunge.

“Huah… gnnnh, fuck…”

Beattie’s muscles tensed and strained, so absolutely mortified by this ruination at her sister’s cruel hands… but so maddeningly teased by the sheer physical sensation of it. By the warmish slime that had crept into her cleavage, down her belly, making her damp pussy all the more slippery. By the long and plentiful caress of the oozing gunge tank’s contents, down her back and her buttocks, over her heaving chest. And by the rattle of the cuffs behind her back, as she helplessly wriggled and clenched her fingers.

She did her best to suppress a low, horny moan, and to shut out Eris’s teasing. The thick helmet of slime that covered her ears was helping a little with that.

“Final question, Bella! This last gunge tank is a fuckin’ doozy - ready to give your sister a massive sloppy soaking?”

“Oh, I’m ready!”

“That’s the spirit! Ten seconds, Bella. Your clues are: what we’re about to throw Beattie into - full name, please - and a popular American coffee-and-pastries chain.”

The timer started, and the pies started flying. Bella had to think about this one a little. Eris had said it a bunch of times, but could she remember it all?

“It’s the, uh - splugh! Mega Messy… no, Mega Mucky - eep!”

Panic was setting in slightly, but failure wasn’t an option here. She just had to go for it. Four seconds were left on the timer.

“Mega Mucky, Super Sloppy - puah! Gunk Dunkin’ Donuts!”

Her heart leapt at the sound of that wonderful, clear, dinging bell. Although her ultimate reward would have to wait a little. The cheery Wench above her booth really went to town this time, giving Bella a hearty victory drenching - five large buckets of blue, pink and purple gunge in quick succession.

The blushing redhead squealed and squirmed, though she was laughing too, accepting the silly unfairness of it with good grace. Once it finished, she giggled breathlessly, wiping slime from her face and hair, flicking it off her bare arms.

“A perfect score, Bella! You must really love gunging your sister!”

“And you must love gunging me!” Bella teased back, posing all sloppy and gooey in her chair.

“Guilty as charged! But for one final time - pull that red lever, and…”

“Crank! Her! Up!”

Beattie let out a quivering wail as the crank was triggered, and the thrumming below her spiked yet again. It was pleasuring her intensely now, sending shockwaves up her spine. The contrast of sensations - the powerless submission and deep humiliation, but also the kinky debauchery, the thrilling exhibitionism of it all - was making her head spin.

When she felt that heavy clunk into place once more, she gasped in desperate anticipation.

And there it was - a torrent of oozy green gunge, as thick as a tree-trunk, sloshing down from the tank above, over her helpless head. The audience’s simulated howls of pleasure reached fever pitch.

MAXIMUM GUNGE!
GOD I WANNA SUCK ON THOSE SLIMY TITS
SHE’S LOVING IT, KINKY SLUT!

Beattie felt herself start to cum, unable to hold back.

“Auhhh-uhhh-mmmh…”

Her legs and shoulders juddered, little spasms of humiliated pleasure bursting all over her body, as gallon after gallon of viscous, lurid slime flowed in a powerful river down her shapely, soft curves.

“Fuck, unnnh! Oh fuck, oh god…”

From below, Bella watched with wide eyes, enthralled.

Of course, she didn’t fancy her sister. That wasn’t the source of her fascination. But growing up just a year apart in age, both of them beautiful and confident and adventurous, there had inevitably been an edge of sexual competition to the sibling rivalry. Teasing comments about bums, bras and boyfriends were always ten-a-penny.

Watching her bratty little sis get buzzed into a humiliating orgasm, publicly exposed and covered in kinky slop - it made her feel like such a winner. A smug, sexy winner.

The loser, meanwhile, was finally given a merciful respite from the relentless, intimate gunging. While the final splashes of green dripped onto her soaked, slimy hair, Beattie felt the buzzing beneath finally quell to silence. It was an immense relief. She still tingled all over, and her muscles still ached with strange longing. But she was at least able to try and regain her breath, snorting and spluttering gunge from her nose and mouth.

“Nyuhhh…”

Words were impossible right now.

The studio lighting glowed more warmly again, the harsh spotlights on both contestants fading away.

“Congrats, Bella!” she began. “You really hit the jackpot. Look at her, she’s slimed silly, the poor thing! And of course, this show’s not over yet!”

Bella giggled along, pleased as punch. Eris could see her eyeing the golden lever, wanting desperately to reach out and do the deed. She glanced up at the comment screens: every single post contained the word DUNK. The crowd were as ravenous for it as the winner was.

“Oh Beattie,” continued Eris. “Just one last question before you get it.”

No, no more teasing, please, thought the poor slimed girl. She could barely see Eris, thanks to the straggly curtain of slimy hair hanging down over her eyes. With an undignified shake of the head, she tried to clear her vision, just so she could see what the sadistic host was even up to.

It turned out that she was brandishing a golden envelope.

“What if I told you that this envelope contained one final question - the Switcheroo. And that if you answered it right, I’d let you swap places with Bella - meaning she would be the one heading into the Mega Mucky Super Sloppy Gunk Dunk, instead of you?”

Bella’s expression transformed in an instant from smarmy delight to abject horror, her jaw hanging fully open.

“Would you like that, Beattie?”

The younger sister burst into a hopeful smile. She even bounced on her naughty seat a little, setting her gooey chest jiggling. The very thought of turning the tables made her outrageously happy.

“Oh, yes! Oh, please…”

“Well,” replied Eris, after a short pause. “That’s a shame.”

She tossed the envelope away with a flick of the wrist, and it spun across the studio.

“Because there is no Switcheroo question, and you are definitely, definitely getting it.”

The breath of relief that Bella expelled was audible above the crowd’s laughter.

LMAO, GOT HER
ABSOLUTELY MERKED
BELLA’S FACE FOR A SECOND THO

“Aaaugh!” wailed Beattie. “You are evil! That’s so mean!”

“Oh dear,” said Eris coolly. “If you think that’s mean, you’re gonna hate this…”

A strange sound effect burst over the speakers - like a sped-up, distorted jester’s laugh. The bright studio lights dimmed once again, replaced with coloured tints that swooped and flashed, red and green and purple. And with a spectacular pivot, the entire wall behind Beattie swung backwards in two halves, revealing a hidden area.

The music sounded especially taunting and gothic, full of distorted, semitonal guitar riffs, as a panicking Beattie realised her platform was sliding further backwards.

“What the fuck? No, come on, oh my god- nyrrk!”

That strange, strangled noise at the end was Beattie’s reaction to her vibrating seat coming to life once more - and at about twice the ferocity of the previous highest setting. But that wasn’t her only shock - she also noticed who was there to greet her.

A phalanx of Wenches stood smartly in formation, six on each side of this dimly-lit, recessed hollow. All were grinning widely, holding a tin bucket aloft, proudly, in front of their punky t-shirts. More messy supplies stood on deep shelves behind them, lurking in the gloom.

“Yaaagh! No, no, noooo…”

“Yes, yes, yeees!” came the inevitable reply from Eris, below. “Wenches - do your worst!”

It began with the buckets. With deft co-ordination, one of the Wenches on each side stepped sharply forwards, and they simply hurled their contents forward at the helpless girl.

Beattie squeaked in alarm, scrunching up her eyes and mouth just in time, before feeling the enormous, hard splatter of the double-gunging, wet and loud and cruel, against her face, chest and belly. “Bluah!” she spluttered, knocked for six by the sudden splurge.

It happened again, immediately, giving barely a moment to catch her breath. The second pair of Wenches unleashed their bucketfuls of thick, sticky gunge right at her. And then the third…

Bella, down below, just about had a clear line of vision to this mucky mayhem. Wish I was closer! But it was still a powerful sight, this utterly unnecessary extra slopping, and she drank in the schadenfreude like it was champagne.

Maria, meanwhile, watched with a mixture of relief and fascination, gently biting her lip. It wasn’t so much that she was glad to have avoided this final mess-a-thon - in fact, there was a tiny part of her brain saying it looked like fun. But if she had lost, it would have been Penelope pulling the levers and dishing out the humiliation, and that would have been absolutely unbearable. All in all, she was tremendously glad that things had turned out this way.

Up in the danger zone, Beattie was squirming for her damn life, fighting to remain upright as the buzzing below made her legs turn to jelly. More double-gushes of slime smacked hard against her barely-protected body, sloppy waves making her huge tits jiggle and squish together in the swimsuit.

Twelve buckets down, and so naturally, it was time for a pie-barrage.

In contrast to their previous, tightly co-ordinated assault, this was a free-for-all, the dozen-strong crew darting back towards the shelves to arm themselves with giant, oozy cream pies, and then all unleashing from whatever angle they could find. Eris had given them one instruction for this part: nail her right in the face.

A ferocious fusillade of flans splattered, heavy and creamy, into Beattie’s gasping cheeks. Pie after sloppy pie engulfed her mouth and nose, leaving her fighting for shallow breaths. The smell, rich and sugary, was certainly not the worst she’d experienced today - but the combination of over-the-top slapstick degradation, plus the steadily pulsing stimulation of her pussy, was outrageously embarrassing. Even under a relentless coating of cool cream, her cheeks felt like they were on fire.

After several dozen merciless flannings, which left her face, shoulders and cleavage a riot of white slop, Beattie noticed that there was a pause - a slight moment where nothing horribly messy was being inflicted upon her.

That was almost worse, somehow. And besides, it left her mind free to concentrate on the cupping embrace of the fiercely vibrating toy below her. Her open mouth was a moaning oasis in a desert of fluffy goo.

“Nyuhh, ahh, ahh, ahh…”

The next thing she felt was a sharp tug at the back of her swimsuit.

Unsurprisingly, she hadn’t seen the Wenches bringing a gargantuan bucket up behind her, so big that it took two of them to lift. But she certainly felt it when a truly ludicrous quantity of sticky, thick, strawberry-flavoured Angel Delight was tipped into the rear of her suit.

“Guhhh-hhh-aaagh!” 

Cold and gungey, the sweet mass flowed quickly down Beattie’s back, making the suit suddenly feel outrageously heavy, like some outdated fat-suit from a bad comedy film. It hugged her squirming buttocks. She felt her cuffed hands smush into the small of her back, against this gloppy padding, shivering at the feeling.

Her brain wasn’t quite moving quickly enough to register that if they’d just filled the back of her swimsuit, they might also enjoy doing the front.

The thin fabric that constrained her huge breasts was pulled forwards, and they fell free with a delicious wobble. Beattie tried to blink her eyes open and focus, but the Wenches were already hefting the second giant bucket.

“Fff-uuu-hhh!”

A thick wave of fridge-cool trifle spilled over her tits, making a truly filthy splattering noise, and fell heavily down into her swimsuit. Fluffy cream, thick custard, cool jelly, sticky jam, and damp, near-liquid sponge - all these textures caressed her curvy knockers, and their diamond-hard nipples, on the way down to smother and engulf her aching, twitching cunt.

That heavy sensation in her lap was enough to set her off. With a pained cry, Beattie climaxed once again, shuddering and gasping.

Her second, even more intense orgasm was given a suitably rude and gooey accompaniment. The team of Wenches once again armed themselves with plump, oozy cream pies, and unleashed a second wave.

This time, they were aiming everywhere but her face. And they weren’t flinging them, either: every cool, sloppy payload was firmly slapped against her writhing body.

The impact of every pie, whether against her belly, chest or back, forced a splurge of sweet gunk to gush out of the swimsuit - out of the top, falling downwards with heavy splats, or out at the crotch, streaking down her thighs and bum.

Down in the main set, Bella’s eyes were wide, and her hands were steepled over her mouth, genuinely rather shocked. And deeply, deeply glad that there had not actually been a Switcheroo question.

By the time the Wenches had finished shamelessly plastering her body, Beattie’s swimsuit had lost a fair bit of mass. As they finished her off with a hearty pie-sandwich, two gooey flans splattering together over her cheeks, she felt the maddening vibrations below finally start to slacken off a little.

She was still cumming, unable to speak other than low moans and breathy splutters. But slowly, slowly, she descended from the climatic peak and began to regain her senses.

The platform beneath her, the one that had dragged her body and her saddle up the ramp, was a riot of multicoloured, commingled slop, as was the studio floor around it, and the ramp itself.

With cruel timing, the platform began to move forward again with a heavy jolt, interrupting Beattie’s recuperation, and helping her find her voice.

“Ah! Nooo, wait…”

Fortunately for her, she was not immediately hurled down the ramp and plunged into the goo while still quivering with horny embarrassment.

The platform came to a halt at the top line of the ramp, number 5. And, to Beattie’s great surprise, she felt two hands carefully address the handcuffs behind her, keeping her wrists steady while they slipped a key in the lock and unclasped them.

It seemed a strange and uncharacteristic mercy, and she barely knew what to even do with her hands, freed after such a long stretch of messy bondage and humiliation.

“Auh… uhhh…”

She stretched her arms and rolled her aching shoulders, then put her hands to her forehead and steadily dragged them downwards, dislodging a thick coating of gunge and cream. Bella, Eris and the audience finally got to see Beattie’s face clearly again - and her weary, defeated expression was enjoyed by all of them.

HOLY SHIT WHAT A SLOPPING
RECKON SHE CAME AGAIN
DUNK HER DUNK HER DUNK HER

Eris’s motives for freeing Beattie’s hands at this point were not entirely altruistic. Firstly, she knew the cameras would get that lovely close-up of the loser’s chastened, embarrassed face. Secondly, it’d rather spoil the party if someone had to rescue the cuffed loser from literally drowning in slop. And thirdly, she felt that the final, gooey indignity would be visually enhanced by a certain amount of flailing.

Bella was practically bouncing in her seat, legs wiggling, eyes flitting between her sister and the golden lever before her. There was still a tiny smidgen of doubt in her mind - a sneaking fear that the lever might actually catapult her seat upwards, and hurl her into the gunge instead - but it was fairly small, and her main feeling was of teasing, sadistic excitement.

Eris, meanwhile, rubbed her hands together with glee.

“Time for the moment you’ve all been waiting for. Any last words, Beattie?”

Her shoulders slumping, Beattie just shook her head meekly.

“No? Well fortunately, we’ve prepared some for you.”

There was a sudden cut in the audience cheering, replaced by a swell of soft, classical music. The horny comments also disappeared from the screens. Both sisters seemed rather confused by this development.

“Beattie! Please place your hand over your heart - or as close as you can get, with those enormous puppies in the way - and read out your Loser’s Testimony.”

The slimy, nervous girl frowned - it seemed yet another large bucketful of sheer embarrassment was about to be poured over her. When she saw the words that began to scroll up the chat screen, her brow only furrowed further. But she knew there was no point refusing.

Sighing, Beattie did as instructed, placing a palm flat against her chest, in the valley of her sticky cleavage. She could feel its heavy beat under her fingers.

“I, Beattie Townsend, do hereby attest that I am a stupid, annoying little brat.”

Bella snorted with laughter, now understanding what was happening here. She plonked her elbow on the arm of her seat, and let her cheek rest on her hand, watching Beattie’s uncomfortable face with rapt interest.

“I get my way by fluttering my eyes, jiggling my boobs, and giggling like an idiot. My music taste is horrendous, I’m a sore loser at board games, and… ugh, really?”

“Word for word please, Beattie!”

“...and I do big stinky farts.”

More helpless laughter from Bella - they’d clearly cribbed this from the list of grievances she provided in her first email.

Grimacing, Beattie continued through the humiliating spiel. “For the above stated reasons, I hereby declare… gah… that I should undoubtedly be thrown into the Mega Mucky Super Sloppy Gunk Dunk, and that I fully deserve every last drop of slop that I am about to be covered in.”

Bella gave a hearty cheer of agreement, while Beattie grumbled quietly, seeing that there was yet another taunting paragraph.

“Hmph. Furthermore, I would like to commend my sister Bella, who has displayed saint-like patience and grace by putting up with my shit ever since I was born.”

“Why thank you, sis!”

“Shut it.” Beattie gritted her teeth, pushing through to the bitter end. “It is only right and proper that she should have the honour of plunging me into an enormous vat of hideous, smelly gunge. Therefore…”

The final part really made her squirm to recite it.

“Therefore, I humbly request of you, Bella… ngh… please, sister dearest, would you kindly pull the golden lever, and send me down… mph… down into the Mega Mucky Super Sloppy Gunk Dunk?”

Bella could barely believe her luck. What a delicious cherry on the cake, hearing her sister beg for the gunge! She teased outrageously, making will-I-or-won’t-I faces, fondling the lever every which way.

“Well, Bella. You heard your sister. Whaddya think - you wanna grant her request?”

“Oooh,” replied Bella, in a thrilled squeal. “She did ask ever so nicely, didn’t she?”

“Very polite, I thought.”

“I agree. After all that - how could I refuse?”

Cackling with glee, and staring right up at her sister’s bashful face, Bella yanked the golden lever with all her might.

The soft music disappeared, and the AI-powered din of laughter and jeering kicked back in. Rude and raunchy comments immediately filled the screens again. Coloured lights flashed, and hidden smoke machines billowed wispy clouds along the slime-slicked runway below Beattie.

She felt something clank below her, and then the beginning of a slow movement. There was no sound of machinery or motors, and an instinctive feeling in her stomach told her that the platform she knelt on was now untethered, in freefall under gravity.

And the thing about gravity is that heavy objects - for example, a metal platform, bearing a sex-toy saddle and a plump girl covered in thick slime - are very affected by it.

It took a couple of seconds for the platform to pass the number four marker - as it did, sparkling pyrotechnics shot out into the air on either side, making Beattie jump.

But the thing had momentum now, quickly picking up speed and racing past the third marker, setting off another pair of flashbangs.

Beattie’s hands were balled into fists, held nervously by her chest, and the pitch of her squealing rose in tandem with the platform’s velocity. “Aaa-aaa-aaah…!”

The final few markers were passed in a headlong rush, and the platform hit the end of the runway at a frighteningly quick rate.

It thudded to a hard stop. At the same time, the saddle below Beattie levered its back end upwards.

Screaming blue murder, arms and legs flailing manically, she flew less-than-gracefully through the air for a long second. And then she plunged into the vat of nasty goo, right in the centre, making a disgustingly loud, squelchy and splattery sound, creating huge waves of glop that sloshed outwards from the site of her undignified landing.

The next few seconds, totally submerged in the gunge, were like nothing Beattie had ever felt before. There was the strange silence of it - the roar of the crowd, and her sister’s mocking laughter, were replaced by a ponderous, echoey swooshing. Its lumpy, thick texture gave a strange kind of massage to her skin, as she swished her heavy-feeling limbs around, trying to find her feet. And it was cold - a slight relief, in some ways, after she’d been driven to a peak of red-hot, flustered orgasm. But it would be quite a stretch to call it refreshing.

Finally, with legs quivering in embarrassment, Beattie managed to stand upright, the surface of the goo sloshing around her waist. The plentiful coating of slop - all over her head, shoulders and upper body - flowed heavily down into the pool. She gasped for air, and wiped her face.

She’d been holding her breath under the slime, so it was only now that the smell hit her - several times more weird and alien and horrible than it had been when dangling above the pit. She spat the foul gunk from her lips, moaning in disgust. “Pleh! Fuck!”

There was still an anticipatory hunch in her shoulders, knowing that there was more slop on the way. Eris wasted no time in organising its delivery.

“Bloody marvellous! What a splat! But I think we can all agree - she needs more gunge!”

At her command, one of the six pipes arranged in a circle above the pit spewed out some more cold, lumpy slop, perfectly aimed over Beattie’s matted hair. It was clearly the same recipe, though instead of a colourful swirl, this gunge was all one shade - an ugly dark grey.

“Guahhh!”

Beattie tensed, her hands tight to her chest, as it sloshed over her. The stream was indulgently wide, and it was propelled fast from the pipe’s mouth, so even though it only lasted a couple seconds, it still delivered many litres of the awful glop over the wincing girl.

When it suddenly shut off, Beattie snatched a panting breath. But after a very brief pause, one of the other pipes took its turn to deliver a fast and sloppy gunging, this one an unpleasant off-white.

“More!” cried Bella from the chair.

“Oh, you betcha!” replied Eris with a wink.

The circle of slimings continued, and Beattie yelped and cursed her way through four more hearty helpings of smelly, gloopy slime. There was a muddy brown, a dark algae-green, a muted lavender, and a sandy orange.

Every slopping came from a slightly different overhead angle, splattering slightly different parts of her upper body, but always with plenty gushing spectacularly right over her head. The streams from above disturbed the surface of the gunge, and it splashed up against her juicy melons in her ruined LOSER swimsuit.

After enduring half a dozen slimy degradations, Beattie stood, gasping for breath, finally getting a few moments’ peace. The viewers, though, didn’t seem to be a fan of that concept.

MORE GUNGE MORE GUNGE MORE GUNGE
SLOP HER AGAIN!
JUST LEAVE HER IN THERE

Neither was Eris. As breezy as you like, she cooed a suggestion in Bella’s direction.

“How about some double-gungings?”

“What?” came the indignant cry from the pit, as Bella nodded and clapped excitedly.

Slime gushed from overhead again, this time with two pipes slathering Bella at once. “Yaaa-aargh! You fucking - spluh - fucking bitches!”

Her arms were held out to her sides in sheer exasperation, poking out from the splattery arcs and sheets that cascaded from her head and shoulders, and gunge slapped against her upturned palms. Shortly after the first pair of pipes quietened, the next two inevitably followed.

“Bastards! Euch, augh…”

The cold was starting to get to her, making her shiver in an entirely different way than the vibrating seat had. As a third double-gunging nailed her, she slapped her fists against the surface of the slop in helpless frustration.

“Haah… nyahh… you fucking…”

Beattie spat out some of the stinky muck, looking for all the world like a comic-book swamp monster. She raised a heavy arm, and pointed a slime-dripping finger up at her smug, elated sister.

“You are so fucking dead when we-”

Eris interrupted. “Triples?”

“What the-”

Three streams of nasty slop converged over the furious, screeching hottie, splattering together even more loudly than the double-gungings, slapping against her hair, against the roiling, sloshing surface of the plunge pool. A brief pause, and then the other three gunged her, grey and green and orange slop creating a distinctly unappealing explosion of colour. Bella hooted as her sister wailed, utterly humiliated and outrageously dirty.

The online audience’s laughter and cheering was more raucous than ever, with comments flowing as fast as the gunge.

ALL AT ONCE!
WE WANT SIX!
FINISH HER OFF!

Beattie wearily de-slopped her face again, and aimed a pointed look towards Eris, who was standing with one hand on her hip, silently smirking. Then she looked at her sister, who was watching Eris with anticipation. A defeated pout came to her lips, and she looked at Eris again, slightly hopeless. You’re gonna do it, aren’t you, her expression said.

Eris answered the unspoken question, with a cheeky wink to camera. “Oh come on. I think we have to.”

In unison, all of the pipes above burst into sloppy, gushing life. Beattie simply held her head in her hands, feeling gallon after gallon splatter and soak her, pounding against her shoulders, sloshing into her cleavage. It went on longer this time too, five or six seconds of rushing, gushing obliteration.

When this super-sadistic sextuple sliming had finished, the poor victim was left quietly whimpering, dripping goo into the pool below, knees weak and arms limp.

Eris left a suitable gap for cheering and laughter. The stream comments seemed suitably satisfied, though there were a few requests of DO IT AGAIN. Bella certainly seemed to have found it a fulfilling experience, and her face held a wide, Cheshire cat grin.

“Congratulations, Bella,” began Eris. It was actually, finally, time to wrap things up. “You got your wish - did you enjoy sending your sister to the Mega Mucky Super Sloppy Gunk Dunk?”

“Best fucking day of my life,” came the reply.

“Probably not hers, though.”

A rueful splutter came from the goo-monster in the stinky, mucky swamp. “Huh!”

“Yeah, probs not. Heh heh…”

“Right then,” said Eris, turning towards the camera. “That was Payback - I hope you thoroughly enjoyed it. Do clean up after yourselves,” she teased, “and make sure you come and join us again next time.”

She addressed the contestants for a final time. “Give us a wave goodbye, Bella?”

The older sister cheerily assented, waving at the camera with great enthusiasm, while pointing to the word WINNER on her swimsuit. “Bye-eee!”

“And wave goodbye while we pour one last load of slop on your head, Beattie?”

Beattie gave a grunt of annoyance and shock - which turned into a sigh, and a resigned shrug.

Summoning her last reserves of defiance, she found her assigned camera, and thrust her right hand forwards and upwards, raising a stiff middle finger.

When a final sloppy drenching was unleashed, Beattie’s middle finger remained upraised, poking impertinently out through the splashing waves of lumpy, stinky goo.

And it was hard to tell for sure, but in the seconds before her final gunging began, there might just have been the hint of a naughty smile playing across Beattie’s lips.

Epilogue

Alexa and Sally stared at the blank screen now the episode was over, their hips pressed close together on the sofa. Both were short of breath, with cheeks deeply flushed.

Gingerly, they withdrew opposite hands from each other’s waistbands. Alexa lifted the packet of wipes from the coffee table, and proffered them to Sally, who plucked a couple and freshened up her fingers. Alexa did likewise.

There was a gently flustered moment of silence.

“Bloody hell.”

“Yep. She knows what she’s doing.”

“She’s a lot meaner than you. That gunk dunk looked horrible.”

“Beattie took it like a champ, though.”

“Mm-hmm.”

They spent another moment in contemplation, before Sally spoke again.

“What’s the plan, then?”

“Destroy her, obviously.”

Sally raised her eyebrows at this.

“Not like that - I don’t mean destroy the show. Like I said - healthy competition.”

“Keep us sharp.”

“Exactly. But no, I meant destroy her with gunge. We need to get her in here, and absolutely fucking annihilate her. Every machine we can muster, every sneaky trick in the book.”

“I imagine she’ll want to do the same to you.”

“Of course. But I’ll win.”

“You will.”

“She may be good. Very good, even.”

Alexa’s eyes narrowed, and there was real fire in them. “But she’s not the best. That title is taken.”

Watching her wife get heated, boastful, dominant - it made Sally’s stomach flutter just a little. But it was probably a good idea to simmer her down somewhat.

“So, uh, I guess we’ll need a planning meeting… shall I find us a time tomorrow?”

“No time like the present, surely? Unless you’ve got too much on today.”

Sally thought for a moment. “That stuff can wait. We’re not shooting for three weeks.”

“Great. Down to business, then.”

“Refill the pot?”

“Ooh yes - thank you my love. And I think this calls for Battenberg.”

Fin

Prologue

On a bright, windy day in late October, Mei Ling scurried across a grey concrete yard towards the door of a cobalt-blue industrial building. It wasn’t too far a walk from the tube station, but she was very glad of her snug, fleece-lined parka.

She buzzed at the door marked GW Enterprises, and from inside, Janice briskly confirmed her identity on the door-cam. Gratefully, she stepped across the threshold into the warm foyer. It was only the third time she’d ever been here. But the document she carried, neatly folded in the back pocket of her jeans, was about to ensure it wouldn’t be the last.

Alexa didn’t keep her waiting long. She’d barely had time to hang up her coat, settle on the couch and open her Insta stories, when she heard a warm greeting. “Mei Ling, you gorgeous thing. So nice to see you!”

Mei Ling stood, and they shared a cheek-kiss and a hug. She politely declined coffee, and they headed into Alexa’s private office. Autumnal light streamed in through the large windows as they both took a comfortable seat around a low table, Alexa pouring them glasses of water.

“Sounds like it’s blowing a gale out there! Really appreciate you coming in.”

“Oh, it’s no bother. I had a few clients cancel, so it’s a quiet week.”

It was always a little unexpected treat when people texted Mei Ling to cancel their personal training appointments with her. They’d paid up-front for six months anyway, so she wouldn’t be out of pocket. And this meeting was set to provide her with an additional, very welcome, income stream.

“Glad to hear you’re not too rushed off your feet. I just think a little face-to-face chat is always important at this stage. Iron out any worries or concerns.”

Mei Ling nodded, and sipped her water.

“I, uh, brought the contract. Obviously.”

She sat up a little, and eased the thing out of her back pocket, handing it over. Alexa took it, unfolded its quarters, and placed it down on the table, smoothing it out slightly. Mei Ling got a pang of embarrassment - perhaps she should have presented this important document with a little more ceremony. From a smart briefcase, or something. But Alexa didn’t seem to mind.

“No second thoughts, then? I wouldn’t mind, you know. It’s not for everyone.”

“It took a bit of mulling over, that’s for sure. But last time - the thing with Faye - it was, uh…”

Mei Ling trailed off, lost in her thoughts. “Fun?” suggested Alexa.

A little bark of laughter at the understatement. “Yeah. Fun. I watched some more past episodes, too. Finally. Lotta fun going on.”

“That’s certainly what we’re aiming for.”

They shared a knowing look. Mei Ling was no shrinking violet, but there was just a little flutter in her stomach. That was inevitable when in the same room as Alexa, though. When you knew what she could do to you.

“Shall we talk about the next filming, then?”

“Sure thing.”

“Great. Now, I hope this won’t come as a disappointment, but the roster slots for games and skits are already full. So you’ll be in the audience, this time at least.”

She shrugged, and nodded. It wasn’t a disappointment as such, but it was a bit of a surprise. She’d expected Alexa to pounce on her accession to Main Cast, and instantly throw her in the deep end, quite literally. But the explanation was clear enough, and she knew her time would come soon.

“Of course, as you’re well aware,” continued Alexa, “the only certainty-”

“Is uncertainty.”

Alexa grinned at her. That’s my girl.

“Quite right. Well, it seems like you know very well what you’re getting into. Shall I make this official?”

“Please.”

With that, Alexa plucked an elegant fountain pen from a nearby holder, turned to the back page, and put her signature underneath Mei Ling’s.

“There we are then. A real pleasure to say this: Mei Ling, welcome to Main Cast. Your ass is now officially mine. Amongst other things.”

It was said with a saucy wink, and a warm, friendly smile. But nevertheless, it sent a little shiver of trepidation and excitement down Mei Ling’s spine. She let out a halting laugh, looking down at the floor, finally betraying those nerves. “I suppose so…”

“Will you stay for a drink before you go? The bar’s serving mulled cider. We may have filmed the Halloween ep already, but in the real world, it’s still spooky season, as the kids say.”

“I was so gutted to miss that one. Oh, that huge cauldron - how many people did you dunk in the end?”

“Thirteen, I believe. Unlucky for some…”

I: Remote Control

Mei Ling swallowed the last of her red wine, then stood to join the rest of the chattering crowd, as they headed back towards the studio floor.

The first half of the recording had been tremendous fun. Alexa was joined on set by Sally this time, and Mei Ling always enjoyed their repartee as co-hosts, honed by a decade of marriage and messy mayhem. There was a gimmick, too: normally, the studio audience were asked to leave their phones backstage, to avoid the risk of a surprise gunge-shower bricking someone’s device. Nobody needed that hassle. But for this episode, all the segments contained some kind of interactive element, the audience making choices via their phone.

First up had been Gunge Court. A boyfriend-girlfriend couple detailed their domestic squabbles, while Sally - dressed in an amusingly cheap judge’s outfit - presided. The centrepiece of the courtroom was, of course, an ornate gunge tank. After all the flirty cross-examinations, loud heckling, and cries of “order!” from a gavel-happy Sally, it was Marvin, a handsome and hench Black man, whom the jury sent to that very small, slimy prison cell.

The gunge tank turned out to be filled with cool, gloopy custard. Purely, of course, so that Sally could enjoy delivering the hoary old pun: “you will be remanded in custardy!”

Marvin grimaced his way through his short, sharp, sticky sentence. And Mei Ling very much enjoyed the sight of a well-dressed, hunky chap getting a gooey punishment - it wasn’t too common here at GungeWorld. Bad idea to say she’s got too many shoes, mate, she thought. You were doomed from the start. Cute though.

Next, the mob were turned on each other. Every guest was presented with a series of head-to-head matchups, two pictures of their fellow audience members appearing on their phone screen, along with a virtual pie that could be flung at one of them. This led to a minute or so of frantic, excited babble. Mei Ling was a little worried this might end badly for her, seeing as she was new to MC, yet still squeaky clean this evening. At one point, she saw her own face pop up on the screen of Alianne, who was sitting next to her.

“Don’t you dare - oh you bitch! I hope I get you next!”

Alianne just poked out her tongue at her, and kept swiping pies. “Hee hee!”

When the bedlam stopped, the pies were tallied. After a tense drum roll, Alexa announced that Sophia, a diminutive Spanish cutie, had earned the most flannings. She was outraged, naturally, cursing up a storm at her treasonous friends as Alexa plucked her out of her seat. Inevitably, her tally of 37 virtual pies became real ones, a merciless and spectacular barrage of thick, creamy splatters to the face as she sat squirming on a tall stool.

Mei Ling remembered that Sophia had taken part in one of the Halloween trivia games, getting off incredibly lightly by GungeWorld standards thanks to some super-lucky guesses - just a couple of buckets of slime. That’ll explain it then. Karma!

The final game before the break saw Eve, the sparkling and sassy New York gal, perched in a skimpy bikini above a classic gunk-dunking vat, thick and oozy and blue. She was taking on the audience in a multiple-choice quiz. For every correct answer, Eve would earn a prize - but if 50% of the crowd picked the right answer, she’d get a shower of gunge from above.

The questions were only moderately taxing, which meant Eve won a good clutch of prizes, but also got extremely sloppy. And, because her final score was beaten by the wisdom of the crowd, it was into the slimy pond with her, to the audience’s proud applause.

End of Part One, then, and cameras cold. Half an hour to stretch legs, quench thirsts, and powder noses.

Mei Ling was fascinated to see what clever use of their phones Alexa and Sally would come up with after the interval. Maybe they’d get to choose the type of mess for some unfortunate contestant, or virtually strip some clothes off - things always got raunchier in the second half.

As soon as she’d ordered her Malbec, she felt a tap on the shoulder, and turned around to see Faye.

She felt her cheeks redden immediately. Here she was - that flirty, fuckable firecracker who’d made her cum, hard and repeatedly, in the sticky embrace of a giant pie. The reason she was here again, the reason she’d handed Alexa that contract a couple of weeks ago.

It wasn’t a crush, exactly. Of course, Faye was gorgeous, but who here wasn’t? It was more a defining memory, a turning point.

Swallowing down all those rushing thoughts with a healthy gulp of wine, Mei Ling just smiled, and moved in for a hug.

“Hello you!”

“So a little bird told me you’re MC now…”

Faye put an arm around her shoulder, and guided her to a low table, a few of GungeWorld’s most insatiably kinky women seated around it.

Alexa discouraged hierarchy and cliques among the cast. Those willing to do messier, raunchier things on camera got paid more, that much was true. But she was very clear that everyone who made GungeWorld happen - from the cleaners and admin staff, to the one-time guests, to the longtime horny gunge-sluts - deserved the same level of respect.

So this little impromptu meeting wasn’t some kind of induction or hazing, as Mei Ling had briefly feared - just a friendly welcome to Main Cast. Plus a bit of good-natured teasing about how mad Mei Ling must be to let Alexa do whatever she pleased with her.

It was a pleasant and relaxing way to spend the break, all told, though she quietly regretted that it left no time to flirt with the cute guys. Ah well - maybe after the show.

Before she knew it, Alexa’s commanding voice was ringing out over the PA, calling them all back into the studio. Mei Ling found her seat again, and settled in for Part Two.

II: Market Research

The Stagehands had been busy during the break, rolling the great moveable set-pieces offstage, and efficiently cleaning up any remaining gloppy splatters. For the moment, there was nothing much to see, though everyone in attendance knew that soon enough, a wall or floor would open up to reveal something naughty and absurd.

After a brief and breezy welcome back from the hosts, it was time to plough on with the show.

“Phones out, my darlings,” commanded Alexa. “Time for an opinion poll! Three questions for you. Voting is mandatory, like in Australia.”

Mei Ling watched the first question pop up on her screen, and Alexa helpfully narrated it out loud for the viewers at home.

“Which of the following would you rather be sploshed with? Gunge, pies, or chocolate? Simple enough - everyone’s got a preference, haven’t they?”

Quiet giggles echoed through the crowd as the guests made their choices. Mei Ling’s took barely a second. That deliciously humiliating squelch of a hefty cream flan to the face - or elsewhere. It made her happy just to think about it.

Sally watched a vote tracker on her own device, updating Alexa on how many had completed the task. “90 percent… 96… there we go.”

“Good good. Next question! Which costume would you rather wear for a session of messy fun? French maid, cheerleader, or clown? And yes, boys, you have to choose as well. There are certainly a few of you who I’d love to see in a frilly little number…”

This was a tougher choice. Cheerleader didn’t appeal, though Mei Ling certainly had the physique to pull it off. French maid was a classic, and she’d worn that costume to a house party once before - with intent, and with very successful results. But this was no time to dwell on that pleasant memory of getting firmly screwed while bent over a spare-room dressing table.

It had to be clown, didn’t it? This was GungeWorld, after all, where slapstick was the stock in trade. Everything they did was clowning, in a sense, even if it didn’t involve the clothes and makeup. (Sometimes it did, of course - Mei Ling had seen a spectacular clown-girl showdown in a previous episode, which she’d found amazingly alluring, so joyful and comical and kinky.)

Plus, she’d never dressed up as a clown herself. As she pressed the option on her screen, she made a mental note to try that as soon as possible. I bet I’d look damn sexy.

“Final question! I know plenty of you enjoy a little bondage to go with your mess. But which of these would you rather be trapped in? Ropes, handcuffs, or manacles?”

They certainly weren’t being prudish here, and the giggles around Mei Ling grew louder. Another non-trivial choice to weigh up. Rope play could definitely be super hot. But a nice solid clasp around the wrists, or the ankles, or both… mmm, that was the stuff. She tapped her final choice of manacles into the phone.

“That’s nearly everyone… Yes, there we go. Votes are all in.”

“Lovely, thank you Sally. Now - would you like to tell them why we asked?”

Her partner smiled broadly. “With pleasure, my love. You see, we’ve got a rather spectacular new device to reveal. Never used before on the show. So it needs someone to test it out.”

Nobody in the audience was daft enough to think those poll questions were asked with innocent intentions. But Sally’s frank explanation was still creating plenty of nervous laughter.

“And we wanted to make sure our guinea pig would really enjoy the experience. Shall we show them what it is?”

“Oh, I think so.” Alexa waved an arm theatrically, towards the centre of the set’s pale pink back wall, which had a large semi-cylindrical bulge in it.

The cylinder began to slide open, a crack appearing from its base to its top, about fifteen feet high. Through the opening, brighter, bolder colours were immediately visible, contrasting with the pastel of the set. It looked a little darker in there too, with coloured spotlights swishing about. Dry ice spilled out of the widening aperture.

The PA burst into life, playing an ominously slow and laboured rendition of Julius Fučík’s Entrance of the Gladiators. Or, as it was much more commonly known these days, ‘you know, that circus song.’

Everyone who had chosen the cheerleader or French maid outfits suddenly had a very smug look on their face. Everyone else: not so much.

It was now clear that what lay behind the wall was a circus tent - of sorts, anyway. Rather than being a free-standing canvas structure, it was instead a large round hollow in the studio wall, with a canvas canopy, open wide, at the front. The interior of the hollow, and the draped canopy, were both patterned in wide stripes of red and yellow.

Two more things caught the collective eye. Firstly, there was the chair. Sitting centrally, near the back wall of the tent, was that old GungeWorld favourite, a comfy-looking black leather seat. But this one had a notable difference from the standard model, one that set Mei Ling’s heart racing. Affixed to the chair’s arms were two padded, bright red manacles. And on a footrest at the bottom sat two more.

Then there was the name. Affixed to the top of the arch was an impressively realistic model of a giant cream pie, at least ten feet wide. Large white capital letters, illuminated from within, poked up out of its fake fluffy topping. Scandalised laughter flowed through the crowd once the full title was visible.

THE CLOWN POUNDER

At this point, it was taking all of Mei Ling’s concentration to keep her breathing steady and a calm look on her face.

I think you could be in a spot of trouble here, Mei-Mei.

Once the Clown Pounder was fully revealed, the music faded down a little, while the two hosts spent a moment drinking in the mostly-excited, partly-horrified energy of the audience.

“Well then, Sally. I believe we’re looking for someone who loves a good pieing, looks great in clown makeup, and doesn’t mind being manacled to a chair. Is there anyone who fits the bill?”

“Yes indeed,” replied Sally, looking down at her tablet. “Four of them, in fact.”

(This was a lie of omission - actually, nine of the audience had chosen those exact options. Only four of them, however, had signed away their protection from being fully, messily annihilated.)

The revelation only made Mei Ling’s thoughts race faster. Four! How are they going to pick? Or are we all going to get it? And what exactly are we going to get?

“Excellent! And am I right in thinking that you have a random select button there in front of you?”

“Certainly do. Shall we find our lucky test-driver?”

“Take it away, babe.”

When Sally tapped the screen, the studio lights suddenly dimmed to a dark blue gloom. And as a bright spotlight swept in loops over the crowd, Mei Ling’s brain waged an all-out war with itself.

Don’t pick me, don’t pick me, please don’t pick me, I wasn’t ready for this, it’ll definitely be cruel and humiliating and filthy, I’ll look so silly as a clown girl, what if they’re extra-mean because it’s my first time, well not my first time, but…

Pick me, pick me, please pick me, paint my face, strap me in, strip me naked and pie me fucking senseless, destroy me, make me splutter and squirm and scream, turn me into a quivering little clown slut pie whore, please, please, please…

The wandering spotlight froze in place. Under its harsh beam, Mei Ling’s face contorted into a pained wince.

Her neighbours let out a schadenfreude-drenched cheer, as Alexa confirmed the news. “We’ve crowned our clown! Up you get Mei Ling, come over here…”

While the studio lights faded up again, and the crowd around her clapped and whooped, Mei Ling made her way out of the stands.

Hold on, she thought, is this a fix?

No, it can’t be. I could have chosen something else. Wait - what if they had multiple sets ready to reveal, depending on which ones I picked? That’d be ridiculous, though, surely not. Has Alexa been doing a Derren Brown on me, maybe? Have I been neuro-linguistically programmed?

Christ, I don’t bloody know. Maybe it’s actually plain old luck of the draw.

There was no more time for worry, anyway. She’d reached the hosts, who indicated she should stand between them for now.

“These are a few of her favourite things…” sang Sally in a quiet coo, while Mei Ling situated herself, hands clasped behind her back, glancing sideways from one host to the other and back again.

“Mei Ling, sweetie dearest! So nice to see you again. Big fan of clowning then, I take it?”

She shuffled in place, her cheeks hot. “Um… I’ve never really done it before…”

“Oh really? But you did choose the clown outfit - why was that?”

“Just… just thought it might be fun?”

“Fair enough! Well, you’re about to get the chance to find out. Ready to run away with the circus, Mei Ling?”

“Mph, I guess…”

Sally chimed in. “Not looking like that, though!”

There hadn’t been any special dress-code instructions for this episode, so everyone in the audience was following the usual vibe - wear something nice, but not too showy. In Mei Ling’s case, this was a shiny, cream-coloured top with a modest neckline, and comfortable, well-fitting blue jeans. She looked down at herself, how normal she looked. That clearly wasn’t going to last long.

“This is a job for makeup and wardrobe, I think. We’ll keep this lot entertained until you get back.”

A Stagehand, whom Mei Ling recognised as Missy, strolled towards her. Smiling, she gently slipped her arm inside Mei Ling’s, ready to walk her offstage.

“Take her away!” shouted Alexa, with a glee that made Mei Ling’s legs twitch. “And don’t bring her back until she looks hilarious!”

III: The Smell of the Greasepaint…

Missy knocked on the backstage door, then pushed it open without waiting for an answer and poked her head in, Mei Ling waiting behind her.

“Special delivery! One cutie, in need of urgent clownification!”

“Ah lovely,” replied an unfamiliar voice. “Bring her in, we’ll take care of her…”

With a cheeky wink goodbye, Missy departed to attend to Stagehand duties elsewhere, leaving Mei Ling to stroll into the spacious, brightly-lit dressing room.

Two blonde white women stood by a salon chair in front of a large mirror, both welcoming her with a smile and a wave. “Hiya babes. I’m Lucy G, this is Lucy B. Don’t think we’ve met.”

“Yeah, I’m pretty new here. Mei Ling, nice to meet you,” she said, greeting them both with a friendly hug.

“We’ve got about twenty minutes,” said Lucy G, the taller and slightly curvier of the two. Her voice had a rich Essex twang. “Should be plenty of time. You alright to pop the outfit on first, my darlin’? Don’t wannit gettin’ smeared with the makeup.”

“Uh, sure.”

“It’s just behind there - give us a shout if we haven’t got your size right, or you need a hand zippin’ up.”

There was a folding screen in the room’s corner. As she headed towards it, Lucy G remembered something, and called after her, sounding a tad apologetic.

“Oh, and it’ll be knickers ‘n’ bra off, if you please. Boss’s orders.”

Welp, thought Mei Ling. Can’t say I’m too surprised.

She stepped behind the screen. When she saw the single piece of clothing that hung on the rack back there, she let out a shocked laugh. “Bwah! Holy…”

“Don’t worry,” came an amused-sounding reply from the other side of the screen. “You’re gonna look gooorgeous, I promise…”

It was a corset-style dress, looking snug at the top, then ballooning out into a wide skirt at the bottom. The chest-piece was white, with a large red pom-pom in its centre. The waist section was a harlequin pattern, colourful diamonds stacked atop each other in yellow, green, purple and red. The skirt was double-layered: on top, a black-and-white stripe, and then poking out underneath, a frill of fancy red lace.

Yeah, I’m gonna look the part, at least.

They were on deadline, so she had little choice but to get on with it, unzipping her jeans, then pulling her top over her head, folding them both neatly and placing them on a small table by the rack. She reached back to unclasp her bra, noticing a slight stiffness in her nipples as she eased it off. Pulling down and discarding her knickers, she stood with her hands on hips in front of the full-length mirror, taking a moment to appreciate her naked form.

She hadn’t always liked her body. Her parents, though they meant well, had a habit of calling her sturdy, which of course was exactly what a hormonal teenage girl wanted to hear. But there was some truth to it: she had steady legs, strong shoulders, and a low centre of gravity. At university she’d taken to Taekwondo like a duck to water, winning a couple of regional competitions. And her personal training job kept her in excellent shape - she needed to be au fait with all types of regimes, from strength to cardio.

Of course, she wasn’t about to take a fitness test. This was something entirely different. Putting herself in the shoes of a kinky viewer, she appraised her sex appeal, too. Juicy thighs and a round arse - those were probably, she reflected, her most valuable assets. Smooth, fairly pale skin, large green eyes, and silky umber hair that flowed over her shoulders. And though she couldn’t compete with some of GungeWorld’s bustiest, bounciest ladies, she still liked her boobs, good-sized squishy handfuls that rested flat against her chest.

No time to be distracted, Mei Ling. Let’s get this stupid thing on.

It wasn’t too much of a struggle - it actually fit rather well. She stepped into the top, then pulled it up over her bust, and reached round to the back, managing to zip herself in. It wasn’t comfortable, per se, but this was showbusiness after all. She actually quite liked how it hugged her chest and belly.

Looking back to the mirror, she adjusted the top a little, enjoying the modest but noticeable cleavage that it gave her. She placed her hands on her waist, just above the skirt, and gave it a little swish, this way and that. But she knew the look was wholly incomplete without the makeup.

She indulged a devilish thought, and reached forward to grasp the front of the skirt. Then, smirking, she lifted it upwards, flashing her pussy at the mirror. She enjoyed the sight of her plump labia and neat bush under this silly, kinky costume, the contrast between raw sex and layered euphemism.

Right then. Time to get clowned up.

“Here I am,” she said with a game smile, stepping out.

Both of the Lucies seemed to perk up at the sight, G giving her a little clap. “Aw, it fits lovely. Super super sexy. I love your legs, darlin’. C’mere, let’s get you ready.”

Mei Ling settled into the chair, the puffy skirt presenting some difficulty at first. She tried to relax, and this was made easier by the friendly company. She quickly gathered that Lucy G was in charge of makeup, and Lucy B hair.

“Whatcha reckon, Luce - can you do her a quick pigtail plait?”

“Noice idea,” came the reply, in a Brummie accent as thick as treacle. Mei Ling swallowed down a laugh - Lucy B had been quiet until now, and she was not expecting that at all. Thankfully, it seemed to go unnoticed.

“That alroight with you, pet?”

“Up to you! You’re the experts…”

The fifteen minutes that followed were a lot more fun, and funny, than Mei Ling had been expecting. She was playfully told off a few times, for giggling when Lucy G was trying to do a delicate part of the makeup. It didn’t help that the Essex lass had a lovely broad sense of humour, responding to Mei Ling’s polite questions about how she got the gig as GungeWorld’s makeup artist.

“Well, I got gunged, didn’t I? My friend - fucking Tina, that cow - said she had this modelling gig that paid really well. I was doin’ a bit of glamour stuff at the time, and you know me - well, you don’t know me, but anyway - I’m up for anything. Least I thought I was. End up with me tits out, totally bloody covered in green gunge, everyone laughin’ at me. The swamp thing, I looked like. Absolute nightmare.”

“Didn’t enjoy it, then?”

“Enjoy it? You jokin’? Look, no judgement, honest, I swear. I know everyone’s got a thing. But you wouldn’t catch me dead in a gunge tank again. I said as much to Alexa, and she was like, ‘fair enough.’ She had an opening for a makeup artist, though. ‘No gunge,’ she said, but I read that contract like a bloody hawk, let me tell you…”

Mei Ling watched in fascination as her look came together. First, of course, came a full face of bright white. The makeup wasn’t as thick as she’d feared, and it felt like her skin could still breathe, which was a relief. “Yeah, it’s the expensive stuff…”

Next came blue diamonds over her eyes, and then the big, exaggerated red mouth. Mei Ling tested it out once Lucy G had finished, smiling and pouting, making them all laugh - as was her job now, she supposed. A little circular pink blush was added to her cheeks, some thick black eyebrows, and lots of mascara.

All the while, Lucy B was expertly addressing her hair, gathering it into two halves and going hand-over-hand, working it astonishingly quickly into a couple of good-looking plaited pigtails. When she was finished, they hung just above her shoulders, bound at the tips by hair ties with little red pom-poms on them. Mei Ling was seriously impressed with the speed. Royal blue streaks, painted onto her locks with some kind of temporary dye, added to the look.

The makeup was finished a little before the hair - this freed up Lucy G to paint her nails. Fingers and toes both got a spruce-up with quick-drying nail polish, in a rainbow of colours. Mei Ling really liked this little touch.

“Right, my lovely - last thing. The red noses.”

That was a weird plural. “Noses?”

Lucy G laughed. “A makeup one and a real one. Just in case the real one falls off, like. For some reason.”

Mei Ling snorted with laughter. “Oh, like if I get hit in the face with a custard pie, or something.”

“Or something.”

“But I bet that won’t happen.”

“Nah, course not, babes!”

Lucy G painted a round red tip on Mei Ling’s nose, then reached into a drawer of the dresser beneath the mirror, brandishing a foamy red orb the size of a clementine.

“The classic! I’m gonna put a bit of stage glue on this - give it more of a chance. The glue’ll come off afterwards. All good?”

“All good. Nose me up.”

A little application of sticky stuff, and then the round red nose was plonked onto her face. Once again, Mei Ling couldn’t help giggling.

“Wow.”

“D’you like it, darlin’?”

“Um… not sure!” said Mei Ling, then suddenly realised it might sound ungrateful. “Wait, no, I didn’t mean… ah, you did an amazing job! It’s just…”

“You look like a clown?”

“I look like a clown.”

“Sexy clown, though,” said Lucy G with an appreciative nod.

Mei Ling nodded back.

“Sexy clown, though.”

IV: …the Roar of the Crowd

They’d used the allotted time to its full. Mei Ling stood up, and gave a few little twirls and poses to entertain her beautifiers, but was interrupted by a knock at the door, and Missy’s impertinent face poking in again.

“Collection! One dirty clown-slut needed… on… s… on set…”

Missy had clapped eyes on the new-look Mei Ling mid-sentence, and it had quite interrupted her cheeky demeanour.

“Fucking hell,” she muttered, shamelessly looking the clown girl up and down. “That’ll certainly fit the bill.”

This was a welcome confidence boost for Mei Ling, and she tilted her head, flirting a little.

“Like it?”

“Yes I do. Doubt I’ll be the only one, either. You ready?”

“Suppose so.”

She took a quick moment to hug and thank the Lucies, who both blew kisses after her and wished her luck. “Break a leg, sweetie!”

When Missy had led her to the makeup room, she’d still felt abashed and nervous, shuffling through the corridors. Now, Mei Ling was fizzing with energy - she found herself doing strange little skips along the floor, exaggerated hand gestures, as they navigated back towards the stage floor.

“Someone’s excited!” snarked Missy, amused.

Mei Ling faltered for a moment, her reverie interrupted. “Ah! No, it’s just…”

“It’s just you’re in a hot clown outfit and it’s making you horny?”

“Hey! It’s not…”

They walked along in silence together for a few paces. Mei Ling sighed, and gave a resigned shrug.

“Yeah, it’s that.”

They were at the boundary of the studio floor now, and they drew to a stop, standing beside each other just behind a line of hazard tape on the floor. This wasn’t the same entrance Mei Ling had used before, filing in with her fellow audience members. This was the wings, more exclusive, away from the madding crowd. The place you entered from if you were definitely about to get slopped.

It didn’t provide a great vantage point for what was happening on the studio floor though, so Mei Ling had to listen keenly instead. No wet splattery sounds, just waves of applause and laughter, which probably meant that whatever game had been played was now wrapping up.

“Hey.”

She turned to her left. Missy was looking at her, gaze like steel.

“If you ever wanna bring that little outfit round my place, I’ll make you dinner. Maybe eat you for dessert.”

Mei Ling’s eyebrows arched. Before she had a chance to respond to this cocksure come-on, there was a loud cheer from the stage.

“That’s your cue, Coco.” Missy reached a hand backwards, then slapped Mei Ling’s bare ass, firmly. “Go get yourself pie-fucked.”

For a moment, Mei Ling was frozen, her mouth hanging gently open at the audacity.

Then she let herself really hear the lusty, enthusiastic roar of the crowd, let it soak into her bones. She knew that Clown-Mei’s presence was hungrily anticipated by an audience of lovely, kinky weirdos. The adrenaline was delicious.

Suddenly, she leaned towards Missy, making doe-eyes, and thrusting her arms around the Stagehand’s jumpsuited waist. Their faces were inches apart, and their eyes were locked. Missy was smirking, clearly excited. Mei Ling gently parted her lips, and let the tip of her tongue emerge lasciviously.

And then she blew a raspberry right in Missy’s face. A storm of wet spittle, stained with red makeup, hit Missy’s cheeks. The girl looked properly shocked.

“I’ll call you. Maybe.”

While her hands were still clasped around Missy’s waist, she gave a firm slap of revenge against one buttock, and then shifted her bodyweight, suddenly skipping away onto the studio floor. She looked over her shoulder, and blew a kiss back at her defeated-looking escort.

Gotcha good, dummy!

V: Send in the Clown

“Ah, here she comes! Our harlequin hottie!”

Soundtracked by the tinkling notes of Scott Joplin’s The Entertainer, as well as a chorus of whoops, cheers and whistles, Mei Ling bounded onto the set, smiling and wide-eyed. She waved to the admiring crowd, gave her red nose a squeeze, then struck a rakish little pose and sexily twirled one of her braids.

Her confident playfulness was noted by Alexa and Sally, who caught each other’s eye, both looking very pleased at this development.

“What a transformation!” enthused Alexa, as Mei Ling waddled over goofily, and stood in that same spot between the hosts, still flirting with the audience. She was almost tempted to start acting bratty, teasing Alexa and Sally - though something told her to cool her jets. Maybe not the smartest idea. So she stayed quiet for the moment, though she couldn’t help bouncing on her heels and playing with her skirt.

“I think that outfit’s had rather an effect on you, hasn’t it?” asked Sally.

Mei Ling just smiled. “Maybe! D’you think I look funny?”

“Positively side-splitting, darling,” replied Alexa. “I think tonight’s audience are going to be very entertained.”

“I’ll sure do my best!”

“I don’t doubt it. Well, your stage awaits. Time to put on a show, wouldn’t you say?”

Mei Ling clasped her hands in front of her belly, and nodded obediently. Alexa and Sally calmly turned and walked towards the brightly-striped big top in the studio wall, gesturing to her to follow. She did so, of course, tottering and wobbling as comically as she could on the way.

As she neared the black leather seat, she noticed its four red manacles were already prised open, ready for her. And there was something else too, which she understandably hadn’t noticed when watching from further away, in the audience.

Attached to one half of each manacle was a cord, which draped out to the side of the chair, then arced upwards, disappearing into the rafters above. Each of these cords was thin, but incredibly strong-looking - they seemed to be made of dull metal wire, but it was twisted around itself for reinforcement.

She had a sudden vision, seeing herself being jerked around like a marionette, while a jeering mob threw rotten vegetables.

Probably not. Probably not. But her new-found confidence was already starting to erode slightly - and she hadn’t even sat down in the chair yet.

Speaking of which, Alexa and Sally stood either side of the seat, their arms extended towards it, their glares on her, leaving no doubt as to what she must do now.

“Ah, th-thank you!”

Mei Ling gave the most confident 180-degree twirl she could muster, and then hopped backwards into the seat, with an “oop!” that she hoped was a little clownish.

“No - thank you, Mei Ling,” replied Alexa, gazing down at her with a thrilling grin. “Without our intrepid testers, we’d never know if these silly things worked.”

Alexa took a moment to look up at Sally, whose eyes were narrow.

When it came to GungeWorld devices, nothing ever made it to air without rigorous testing, tweaking, and feedback. And, with few exceptions, quality control was Sally’s job. She had to sit in every gunge tank, plunge into every giant trifle, and endure every pie-barrage. All while her dominant wife pulled the levers, workshopped those teasing lines of script, and just generally lorded it over her while looking insufferably smug.

Not that Sally didn’t love it, of course. Yes, she might swear and squeal when Alexa surprised her with a dousing in eighty litres of cold rice pudding. But it was tempered by the knowledge that she’d soon be swearing and squealing in quite a different tone of voice, once Alexa finally took pity on her.

Which she usually did. Sometimes, Sally was left to sit, chained and dripping and alone in a gunge tank, for several hours while Alexa went and got her hair done. All part of the fun, of course.

In this moment, Alexa’s cheeky glance towards her wife was a reminder of a convenient fiction. Yes, we’ve tested this. But isn’t it fun when we pretend we haven’t?

Mei Ling noticed utterly nothing of this subtle marital interaction. Her thoughts were entirely focused on what she needed to do with her body right now.

Keen to please, and without being asked, she first slipped her wrists into the lower half of the manacles on the plush leather arm-rests. Those arms were angled slightly inwards - the pose made her feel like an anime robot, about to shoot lasers at some miscreants. A little weird, but she knew there would be some reason for it.

Next were the lower manacles. They were attached to a comfortable leather footrest. As Mei Ling looked down to slip her legs in, she noticed there was a visible seam in the middle of it, between the manacles. After a moment’s thought, she pieced together what that might mean, and bit her lip.

Nothing to be done about it right now, though. The hosts weren’t feeding her teasing lines - she was just expected to ready herself, and so she did. Once correctly positioned, Alexa and Sally firmly clasped the restraints around her wrists, then stooped to do the same for her ankles. They were padded, to avoid any serious bruising, but they were also tight. Mei Ling felt her heart rate rising, but did her best to keep things fun and flirty.

“Harder to be funny if I can’t move my arms and legs,” she said, faux-innocently. “How am I going to juggle?”

Alexa smiled at Mei Ling’s willingness to play along. “Don’t worry, my dear. Maybe you can do that for an encore.”

“She’s all strapped in,” said Sally. “Shall we go and get things started?”

Mei Ling shivered inwardly as Alexa nodded, and they retreated from the tent. While they did so, a Stagehand rolled a little plinth on wheels out from backstage. Its sides were covered in the same bright pattern that decorated Mei Ling’s corset, and its top was adorned with another colourful array - a panoply of buttons, switches and levers.

The hosts took their place behind this control panel, off to the side so as not to block the audience’s view, but of course keeping Clown-Mei in their line of vision.

“Cue the music!” cried Alexa, and her command was obeyed, more jaunty ragtime piano conjuring an old-timey slapstick atmosphere.

“Let’s see, then,” she continued, peering down. “Must try and remember what all these buttons do. What were we going to start with?”

“That one, wasn’t it?” replied Sally, pointing at one in particular.

“Oh yes. Keep it simple for now.”

Mei Ling was utterly tense, expecting a pie to be flung at her as soon as the button was pushed. However, that didn’t happen - which was somehow worse. She could see no sudden movement - but she could also hear the audience’s laughter quickly growing. It was never a good sign, at GungeWorld, when you couldn’t see what everyone else was laughing at.

Then she spied them, and gave a little squeak of anticipation. Sliding out from the walls behind her, one on each side, was a pair of long blocky platforms, a few feet high, their sides also gaudily decorated. In the top of each platform was a shallow runnel, housing what Mei Ling guessed was probably a conveyor belt. All along each belt sat a procession of GungeWorld’s biggest, heaviest, stickiest cream pies, every one drizzled with some sort of sweet, colourful goo.

Most comically, sticking out from the front end of each platform was a large model of a cartoonish, white-gloved hand. One pie already sat in each of the flat palms, and the next pie in line was clearly ready to slide onto it. Mei Ling gave the quickest of glances over her shoulder, confirming her suspicions - the line of pies extended all the way to an opening in the wall, with more surely lurking in the gloom beyond.

Holy moly. And this is them ‘keeping it simple’...

When the oversized hands were just a few feet away from her, in front and to each side, the platforms drew quietly to a halt. Mei Ling felt herself squirming in her chair. “Nyhh…”

Sally geed up the audience with a little unsubtle teasing, her finger stroking a red button. “Whaddya reckon, folks? Shall we give it to her?”

Obviously, the response was loud and unanimous.

“Time to pound our clown! In three! Two! One! Splat!”

The hand on the left jerked into action, springing up and letting a pie loose, perfectly weighted and rapidly propelled. It slammed into Mei Ling’s painted face with an enormous, loud squelch, gooey splatters of cream flying out from her cheeks and behind her head.

She was stunned at how hard it had nailed her, and spluttered in shock. But she barely had time to gather her thoughts before the next one was flung at her face from the other side, filling her gasping mouth with creamy gunge, and making her muscles twitch and writhe.

The crowd’s laughter was tinged with shock - even from twelve yards away, the noisy splats told them just how forcefully these pies were being hurled.

Mei Ling spat out a mouthful of glop, snatched a quick, deep breath, and closed her eyes, knowing this was just the beginning. She winced as the next cool, hefty flan burst against her face, and the next, and the next. The damp, gloppy matter was already oozing plentifully down the front of her outfit, piling up in her cleavage, globs falling into her lap.

The conveyor belts did their job efficiently. After each giant hand sprang forwards, it returned quickly to its original flat position, and the delicate pastry crust of the next pie slid smoothly onto it, nestling in the middle, ready to be flung.

After the tenth firm splatter into her face - or maybe the eleventh, or twelfth, she’d most certainly lost count already - Mei Ling realised, with some incredulity, that the foam red nose was still attached. How fucking strong is that glue? she thought for a fleeting moment, before yet another cold, creamy facial distracted her. The audience had noticed too. It was undeniably cruel that Mei Ling’s lovingly-crafted makeup had been so instantly buried under white slop. And that little fluffy red nose, just about peeking out through the thick slathering of cream, was a giggle-inducingly pathetic sight.

When she finally felt a few seconds go by without being goopily pummelled, Mei Ling breathed in deeply, her shoulders rising and falling, eyes still closed. She could feel the weight of the pie-glop coating her shoulders, her breasts, and the front of her dress. And the tight manacles around her wrists made her even more aware of her racing pulse.

Sixteen pies? Eighteen? God, who knows. She finally blinked open her eyes, vision clouded by the cream that she had no way to wipe off. When she saw that those cruel hands were still poised and armed in front of her - and the conveyor belts still fully loaded - she gave a panicked yelp, fearing an immediate recommencement.

Not so - for the moment, at least.

“Okay in there, Mei Ling?” asked Alexa from the sidelines, with a frankly inappropriate breeziness.

It took a moment to formulate a response. She knew she had to play along, though understandably, she was hardly in the headspace to dispense her most sparkling repartee.

“Ghhh… yeah… yep. All good! Spluh. That was quite, uh, quite a pieing.”

“Thought we’d start as we mean to go on. More toys to play with yet, though. What’s next, Sally?”

“I love this one,” replied Sally, pushing another button, and then gazing up at the roof of the circus set.

“Ah yes - excellent!”

The hosts and the audience watched with excitement as a thick, circular pipe, brightly patterned to match the rest of the equipment, emerged from the roof of the hollow, jutting down into the space at a raked angle. Mei Ling tracked their eyes, and looked up to see the pipe’s mouth gaping down at her, about ten feet above her and a few feet in front. She winced.

“This is a fun one, Mei Ling. It’s got laser targeting!”

Really? Oh god…

There was a ripple of laughter as the audience noticed a small “X”, formed of bright red light, was shimmering against the smears of cream on Mei Ling’s forehead.

“Would you like to drive, Sally?”

“With pleasure. Good place to start though,” she replied. Her left hand grasped a small joystick, which she held still for now. Instead, she pushed the button next to it.

Within half a second, a globby mass of cream came flying at speed out of the pipe’s mouth. Mei Ling gasped in anticipation, and immediately closed her eyes and mouth once more.

It wasn’t quite a custard pie - Alexa was a competent engineer, but there was really no way to maintain the structural integrity of pastry when propelling it down through a tube like this. However, it did a similar job. The crowd cheered as the sloppy mound of white mush splattered against Mei Ling’s face, the pipe’s steep downwards angle meaning that plenty gooped down her shoulders and chest.

“Up a bit, I think…”

The next damp splat fell squarely on top of Mei Ling’s head, a comical sight. Sally then nudged the lever left and right as she unleashed two more creamy payloads, thickly matting the girl’s pretty ponytails in cream. The mass of gunge on her head wobbled and teetered, flumping down her forehead, as well as down her back, squishing against the leather of the chair.

“Then down a bit, I think…”

The shining red X travelled down Mei Ling’s nose, her chin, her neck. When it came to a rest in the shallow, already-gungey valley of her cleavage, the audience gave a lusty cheer. Mei Ling was too plastered and flustered to see the laser marker, but the reaction gave her a clue as to where it might be.

Her suspicions were confirmed. Sweet, sticky slop whumped against her chest. There was plenty there already, but the direct impact of it made her shudder with excitement. Sally once again nudged the lever as she continued to fire, giving Mei Ling’s left breast a full and direct splatter, then her right, then another between the boobs.

Mei Ling could feel the thin fabric of her dress’ upper part sticking firmly to her chest. Blinking her eyes open, seemingly safe from splatters to the face for the moment, she looked down at herself. The sight made her bark out a meek little laugh. Her dress was covered in white goo, right down to the skirt - and Sally wasn’t done yet.

The laser target descended further, and Mei Ling felt a heavy splurge against her stomach, then one right into her lap - that really set her breathing heavily.

Her fluffy, frilly skirt covered the upper halves of her thighs, but it left enough skin exposed to offer Sally something to splat. Which she did with relish, of course. The previous plastering had left white gooey streaks over Mei Ling’s legs - now they got a proper coating, all the way down, side to side. Each bare, brightly-painted foot took a double-splatter. Mei Ling squirmed in her manacles, feeling the goo squish between her toes.

“What a wonderfully thorough job,” said Alexa admiringly.

Sally pushed the joystick upwards, and returned the laser-mark to Mei Ling’s forehead.

“Thank you, darling,” she replied with a smile, unleashing one final splurge of cream into the clown’s face, taking her very much by surprise.

“Spluh! Gah, you… mfff…”

They left a little moment for applause. Mei Ling was really starting to feel the rush intensify now, that deep, thrilling embarrassment in her stomach.

VI: Open Wide

Alexa cooed another question into the circus tent. “By the way Mei Ling, how’s the chair? Comfy?”

“Um… it’s a bit sticky now. And there’s, y’know…”

She wiggled her hands and feet, illustrating her helplessness. “But still pretty comfy, I guess.”

“Well that’s no good, is it? Sounds ever so boring. Let’s get you a little less comfortable, shall we?”

Oh fuck.

Alexa took the controls this time, her lithe fingers addressing a small up-down lever.

Mei Ling felt the arms of the chair, and their attached manacles, begin to slowly push backwards and upwards, taking her arms with them. She let out a little quiver of trepidation.

The manacles traced an ascending, circular arc. Within a few seconds, she was splayed like the Y of the YMCA, then after a few more, the chair’s arms came to rest in a vertical position, nestled snugly together. This left her own arms thrust skyward, passing beside her head, just behind her ears. The manacles weren’t so high as to be tugging her out of her seat, but they weren’t far off - there was a gentle pressure. It was, as promised, uncomfortable. Emotionally as well as physically - she was trying not to look at the amused yet pitying expressions in the crowd, but she couldn’t help catching a few of their wide-eyed stares.

Alexa shifted her hand to the next lever, perpendicular to the first, and gently pushed again. 

As she felt her legs begin to part, Mei Ling let out a quiet, anguished moan, her earlier fears confirmed. The footrest holding the lower manacles had split into two, and the halves were pulling apart. Not just sideways, she realised, but upwards.

She began to hear wolf-whistles from the crowd - they may have felt sorry for Mei Ling’s plight, but they were also horny fuckers, ready for things to get really filthy now.

Her legs were fully, shamelessly splayed, her knees pointed skyward, her clasped ankles brought up to the level of her seat. She gave a worried keen as they moved further and further back, making the muscles in her legs really start to tighten. It was a good thing she worked them out.

Alexa finally let go of the lever, to Mei Ling’s great relief - once again, pushing to the point of discomfort, but not outright pain.

Even under all the makeup and pie cream, Mei Ling could feel a fierce red burn in her cheeks, as the whooping audience and sadistic hosts took in the sight of her bare pussy and asshole. The skirt was lifted neatly by her upturned thighs, affording them a clear and unobstructed view.

She wondered if they could see how wet she was.

“There we go. Much more fitting, don’t you think, Mei Ling?”

“I, uh, I guess…”

Alexa surmised that she wasn’t going to get much decent banter out of the clown girl right now. Understandable, she supposed. Thankfully, she could always have a chat with Sally.

“Quite a sight, isn’t it?”

“Oh yes. Pretty as a picture.”

“You know, the young ‘uns call that a clussy.”

“Clussy?” Sally feigned a moment’s confusion. “Clown… ah yes. That makes sense.”

The audience snickered at Mei Ling’s expression, which grew more pained and bashful with every word.

“They also seem to be very keen on clussies getting custard pied.”

“Really? Well, I can’t blame them. I must say, it’s ever such a tempting target.”

Mei Ling felt the aforementioned target twitch and redden at the mention of pies. The thought was utterly mortifying. And yet she wanted it, needed it, was fucking desperate for it.

“What do you reckon, folks? Should we splat that clussy?”

Another whimper emerged from the spreadeagled clown girl. And the crowd, of course, roared in approval.

Sally found the next button she needed. On the floor of the studio, between the hand-flinger conveyor belts, a panel - maybe six foot wide, and circular - smoothly slid away. 

Beneath it was a segmented wheel, the kind you’d spin on a gameshow. Every wedge was a different block colour, but there were no prizes written on the sections. Instead, at the thick end of each wedge sat a thick, oozy cream pie - a dozen in total.

Mei Ling looked down at it, lost for words.

Without warning, a spring-loaded tile beneath the nearest pie burst upwards with a metallic twang. Carefully angled, it propelled the pie perfectly at its target. 

Mei Ling screeched as she felt her blushing, aching cunt get engulfed in cool, sloppy cream.

“Aghck! Oh fuck, fucking fuck…”

It set her legs twitching, and her eyes were screwed up in blissful agony. The sensual, goopy matter clung to her wet slit, her thatch of pubic hair, the top of her inner thighs. She felt its sticky embrace against her pert little arsehole too, which felt indescribably indecent.

In contrast to the noisy flinger, the wheel’s rotation was near-silent. It swung around a precise thirty degrees, positioning the next flan beneath Mei Ling. While she was still muttering oaths and panting hot breaths, the pie launched, another hard and gooey splat underneath her skirt.

“Fuck, Jesus, Christ…”

The sensation was no less shocking the second time, and Mei Ling felt a deep shudder up her back. Above her head, her helpless hands were clenching into fists, unclenching, clenching again, just to release some of this maddening tension.

Round the wheel span, segment by segment, a few agonising seconds between each forceful, filthy impact.

It would be a stretch to say that Mei Ling grew accustomed to getting splattered between the legs, really. But by the time a fourth, a fifth pie had smothered her pussy, she had at least resigned herself to her fate.

She was still panting in panic and arousal. But she finally managed to blink her eyes open, almost wanting to make sure this was real. She glanced over at the hosts, who watched casually from behind their podium, wearing placid smiles, as if they were watching a mildly impressive pottery demonstration, rather than Mei Ling’s pornographic, slapstick degradation. Their insouciance only made her embarrassment deepen.

Another fat pie slapped itself against her snatch. Her neck and shoulders spasmed, which dislodged a healthy glob of cream from the top of her head. It landed on the tip of her still-intact red nose. Though it was too close to bring into focus, this sight only reminded her how utterly stupid she must look, dolled up like a bumbling fool, face and body dripping with cream. Suddenly, the hungry glares of the mocking crowd felt twice as intense as before. She closed her eyes, trying to hide from the shame.

It turned out to be a smart move. Though Mei Ling’s arms and legs had been humiliatingly rearranged, her face remained in the exact same position as previously. Which meant that when one of the giant clown-hands sprung into action again, it nailed her in the face with a large pie, just as effectively as it had before.

Another filthy spank against her crotch followed, adding further embarrassment as she spluttered and gasped for air. The wheel proceeded to spin through its second half-turn, the final six pussy-pieings interspersed by facial flannings. There was nothing she could do: she simply had to sit there and take it. Her clit was thrumming now, the intense tingles only amplified by the knowledge she had no way to satisfy them.

Once the spinning device below was finally empty of pies - and after one final gloopy cake was smashed into her face, for good measure - Mei Ling was granted a moment’s peace. Well, not peace exactly - the whoops and whistles from the audience were plenty loud, and that jaunty piano music was still burbling away, slightly annoying in truth.

She was able to catch her breath, though it did little to quell her racing pulse and raging hormones. The thick coating of sticky, sensual cream was driving her wild down below, and underneath it, she was sopping wet.

Worst of all - best of all - she had absolutely no idea what might come next.

The optimistic angel on her shoulder whispered that it might be over - the baying crowd satisfied at the sight of a nice creamed clussy. She’d be unclasped, take a little unsteady bow, and then waddle away to the showers, and bring herself off in a haze of steamy bliss.

The devil on her other shoulder told the angel, in no uncertain terms, that it was a fucking idiot. She hadn’t even found out what the wires did, for crying out loud. And did she honestly think that silly little dress had a chance of staying on?

No, Mei Ling. You’re absolutely fucked, my dear.

VII: Puppet Show

Ten seconds was nowhere near long enough to recover, considering the intensity of what she’d just been through. But ten seconds was all she got, before Alexa’s cut-glass voice set all her nerves jangling once again.

“Mei Ling - word of advice. I’d stay as still as you can for the next part. It’s very safe - but it’s easier if you don’t squirm.”

Mei Ling’s chest tightened. Easy for you to say, you evil bitch. But she did her best to obey, moaning softly and trying to manage her breathing.

She barely had the energy to blink her eyes open, so she had to go on the sound of the crowd’s reaction. It seemed a little confused at first, though it grew in volume. What they were seeing was a hook, on the end of a rigid pole, that was slowly extending into the circus tent from an opening above.

The first Mei Ling learned of this was a firm pressure against the top of her chest, just below her neck. Again, insistent, but not enough to hurt. Whatever this was felt plasticky and solid.

She felt this device sink lower, nestling into the indentation between her breasts, still pressing with gentle force against her skin, pushing through the piled-up cream.

Once it reached the chest-piece of her dress, she felt it slip underneath the fabric. Then she heard a ripping noise, and felt an easing of pressure against her bust.

The device’s intention was fairly clear at this point, though it was so unknown and strange to her that she simply had to try to open her eyes and see it. This wasn’t easy - her vision was clouded with globs of cream, and again, she had to look down past the silly, sticky red nose.

It did look safe, at least, as Alexa had promised. The hook was coated in rounded black plastic. But she began to understand that once it had gathered the fabric in its crook, there was something incredibly sharp in there, that seemed to be cutting through the material without the slightest hint of resistance.

After a couple of seconds, she felt her breasts spill fully out of the dress’ torn chest. Looking down, she saw a line of demarcation, heavy cream smearing the tops of her boobs, but clean skin below - clean nipples too, as firm as marble and yearning to be touched. The device continued slowly downwards, tearing its way through the fabric on her belly. The audience were rapt.

Alexa leaned sideways, putting a hand to her mouth and directing a stage whisper towards Sally - picked up in crystal clarity by the microphones, of course.

“And they call those cloobies.”

Sally snorted. “Really? Not sure about that one.”

“I guess calling them clits would probably be too confusing.”

“Fair point.” Sally left a pause. “Clockers, maybe?”

Mei Ling whimpered while the sharp hook ploughed further down her body, pressing against her belly as it started to tear both layers of her skirt. Thanks to her splayed posture, though, it was able to lift off from against her skin as it finished the job.

The whole outfit had been a little tight, so once it was fully split down the middle, it sprang open, each half of it lying in a crumpled mess against Mei Ling’s flanks, leaving her almost entirely exposed.

Sally was singing again. “What shall we do with the naked clown-girl,” she trilled three times, to the tune of The Drunken Sailor, finishing with “...something nice and horny?”

“A pretty ditty,” said Alexa, “and a good question. I have something in mind.”

“Go on.”

“Well, as you can see, the pies have pounded Mei Ling pretty well. How about we let her get some revenge?”

The clown slut’s eyes grew wide for a moment, and her heart leapt. Revenge?

Sally sounded appalled. “What? On us?”

“Oh no, don’t be silly. What I meant was, how about we let Mei Ling pound some pies?”

Mei Ling winced, and cursed herself for getting her hopes up.

“Ah, now I get you. Oh yes, that sounds fun!”

Alexa busied herself at the control panel once again. For a little while, Mei Ling could feel nothing happening. Then, in her fuzzy, creamy peripheral vision, she noticed that those ominous cables attached to her ankle-manacles were starting to raise up, their arcs becoming steeper. The two above her were surely doing the same. She stiffened in anticipation.

“Wait…”

Sally turned towards Alexa, who paused the ascent of the metal ropes. She had a pleading look in her eye, almost embarrassed, and clasped her hands under her chin.

“Yes, my darling?”

“Just, before you do that…”

Sally looked bashful, and said the next part in a shy, quiet voice. “Can I splat the cloobies?”

A ripple of giggles spread through the audience. Even Mei Ling had to smile in amusement at this naughty little request.

“I don’t see why not… be quick about it though, eh?”

The laser-guided glop gun was put back into action, Sally deftly guiding the red X between Mei Ling’s breasts, which rose and fell with her breath. The goo was quickly unleashed - Sally gave Mei Ling’s chest a back-and-forth volley of five rapid splatters, fully coating her heavy tits with sweet, sensual cream, making them wobble gently. After squeaking her way through the splurging, Mei Ling let out a quiet sigh. It felt wonderful.

Sally surrendered the controls back to Alexa, giving her a little peck on the cheek as she did so. “Thanks.”

Once Alexa put the switch for the cables back into action, it took a few seconds for Mei Ling to feel anything. But once she did, it set her heart thumping.

At the exact moment the ropes achieved full, straight tautness, the manacles were released by whatever mechanism had been holding them fast to the chair’s arms and footrest. And so Mei Ling remained in roughly the same degrading, spreadeagle position, at least for the moment. But instead of resting on the chair’s seat, she was now fully under the pull of gravity. It was a shocking feeling - her hips and butt felt incredibly heavy all of a sudden. And she could sense her arms and legs already starting to ache, though only softly at first.

It was time for this booby-trapped carnival to reveal more of its surprises. Once Mei Ling was hoisted clear of the chair - hanging eight feet or so off the ground - a large section of the set’s back wall slid upwards. It didn’t reveal anything to the crowd immediately - it was unlit back there, and more dry ice obscured what might be lurking.

Next, the section of floor on which the chair was mounted began to rotate, sending the gooey piece of furniture back towards the wall - the whole thing, including its hoisted arms, repositioned footrests, and Mei Ling’s crumpled, bisected clown dress. And from the other side, the rotation brought forth more slapstick treats for the helpless, horny harlequin.

What emerged was a series of square pedestals, each a few feet high, once again patterned in bright, tessellating diamonds. The first one rotated into position underneath Mei Ling, where it stopped. On top of the pedestal was a bowl, which was a few feet wide, and looked to be made of thick, padded canvas, bright blue. In the bowl, piled up higher than its rim, was a wobbling mound of something sweet and gooey. The pedestals following behind it out of the recess - two of them visible, though who knew if there were more - contained similar large heapings of mess, looking to be different flavours.

Mei Ling had been trying to see what was going on below her - especially as she could hear it was making the audience giggly and excited - but her efforts were hampered by the ropes slowly rearranging her body. The ones holding up her manacled arms drew apart, and those holding her feet did the opposite. She was left spread out in a droopy X-shape, like a tree sloth trying to grab the underside of a particularly wide branch. Her butt remained the lowest point of her arrangement, and it hung directly above the first of these bowls.

She was aching now, in more ways than one - the muscles in her limbs were starting to throb, but she was also burning with lust, and with embarrassment. What happened next would temporarily relieve the first of these aches, but very much heighten the other two.

The cords suspending her all went slack at once, and the screeching clown-girl was dropped into the enormous bowl of gunk, arse-first.

Huge, squelchy globs of the stuff were propelled out of the bowl by the weight of her gorgeous body, arcing between her legs and out to her sides, falling to the studio floor with a loud, filthy splat.

Mei Ling’s screech became a gasp, and then a deep, guttural moan, as she felt her damp cunt enveloped by the thick gunge. The heady scent was incredible - she smelled banana, and caramel? Banoffee. A personal favourite, though of course, she’d never been served it quite like this before.

It barely crossed her mind how silly she must look, her tired limbs flopping limply out of the sides of the bowl. The feeling between her legs was demanding her full attention. Every tiny squirm of her hips made her shudder, her sensitive pussy being gently massaged by this slimy confection. All she wanted to do was thrust her hands into the bowl and fuck herself blind. But the cables attached to the manacles had been carefully manipulated - even if she tried, there wouldn’t have been enough slack.

Neither would there have been the time. After maybe five seconds - enough for the crowd to enjoy the sight of Mei Ling’s groaning and writhing - Alexa pushed the lever again, and the clown girl was hoisted upwards, giving a little keen as the ropes went taut. The noise produced as she was extricated from the bowl - an obscene squpsch - made her stomach turn somersaults in embarrassment.

Lots more embarrassment to come, though. She dangled again, great messy globs of banoffee cream falling softly through the air below her. This time she hung just a little higher, not that anyone would notice, maybe six inches. The floor rotated steadily, leaving the next pile of cake below her, this one looking rather chocolatey.

After a pulse-quickening few seconds of tension, the cords went slack once again, and Mei Ling plunged into the sloppy Black Forest gateau beneath her, once again gasping and yelping at the humiliating, slapstick explosion she created.

She hadn’t been pied in the kisser for a little while now, so plenty of the cream had fallen away, and the crowd could enjoy the aroused contortions of her face. Her makeup was slightly smeared but still exaggerated and comical, and that big daft red nose waved around as she writhed in the sweet muck, bound and frustrated and desperately hungry for release.

Eagle-eyed viewers would notice that the fourth pedestal in this sequence didn’t seem to be piled high with cream, like the others. Mei Ling would shortly discover why. But before that, she was lifted out of the gateau - dangling a little higher once again - and dunked pussy-first into a heavy, sticky mass of tiramisu.

This dessert was Alexa’s personal favourite. She was letting this segment play out without any audible teasing - it was cruel enough already. But her eyes definitely narrowed in appreciation when she saw those luscious hips obliterate the boozy, coffee-tinged heap. She imagined thrusting her face into it, and tasting an exclusive, Mei Ling-flavoured delicacy. But that would interrupt this carefully-orchestrated set piece. Another time…

Mei Ling’s moans were getting louder each time, a vocal solo of wordless, gasping arousal. Even muffled by the stickiness of the desserts, she could feel her ravenous beaver was utterly sodden with excitement. But she remained a helpless ragdoll, tugged softly upwards into the air, in preparation for the penultimate bowl - there didn’t seem to be anything approaching after the fifth.

Just before she was dunked this time, a warm scent hit her nostrils - something much richer than the cool, creamy flavours so far. A second later, she found out what it was. When her arse plunged into the surface of the chocolate fudge sauce, she screamed out loud in surprise.

“Eeeaaaugh! Augh, aaah, ah, oh, ohhh…”

The splat she made was louder and wetter, great glossy arcs of dark brown sauce spraying everywhere. And the noises she made as she lay helplessly in the pool were louder, too. It may have been a shock, but it was a beautiful one - deliciously liquid and hot against her skin, sloshing up around her belly, coating her thighs, and engulfing her midriff.

Sally had disagreed with the inclusion of the chocolate fudge sauce, at first. She felt it was too far removed from a pie, and that they were working to a specific theme in this scene. But when Alexa had, as always, made her test it, her objections melted away into the warm goo. And, in retrospect, she had to admit it really was nice to watch.

Especially when Mei Ling was dragged out of the dark, chocolatey glop, still groaning in ecstasy. There were no fluffy falling globs this time: instead, the studio floor was drizzled with thin streams and cute little drops of smooth, liquid sauce, pouring off from her fully-coated hindquarters.

The last bowl was piled high once again, higher than all the others, bright white and glossy. Mei Ling’s helpless body was noticeably hoisted higher too, the increments each time adding up.

“Last one, Mei Ling! Ready?”

Alexa didn’t wait for an answer. And any relief Mei Ling felt from the words “last one” was short-lived, evaporating when her slimy butt plunged into the frigid, sloppy ice-cream cake beneath her.

“Aiyeeeargh! Fuck, fuck fuck fuck, unhhh…”

It was a very mean trick, to warm her up with the lovely chocolatey goo, then dunk her into a pile of ice-cold, semi-liquid cake. So Mei Ling’s reaction was entirely appropriate, really - swearing, yelping, gasping out hot breaths of indignation. Her limbs twitched and flapped to the limited extent they were able, and her hips involuntarily squirmed against the dessert below her, only making things feel yet more intense.

They let her writhe and moan in this final pit a little longer than the others, the audience starting to feel rather sorry for the poor hottie. But then it was up and out, Alexa tautening the ropes, a wicked melange of chocolatey and creamy gunge pouring from Mei Ling’s arse onto the studio floor as the final pedestal trundled back into the wall.

Rotating back into its rightful place, the chair returned. Mei Ling’s shredded outfit had been removed, but the chair’s various parts were still arranged as they had been.

“I must say, Alexa - she’s sounding a little out of breath…”

It was true - her breathing was very audible, shallow and loud, as she tried to control her racing heartbeat. Despite her job, this was by far the most strenuous workout she’d had in years.

“Yes, it seems that way. Maybe she could do with a nice sit down.”

The host manipulated the controls, and the dripping clown girl was once again pulled gently around by the strong cables attached to her manacles, while also being steadily lowered back towards the seat.

When Mei Ling realised she was being slotted right back into place as before - arms hoisted, legs splayed, and pussy and arse displayed shamelessly to the audience - she cringed in humiliation. And, for just a moment, she felt a little disappointed at the lack of creativity.

Again? Please, you’ve pied me in the face and the pussy enough now, surely…

The manacles clicked solidly back into place against the padded leather panels of the chair. Mei Ling couldn’t be sure, but the slight jolts as they did so suggested some engineering trickery using strong magnets. She certainly wouldn’t put it past Alexa.

Below her, the seat was immediately slick with mingled, sweet goo, and a steady stream of it dripped from the lip, outrageously suggestive, onto the floor below her.

She’d been trying not to meet the smug, sadistic glares of the hosts, but for self-preservation’s sake, she had to look up and see what they were doing - she half-expected Alexa to be grasping some huge lever that would instantly shower her in an avalanche of pie-glop. Her eyes were wide, and her lower lip was quivering. The looks she got in return, of course, were airy and teasing.

They didn’t even address her directly. “Do you know,” began Sally, “I’ve just realised something. Shouldn’t a good clown have some funny props?”

“Ooh! Quite right. I’m glad we didn’t forget that.”

They weren’t wasting time - all that was needed here was to put a naughty thought into the audience’s mind, and then follow it through.

“Do you want to do the honours?”

Alexa thanked Sally for the opportunity, and once again, turned to the bank of buttons, filled with filthy potential.

VIII: Toybox

The first thing that emerged sent ripples of laughter through the audience. Mei Ling, craning her neck down, saw it appear too, slowly rising from the floor right in front of her seat, a little offset to the side.

It was a big, cartoonish flower, with round pink petals and a yellow centre. It was clearly made of shiny plastic, and its design was so simple it could have been drawn by a child. It stood at the top of a retractable metal rod - once this had finished extending, the flower sat a little higher than Mei Ling’s hips.

Without warning or teasing, the centre of the flower gushed forth with a spray of clear liquid, in several thin jets. Mei Ling shuddered as she felt her pussy, and everything around it, being doused in warm, slippery lube.

The sensation was pleasant, and the promise was terrifyingly wonderful. Funny props.

Another push of a button, and a second device emerged from the floor below, this one right beneath her hips, chocolatey goop oozing into the small hole it protruded from. It seemed to be a small, purple, plastic bulb of some kind, but the rod that extended beneath it was wreathed in colourful fabric.

Once the device reached its intended height, just above the level of the seat, it began to slowly move forward, carefully guided by Alexa with a joystick.

Mei Ling felt the plastic tip of the bulb press gently, then more firmly, against her tender butthole. She gasped in a hungry breath, and clenched her teeth, the audience watching in hushed awe.

More lube was spilled over her privates and this toy by the flower. And then, with an indecent but thrilling squish, the plug slid squarely into her behind.

It wasn’t particularly large, but she could most certainly feel it, solid and stationary inside her arse. Giggles once again ebbed around the audience, who were now starting to understand the joke. The decoration on the rod beneath had made it look like some deviant magician was midway through a very extreme version of the handkerchief trick - pulling an endless string of colourful, knotted cloths from Mei Ling’s delicate butthole.

“Gnh! Oh my guhh…”

This was Mei Ling’s reaction to the buttplug coming to life, buzzing with a gentle but utterly maddening vibration. It set her muscles clenching, and her firm, round buttocks squirmed madly against the gooey leather of the chair. She expelled hot, short breaths into the air as she tried to accustom herself to the sensation, tried to banish the thought of all those staring eyes.

Alexa took a moment to enjoy the sight of this wonderful, horny, beyond-flustered girl, and her evolving reaction to the anal teasing. But that wasn’t all, of course - time for the controls to be put into action again.

Toy number three was another red nose, of a sort. Again, it rose from the studio floor, attached to a steady metal rod, this one bent into a right-angle, upwards then forwards. It was slightly bigger than the bedraggled foam ball that sat on Mei-Ling’s face, and clearly more sturdy, made of rubber.

Mei Ling had stopped keeping a close watch on the developments taking place between her legs. Her eyes were screwed up tight, her cream-smeared mouth wide open, as she began to moan freely. She had started to surrender herself, unashamed, to the pleasure of it. There were still nagging worries at the edge of her mind, of the peering cameras and the leering crowd, the sheer helpless humiliation. But they were being pushed further and further away by the intensity of the physical joy that she was now feeling.

The red nose, slowly questing forward, only added more fuel to the fire. By the time it met her skin, just at the top of her pussy’s quivering, flushed slit, it was already thrumming with vibes. Another warm wave of lubricant splashed between her legs.

“Ah…!”

Guided by Alexa’s cruel yet loving hand, the buzzing red ball pressed more and more firmly against her clit. Mei Ling could feel the difference with every fraction of an inch - and Alexa could hear it.

“Ah! Oh fuck oh mmm, grh-ugh, fuck-yesss oh Jesus…”

Mei Ling’s body roared demands to her brain, most of them utterly futile. Her shoulders wanted to writhe in delight, but they were still hoisted fast beside her head. Her hands clasped and unclasped, wanting to caress her own sticky skin, tug at her hair, but they remained helpless above the manacles. Her hips wanted to buck and dance - and, to be fair, they managed a little of that, every little squirm subtly redirecting the electrical currents that coursed outwards from her clit. Her back arched, as much as it could in this constrained position. And her whimpering, delighted cries only grew louder and louder.

There was one final accessory to release from the toybox. Alexa couldn’t help her mouth twitching up in just the naughtiest smile as she manipulated the controls, and raised it from its hiding place.

Long, thick and solid, the lime-green silicone dildo was carefully moulded and polished to look like a balloon: the sausage-like kind that could be twisted into a simple animal figure. It was housed on a frame much more substantial than the other toys, clearly including some kind of powered motor. And it was adorned with two round green balloons at its back end, mimicking huge testicles. They were genuine, lightweight balloons too, bobbing around slightly in the studio’s subtle air currents, in comical contrast with the dildo’s inert, steady state.

It was the audience’s empathetic titters, and squeaks of excitement, that prompted Mei Ling to look down once more between her legs. The sight of this neon ramrod pointing squarely towards her pussy made her heart leap, flustered and thrilled. She’d been expecting something similar, in truth - it would hardly be a Clown Pounder if she didn’t get a proper fucking, after all. But the wilfully silly design of it definitely imparted an extra frisson.

The dildo slid slowly forward, as Mei Ling continued to moan under the intense and intimate physical stimulation. She felt the warm, stiff tip of the plastic balloon-cock resting against her slit now, ready to plunge inside. Waiting for it to do so - teetering on the brink of orgasm, of what the French called the little death - she saw her GungeWorld story, her path to this point, flashing rapidly before her tightly-shut eyes.

Her first time was essentially a prank. A masterclass in naughty surprises and lies of omission.

You should go on this gameshow ;)

The message from Dylan had a video attached. He was a funny, fit and unapologetically kinky man, and after an enjoyable fling that ultimately fizzled out, the two of them had kept in touch.

Lmao, what the F,  she’d replied. Did not expect to find out about slime porn today!

It was only after the fourth time of watching the video through, fascinated and confused in equal measure, that the thought entered her head. What if I did?

Her first mistake, perhaps, had been saying in the initial email that a friend had sent her “a clip” - singular - of the show, and dared her to sign up. Alexa’s reply had pounced on this - saying it would be great to have her on, and even better if she could refrain from watching any more clips until the filming. Going in blind is much more fun!

Re-reading that email afterwards, Mei Ling realised the unwritten coda. To watch.

After perusing the range of waivers, she’d decided to be a little daring, and signed the one indicating she would be happy to take her clothes off. It had just looked so fun and sexy in the video - the amazing look of the goo against Aoife and Eve’s skin, the way they teased each other after every strip or slime forfeit. There was the possibility that calling Dylan’s bluff might just un-fizzle things between them - she missed him a little, in truth. And the fee was not to be sniffed at.

On the day of the show, she’d been mightily impressed by the facilities, and Alexa’s warm, caring welcome, even though it was impossible to shake the nerves. When it came time to take her place on the studio floor, she was guided towards a strange circular cart, like something from the waltzers at the fairground. It was placed in front of a door, adorned with glitzy golden question marks. Taking a seat, with a stomach full of butterflies, she must have been the only person in the studio who wasn’t aware of the device’s particular significance at GungeWorld. For the moment, at least.

She listened attentively to Alexa’s explanation. The game seemed simple enough. Five rounds of trivia questions, and after each round, Mei Ling would take a trip, through the door of mystery and around the GungeWorld mansion. Every wrong answer would mean some kind of forfeit being added on the way, or possibly she’d have to strip off a garment. But correct answers meant cash prizes, on top of her appearance fee.

At the end of the first round, she’d earned £70 and three forfeits, but remained fully clothed - not bad, she surmised. The audience whooped excitedly as the cart set off through the doors. Mei Ling’s eyes opened wide when she saw the scale of the set within.

Still, the trip was ultimately pretty tame. A quick stop in the bathroom first, a tiled corner of the set, and Mei Ling got showered in cold water from above for a few seconds. Then, passing under an overhead balcony, she experienced her first ever gunging - a healthy bucketful of blue slop poured over her head with relish. The audience delighted in her squealing.

Next up was the garden - and her mouth opened in worry as she saw a long pond full of green goop, with a track leading down into it. But this was a false alarm - she hadn’t activated that forfeit, so her cart simply trundled past it, taking her into the kitchen. Here, she did get another messy treat - three Stagehands dressed as chefs each pelted her in the face with a creamy pie, and she squeaked and spluttered, giving the audience something to cheer.

Finally, she went past a grand fireplace, with a large hollow inside. It barely even registered to her - the cart didn’t stop, and soon she was back through the door into the quizzing arena, Alexa and the audience applauding her for completing the trip. She slicked gunge back from her hair, took a deep breath, and got ready for round two.

This was the point when things started to head rapidly downhill.

The difficulty of the trivia questions began to crank sharply upwards, hurtling through tricky, and quickly reaching a plateau of downright unfair. In tandem, the audience’s enjoyment rapidly increased - as did the volume of Mei Ling’s reaction to each messy trip through the mansion.

By the time Alexa, grinning like a loon, sent Mei Ling away on her fifth sloppy journey with an extravagant wave of the arm, the poor newbie was already naked, plastered, humiliated and panting with exhaustion.

The final trip was carnage.

In the bathroom, Mei Ling was mercilessly drenched with a wave of icy water, leaving her nude, blushing body a blank canvas for more naughty glop. Which started straight away - she was immediately doused in jets of colourful foam, and rivers of gungey ‘shampoo’.

With nary a break, she rolled onwards underneath the balcony - and as she spun helplessly in the silly little vehicle, the laughing Stagehands unleashed a full fifteen buckets of thick, colourful gunge over her head and shoulders, the sheer splatteriness of it a sight to behold.

Into the garden, and time for Mei Ling to be dragged through the sloppy pond for a third time in this game. On this occasion, a thick cloud of pink cream had been sprayed onto its surface - her upper body was muffled with sticky foam, as everything below the waist was sunk into the liquid goop and pulled through it. Oh, and just for good measure, a large vat of slop sloshed brutally over her halfway through the dunking.

Weak and whimpering, Mei Ling entered the kitchen, and cowered at the sight of the Stagehands’ manic, intentful glares. They had to genuinely hustle to deliver their allocated slopping before Mei Ling’s cart left the room - thirty fat cream pies, slapped all over her upper body, with half a dozen buckets of warm, thick custard thrown in for good measure.

And then the fireplace. On her fourth go round, Mei Ling had finally been dragged in to the fateful hollow in the wall, and after an agonising ten-second pause, the gargantuan slime-vat hidden inside there had tipped, drenching her in a sticky orange torrent, overwhelming and excessive and absolutely too much gunge for a poor newbie.

This time, they did the same - except with two vats.

When Mei Ling emerged back through the mystery door, clusterfucked with shiny pink and purple gunk, she could barely think, let alone speak.

Because of the specific waiver she’d signed, the spectacular gunging had never become too explicit - no toys, or restraint, or messy groping. And she hadn’t succumbed to the urge that some models did when they discovered the slippery, sensual pleasure of it all, touching themselves as the slime rained down. It was far too embarrassing and shocking for all that, in the heat of the moment.

Although once she’d been slowly and carefully escorted to the shower, with a haze of steam and cleansing water enveloping her, it was a very different story.

She would later learn that this was by far the most mess that GungeWorld had ever unleashed upon a first-timer. “I’ve had ‘obliterate a virgin’ on my to-do list for a little while,” confessed Alexa. “You just drew the short straw. I really do apologise. But you were absolutely fantastic.”

In contrast, her second time had been friendly, playful, welcoming, and sweet.

She and Faye had been pitted against each other in a fairly typical scenario. They began on a brightly-lit and pastel-coloured set, each nestled in a comfortable inflatable armchair. The chairs stood on sturdy bases which were able to propel them a few feet forwards - and their occupants downwards, six feet through the air into an enormous, fluffy pit of pure whipped cream.

The simple game took place over ten trivia questions. Each round, both girls would answer the same question, alternating who went first. The second player had the advantage of copying their opponent’s answer, if they thought it was correct. A right answer awarded £50: a wrong one, and it was a shower of gunge from above, and a trip into the giant pie. They would also have to drag themselves out of the mire and climb the stairs to re-seat themselves: plus, pay a toll of one item of clothing on the way.

Mei Ling fluffed question two, and Faye did the same on question three, both enjoying a giggly sliming and dunking for their trouble, discarding their blouses as they climbed back to their perch. Question five was the first time that both beauties messed it up, and they exchanged excited little glances before the gunge fell and the chairs dumped them downwards with two loud splats.

When they emerged, thoroughly covered in cream, Faye immediately started the playful flirting, scooping up as much goo as she could and smearing it into Mei Ling’s laughing face. This was reciprocated, and there was a very enjoyable flurry of splattery, fluffy grappling before Alexa gently chided them into resuming the game. Mei Ling discarded her skirt on the way back up, while Faye made a different choice, letting her wonderful round jugs fall free.

Mei Ling next took a solo dunking, and had to go topless too - and then Faye enjoyed a creamy spill, discarding her skirt. This left two happy and horny girls sitting in very slippery seats, wearing nothing but sticky knickers, awaiting question eight. It was on a subject beyond them both, and the slime duly rained down before another creamy plunge.

The angle that the chairs dunked them from was carefully calculated to leave them close to each other in the giant sweet swamp. Once Mei Ling finally managed to stand, she was immediately assaulted by Faye’s utterly smouldering glare.

“Hey. Wanna make out?”

She was still on the same waiver as last time - no obligation to engage in anything sexual. But this was an invitation, not an obligation.

Mei Ling lunged forward, hungrily locking lips with Faye, feeling their sticky skin press together, caressing the redhead’s delicious curves, and feeling her own being stroked and teased in return. The taste of Faye’s warm mouth, and the sweet cream they were both smeared in, was utterly intoxicating.

Alexa left them to it for a little while, finally interjecting as Faye started to massage cream into Mei Ling’s breasts, making her whimper.

“Plenty of time for that yet…”

The two girls gave bashful smiles, slowly retreating to their perches, laughing as they peeled off their last remaining protection from the slop.

Question nine presented an interesting conundrum. Mei Ling knew the answer, and she knew Faye’s first response had been wrong. A correct answer would likely win her the game, and a cool £250 bonus cash prize. But ten feet away, in the other chair, the gorgeous New Zealander was eye-fucking her hard, taunting her, daring her to throw the game and get close in the lovely goop once more.

“Augh!” complained Mei Ling. “Stop it!”

She blurted out the correct answer, and Faye gave a huge hammy pout, mock-offended, before the splatter and the squelch kicked in. She booed Mei Ling sarcastically from the sloppy muck-pit below. “Clever clogs! Lame-o!”

Faye needn’t have worried, in the end. Before the final question, Alexa revealed some “higher stakes” - a slime-dispensing apparatus of some kind, all reservoirs and nozzles, descending over the centre of the pit. And just for good measure, a team of Stagehands entered the set, trailing catering trolleys behind them.

Inevitably, the final question was utterly unguessable. And very soon, with audible delight, the two contestants braced themselves for a final, extra-long shower of neon slime, accompanied by the rude whump of pies against their naked, reclined forms.

By the time they were actually dunked, no more words needed to be exchanged. Faye and Mei Ling seemed to find each other before they even found the surface, emerging entwined and ravenous, their sticky mouths exchanging saliva and hot breath, their hands questing and squeezing and playing.

Even the first splashes of gunge from above, a plethora of rainbow-coloured streams swinging in splashy, gooey arcs over their heads, barely interrupted them. They only laughed more in between their deep, lustful snogs, propelling each other towards a heady, beautiful plateau of sheer sticky pleasure.

Enveloped in the foamy gunge, they came in tandem, hands between each other’s legs, somehow managing to hold each other upright while gasping for breath and shuddering in kinky joy.

Mei Ling’s muscles turned to jelly. She felt as if she could sleep for a year. But Faye was a seasoned pro when it came to sloppy sex, and it turned out her stamina wasn’t exhausted yet.

With a filthy chuckle, Faye grabbed Mei Ling around the waist, then fell forward on top of her. A huge wave of creamy white gunge was expelled under Mei Ling’s back, as she wailed with delight. They fell awkwardly, bodies slipping about in the slime, but soon Faye was firmly on top of her, their warm breasts pressed together, their tongues busy once again.

Over the next couple of minutes, Faye slowly brought her mouth downwards, inevitably, inexorably, towards Mei Ling’s pussy, kissing every inch of sloppy, delicious flesh she encountered along the way. Thin streams of sensual, slippery gunge continued to splash from above - at first over Faye’s back, then as she descended, over Mei Ling’s exposed face and body, hidden in their cosy hollow within the messy mire.

She surrendered herself to it, letting her juicy buttocks squish against the cream as they writhed, letting her hands play with her rock-hard nipples, rubbing gunge into them as Faye licked and sucked and teased.

The first flicker of Faye’s tongue against her engorged clit sent a sharp cry through the studio air, one that made Alexa bite her lip in satisfaction, looking down into the giant pie from the ledge above.

There was an unspoken conversation of glances between the boss-lady and her pie-toting Stagehands. Hold fire. It won’t take long.

It didn’t. Within half a minute, Mei Ling was cumming hard, groaning deeply and shuddering in ecstasy. Alexa’s hand was held aloft.

She allowed the girl to enjoy maybe ten seconds of unfettered orgasm, before her hand dropped. And on that signal, Mei Ling was treated to a fast, brutal and incredibly sloppy pie salvo, a barrage to her rosy cheeks and jiggling chest.

That sensation came back to Mei Ling, in idle moments and snooze-alarm dreams, for weeks afterwards.

And now she was here. A similar situation to the last one, in a way, but with so many important differences.

This wasn’t a double-act. This was her show, her very own filthy degradation, her stand-up special, her solo album. Her chance to out-slut the other sluts, to pledge her allegiance to the pie gods, to lick her mistress’s boots and then ask for more. Her lucky break, her first time being plucked out of the crowd, her deviant lottery ticket.

As Alexa finally steered the firm plastic ramrod into her sopping, quivering pussy, Mei Ling simply melted.

She’d never been one to show off for her lovers, to make big, exaggerated pornstar noises. She liked them to know they were doing it right - to reduce her to an insensible, animalistic wreck, as some of her more skilled paramours had done.

While Mei Ling started to climax, just about as hard as she ever had before, the studio mics picked up a delicious burble of nonsense - helpless splutters, feral growls, half-formed expletives.

The rigid toy steadily carried out its assigned mission, nestling deep into Mei Ling’s warm cunt, gently thrusting back and forth. And Alexa’s finger hovered over the button - the same one as before, the trigger for those silly giant clown-hands, at the end of the conveyor belts that remained fully stacked with pies.

She let Mei Ling splutter and moan for a few seconds more, then thrust her finger forward.

The first smack of cold cream against Mei Ling’s face made every muscle in her body stiffen. Her ongoing orgasm leapt to a new level of breathtaking intensity.

Another flan smashed into her cheeks, white goo globbing down her jiggling breasts. The sensations rushing up and down her spine were astonishing - the delicious humiliation splattering into her face, and the raw carnal stimulation of her pussy and arsehole, feeding into each other in perfect harmony.

For the moment, there were no further surprises. There didn’t need to be. Mei Ling was steadily vibed, flanned, and fucked, bound and splayed and helpless, for close to a minute. It was utter bliss.

After she’d taken a full three dozen creamings to the face, the assault finally relented. While she spat, licking her lips and gasping for breath, she felt the intensity of the toys below start to slacken, as well. She could feel herself starting to come down from the heavens, a graceful descent, waves of pleasure still coursing through her body.

“Guhhh… mmm, wow…”

At the sound of Alexa’s voice, she stiffened a little. But her mistress was clearly trying to be reassuring.

“Brava, Mei Ling, brava! What a clown-show. Spectacular doesn’t begin to describe it. Let’s get you a little more comfy… I think a good rest would be well-deserved.”

Mei Ling felt the pads of the chair, and their attached manacles, move once more. Her arms began to sink, eventually coming to rest out to her sides. She was still firmly clasped in, but the position felt a lot more natural, and her muscles sighed with relief. Her legs, too, were given a break, the pads descending to the floor. Though they didn’t meet in the middle - her thighs remained rather open, but she was grateful not to be quite so dramatically hoisted and splayed.

The red ball and the butt-plug had both ceased vibrating, and the latter was carefully withdrawn, Mei Ling giving a little shudder and yelp as it slipped out of her behind. The dildo also slid out of her throbbing, satisfied pussy, its shaft sheened in her sweet juices. All of the assembled apparatus was quietly drawn back into the series of floor panels, and Mei Ling was left in peace.

The crowd’s hearty applause barely registered to her, as she laid back in the chair, concentrating on her breathing, happy and satiated.

Sally knew what she had to say next. But she didn’t want to hurry it. Instead, she just enjoyed the sight of their handiwork for a while, watching Mei Ling’s chest rise and fall, globs of cream slowly oozing down that fit, athletic body. She and Alexa shared some pleased, conspiratorial glances.

After a minute or so, she decided it was time.

“Marvellous. Simply marvellous,” she cooed. “But… I have to say…”

This pricked Mei Ling’s ears up. Surely not. What more could they possibly do to her?

But then… she was still bound into the chair, wasn’t she? Now she realised it had to be for some purpose. So she listened intently.

“What is it, Sally?”

“It’s just… you know, my very favourite type of clown show… is one where there’s a little troupe. Messing about together. Getting up to antics.”

Now she understood. And despite her orgasmic exhaustion, her heart fluttered with excitement at the very thought of it.

“I have to agree, darling. And thankfully, we can make that happen, can’t we?”

Sally nodded happily, as Alexa called out towards Mei Ling. “Oh sweetie… are you ready to meet some clown friends? Just for one last funny routine?”

The gooey girl in the chair gave a trepidatious giggle. “Um… okay!”

“Perfect. Send them in!”

IX: Down to Clown

The comedic music ramped up again, and Mei Ling cast her eyes towards the wings of the set. The first thing she saw was the gleaming metal edge of a catering trolley - unsurprisingly, it was fully laden with large, gooey pies. And behind it, steadily pushing, was a beautiful clown-boy.

His face, naturally, was painted white, adorned with similar colourful touches to her own (now-destroyed) makeup, and a round red nose like hers. He wore a goofy, curly wig, its bright green locks shaking as he walked. But below all that, there was a bare chest, with lightly tanned skin, a delicate coating of auburn hair, and beautifully defined muscles.

The chest wasn’t entirely bare, in fact - a pair of red elasticated braces looped over his shoulders, holding up the high waistband of his harlequin-patterned shorts.

They were quite unlike any other shorts she’d seen before, though, what with the large diamond-shaped opening at the crotch, through which Josh’s enormous, stiff cock and firm balls were openly visible.

The sight of it made her eyes widen, and her thighs tighten.

Josh was followed by two more handsome lads, both dolled up in the same silly yet obscene outfit, pushing their own trolleys of sweet treats. There was Mickey, a lean Black man with handsome green eyes and a kind smile. And there was Pablo, the most musclebound of the three, with his olive-coloured skin and coarse, black body hair.

Mei Ling didn’t even know their names yet. But she did know that she wanted their strong hands all over her, and more besides.

They didn’t say a word as they approached, encircling her prone form, leaving their creamy ammunition within easy reach. Mei Ling met their eyes in turn, giving the most alluring, filthy smile she could muster. Wolf-whistles from the crowd rang out across the studio.

“Hello boys.”

Matching her hungry smirk, each of the men reached behind them, picking up a pie and hefting it with intent. It made her squirm in delight just to see it.

“Oh dear! Whatever are you planning to do with those?” she squealed girlishly, as if she hadn’t already been hit with at least a hundred of the things.

The three clown-boys stepped closer, looming over her, smouldering and silent. Pablo and Mickey flanked her, standing either side of her reclined chest, just below her spread arms. And Josh nestled himself between her thighs.

Watching each other, carefully co-ordinating their timing, they hefted the sloppy flans upwards. Mei Ling keened a high note of slutty excitement. “Eee-eeep!”

Two pies collided with a mighty squelch into her face, and the third one smacked hard against her bare pussy. Her legs shuddered violently.

Josh cast his mind back to Alexa’s briefing before the show.

“Now remember, boys. It’s called the Clown Pounder. Not the Clown Cuddler, or the Clown Caresser. Whoever’s in that chair, I want you to be a little rough with them. Not nasty - but no gentle teases or sweet kisses, either. They need hard splats, a mouth full of cock, and a good firm fucking.”

Alexa’s they was intentional, here. Sure, with GungeWorld’s cast demographics, the fateful seat was more likely to be occupied by a hot femme. But on the day, she wanted no-one to be safe. She’d prepared a different routine of creamy assaults and sensual toys in case the Clown Pounder was occupied by a boy. And she’d chosen these three lads for the finale, as she knew they were comfortable fucking guys as well as girls.

That wasn’t entirely uncommon at GungeWorld, seeing as it already appealed to the sexually adventurous and open-minded. Sally had bought a custom sign for the office kitchen that made Alexa chuckle: You don’t have to be bisexual to work here, but it helps.

Mickey and Pablo both picked up another pie, and Josh this time scooped one up in each hand.

Mei Ling felt the firm press of a palm against her forehead, guiding her head to the left. Once she assented, she immediately felt the head of Mickey’s cock pressing against her cream-smeared lips with clear intent.

She wasted no time, moaning softly in delight as she opened her mouth and thrust her lips over his prick, slicking it with white goo and hot saliva, thrusting hungrily back and forth like a good little clown-whore.

But then, after a few seconds, Mickey bucked his hips back, suddenly withdrawing his member from her mouth. As Mei Ling let out a helpless “ah” of surprise, he pied her hard in the face, calorific gunk filling her open mouth. At the same time, Josh brought his double-handful down to splatter spectacularly on her thick thighs.

She didn’t even get a chance to spit out the white glop before her head was turned towards Pablo, and he thrust between her lips. The taste of his dick against her tongue, coated in sugary cream, was intoxicating. But once again, it was short-lived. He pulled out of her mouth just as Mickey had, and slapped her in the face with another flan, while Josh delivered another splurge to her aching, hungry quim.

Her head was assertively turned again, and Mickey got another go in Mei Ling’s warm, drooling mouth. She was beginning to moan, a muted “mmm-mmm” emerging around the stiff muscle filling her face. Mei Ling always knew she had a submissive side, but she was shocked by how wonderful this felt, being passed from cock to cock like a helpless little fucktoy.

Another pie filled her face, along with one bursting against her cute belly from Josh. It was blissful agony, knowing he was standing between her legs for a reason, waiting for the gorgeous moment he’d finally plunge himself deep inside her. She hungrily slurped at Pablo’s prick for a second time, saliva and slop oozing from her lips. He withdrew again, and she gasped happily through yet another splat to the cheeks. And then it was finally time.

One more cool, sloppy pie smothered her pussy’s twitching lips. And then, gripping Mei Ling’s hips, Josh thrust his cock firmly into her snatch.

“Oh ye-eee-esss!”

It was everything she had hoped for. He was wide and sturdy, massaging her within, expertly angled to set her wailing and gasping with delight.

Mickey permitted Mei Ling a few moments to loudly proclaim her ecstasy, before he once again manoeuvred her head, slipping his member assertively into her mouth. And this time, he didn’t withdraw after a few pleasurable thrusts.

She understood his intention, and expertly employed her soft lips and firm, lithe tongue, trying to pleasure him as intensely as she could, moaning all the while.

Her groans of delight heightened when Pablo splattered his next pie directly onto her right breast, giving it a firm, sticky grope, and repeating the trick on the other side. 

As Josh continued to pound away between her legs, making her spine tingle with every squishy thrust of his mighty cock, Mei Ling heard grunting from Mickey, and felt him start to shudder. A few seconds later, she felt his cum start to spurt powerfully into her mouth. It tasted like heaven. She gratefully slurped down every last salty drop, while Pablo splurged her gorgeous tits with more cream.

Mickey’s legs shook gently as he slid his penis out of Mei Ling’s smiling, gasping mouth. They locked eyes, and she looked up at him with the most devilish, filthy smile. But she was soon distracted by Josh noticeably upping his intensity, fucking her with relentless strength and vigour, gripping her sticky hips tightly.

“Unh! Yes…”

Pablo’s turn, now. He drew her head towards her, and she hungrily took his shaft into her mouth, insensible with horniness, ravenous for more spunk. Through her muffled, drooling groans, she massaged his rock-hard cock with her talented mouth, and it wasn’t long before Pablo reached the point of no return.

“Nggh, I’m gonna…”

“Mmmph, glp, blff…”

His hot cum spilled over her cheeks and tongue just as Mickey slapped her breasts with another filthy splurge, and she shuddered in joy.

Pablo withdrew his still-firm dick, breathless and satiated. Mei Ling continued to babble, her mouth now able to form vowel sounds, but her synapses not functioning enough to conjure coherent words. Josh was quite literally fucking her brains out.

“Fuh, gaaah! Yeee-mmm-hhh…”

He’d shown impressive stamina so far, but the sight and sound of this gorgeous, moaning, writhing, pie-covered, cock-loving clown slut, and the feel of her warm, tight cunt, was incredibly powerful. Glancing at his two colleagues, ensuring they were properly armed with a pie in each hand, he finally permitted himself to let loose.

Mei Ling sensed Josh’s motion slowing to a climactic series of thrusts, and her eyes rolled back in her head.

“Aaah, aaah, aaah…”

First, she felt the gorgeous stickiness of Josh’s cum, a handsomely large load erupting into her. And barely half a second later, the decadent sensation of cold cream pies bursting with force over her face and tits.

The explosion of cream was matched with an explosion of ecstasy, as Mei Ling rushed headlong into a fierce, heartstopping climax. Her limbs felt beyond her control, juddering in their restraints as blasts of pleasure rippled through them. Spitting gunk from her mouth, she let out a series of low, primal groans.

“Haaanh, haaanh, haaanh…”

She felt Josh slip gently out of her with a satisfied sigh. And soon after, that beautiful slow ooze of his cum from her still-twitching slit, pooling on the gunk-smeared leather of the seat.

It took a while for her to regain some composure and regulate her breathing, though the campfire-warmth of her orgasm still radiated around her body. All the while, the audience showed their loud appreciation, with whistles and whoops and cheers and applause.

Mei Ling lay there, still bound and helpless, but utterly blissed-out, smiling at the sound of the crowd. She purred softly with satisfaction - the cat who got the cream, quite literally.

Alexa and Sally joined in, though their slow clap clued the audience in that they wanted to speak now, and the rapt applause tailed off into a quiet hubbub. They wandered closer to the scene of the messy carnage, standing just outside of this perverted circle of entertainers.

“Wonderful,” said Alexa. “Simply wonderful. Wouldn’t you agree, darling?”

“A tour de force. What a way to demonstrate the art of clowning.”

Over in the chair, Mei Ling gave a quiet sigh, happy at the praise.

“Boys! You are a fabulously talented supporting cast. But I don’t think there’s any doubt who was the star of the show.”

Now it was the male clowns’ turn to politely applaud Mei Ling, bowing a little in deference.

“And she really did get splattered, didn’t she?” said Sally. “My word. What a mess!”

“Indeed. Maybe we should clean her off a little?”

Oh no. This didn’t sound good. She just wanted to sit here, swaddled in her gorgeous, sticky cocoon, for a while longer. Blinking goo from her eyes, she looked pleadingly at the hosts, and tried to think on her feet.

“Uh… it’s… I’m fine, actually…”

“Don’t worry Mei Ling, it’s no trouble!” replied Alexa, in her usual brash tone. “Have you got anything that might help, boys?”

“Yes, actually,” said Josh, reaching onto the bottom rack of his empty dessert trolley, and lifting the handle of a blue plastic bucket, holding it in front of his chest. The other two did the same, and Mei Ling let out little meek cries of protest. “No, please…”

“We’ve got these buckets of ice water. Will they do?”

“Ice?” Mei Ling’s face was a picture of outrage - somewhat undermined, of course, by being covered in cream, with a huge red nose in the middle. “No, don’t! I’ve been… I’ve been a good little…”

“Sounds perfect! Ready? In three… two… one…”

The lads swung their buckets back and forth as Alexa counted down, Mei Ling squirming for her dear life, trying to ready herself for the freezing rush, the prickly pain of the ice water.

“Splash ‘er!”

“Gaaaah!”

Mei Ling braced herself, every muscle tensed, steeling herself for the moment of impact.

Which didn’t come.

“Huh? Wha…?”

She opened her eyes and saw it: a billowing cloud of rainbow-coloured paper confetti, fluttering through the air above her body.

From the stands, the biggest laugh of the evening resonated through the studio. Mei Ling felt the morsels of paper start to settle softly against her, sticking to the cream. And she began to laugh too.

“Aha! Ahaha, a-haa haa haa…”

“Gotcha!” teased Alexa. “Oldest clown trick in the book!”

From this point, Mei Ling barely registered a word that was said, as the two hosts wrapped up the segment and elicited yet more enthusiastic plaudits for their magically messy clown. She was too busy laughing, loud and long, full of delight and relief and satisfaction.

Even after her restraining chair rotated back into the wall, and the Stagehands approached to help her get free and clean, she was still giggling with joy.

Fittingly enough, it was Missy who undid her manacles, while another girl stood ready with a towel and fluffy gown. But at this moment, there was no cocky flirting from Missy - just a steely smile, and a look of genuine admiration.

“How was that?”

Mei Ling let out one last chuckle.

“Made ‘em laugh,” she replied. “And that’s the main thing, right?”

Fin

“I heard on TikTok that custard is good for the complexion…”

When I started this blog, I was in need of an avatar, and I found my milkshake girl on a free image site. She was a cutie, of course, but just sipping a nice thick shake never quite felt like enough.

So I finally got around to commissioning a much more appropriate version from BatNipsForever, who draws wonderful wet and slimy superhero girls. Without their inspiration, I would probably never have written House of Mirrors.

If you haven’t yet, I urge you to check out BatNips’ work on Twitter and DeviantArt - the full-length comics December Rain and Match Made in Elysium are personal favourites.

While I’m here, a little writing update - it’s steady progress. Mei Ling vs. the Clown Pounder inches towards being finished (and I think it’s good), though I’m concentrating on a commission for the moment.

I’ve also thought about mixing things up a little for the posts in between stories, rather than just giving progress updates. Say, short essays focusing on a particular aspect of gooey erotica, or themed recommendations for writers, producers or performers I like. Perhaps I’ll test the waters, and you can let me know if it’s interesting.

Anyway - hope you enjoy my new look, and hope you’re keeping well. Sincerest thanks, as always, for letting me gently stroke your inbox.

Daisy xx

Hello, my brandy-soaked puddings,

As 2023 draws to an end, I wanted to send a little festive thank you to all subscribers of the Custard Pit.

It was a big leap of faith for me to start sharing my messy stories, but I’m so glad I took the plunge. It’s definitely helped sharpen my writing skills, as well as providing some beer money every month (thank you so much)! The kind comments on the stories, and the constructive and insightful feedback, are also sincerely appreciated.

Best of all, though, has been connecting more with people in this playful, silly, enthusiastic community. I’ve had so many friendly and fascinating chats about all aspects of Wam - origins of kink, favourite stories, practical sploshing tips, TV gunge memories, writing techniques, messy game design, intersecting fetishes, roleplaying advice…

After being a slightly ashamed lurker in the messy world for so long, it’s been very freeing to acknowledge and embrace my love of slimy kink, even under a pen name. Huge thanks and big hugs to all the creative, funny, caring, friends I’ve met online this year.

Looking back - and ahead

Since May this year, I have published about 178,000 words of gungey, sexy fiction onto the internet. That is essentially somewhere between two and three entire novels. Most of it was written from scratch this year, and the older stories often needed lots of editing or outright rewriting, too.

When launching the site, I threw myself in two-footed. I wanted to set out a body of work that showcased my style. And after getting a really positive reception, I wanted to repay the faith of my early supporters and subscribers, with new and exciting content.

My intention is not to brag - although I am very proud of that output, and I think I’ve married quality to quantity. It is more to acknowledge that this workrate is absolutely not sustainable, and I have to slow down a little. My mental health has been up and down recently, and burnout is a real thing. I have a full-time job as well as other hobbies, and I need time for self-care, looking after my home, family and friends…

So, what does that mean for you? This is a subscription site, of course. Many of you are direct patrons, and have helped me pay the bills, at a time when your disposable income may be limited too. So it’s on me to be open and honest.

First and foremost - I will still be writing and publishing! This has been a hobby of mine for literally two decades, and I don’t plan to stop any time soon. I’ve got some good stuff down this past week. It’s fun, it’s a creative challenge, and it turns me on!

However, the monthly schedule of free/paid/free/paid will not continue - it just can’t be done. It’ll have to be as and when ready - though I will keep you posted via friendly little progress updates.

Here’s what’s in the works at the moment: Mei Ling vs the Clown Pounder is well over halfway complete. A treat for the pie fans, certainly, and the bondage lovers. Anything else might get into spoiler territory. ETA early 2024.

I’m also working on commissioned stories - some private, and some that may be published on the site, though I won’t share any details until those are complete.

Next year I’d also like to return to Exposé with Rainbow Mika, my second Street Fighter fanfic on AO3 - it bugs me that it’s not finished, and I have a ton of filthy, sloppy ideas. And I’d like to keep up both Lovely Jubblies and Grudge Match as ongoing series.

So, those are my cards, and now they’re on the table. If you feel a Paid subscription isn’t the right choice for you after reading this - absolutely no hard feelings, and I hope you’ll stay to read the free stories! 

If you’d like to keep supporting - thank you so much! You really are my special faves. I would lovingly dunk you all simultaneously into a giant trifle, if only I could.

Until next year

Wishing you a happy and peaceful festive season, whatever and however you are celebrating. Take care of yourselves and each other. I’ll leave you with a bit of festive nonsense that was rattling around my head this week.

On the twelfth day of Christmas, my goo love gave to me…

Twelve stunners cumming,
Eleven pies with icing,
Ten horny squeakings,
Nine games with chance in,
Eight great big milkers,
Seven swamps of pudding,
Six heaps to play in…
FIIIVE GUUUNGIIINGS!
Four falling girls,
Three squelch-friends,
Two purple dunks,
And a large squish in the panties!

Daisy xx

I’m delighted to say that Daisy D. Duncan’s Pit of Custard now has over 100 free subscribers! Honestly, I never would have expected that when I launched the site. I am so grateful for your support, and hope to keep entertaining you for many moons to come.

As a thank-you, I’ve removed the paywall from “A Deep Dive Into Gunge”, so it’s now free to read for everyone. I’m really proud of this story, and I hope you’ll enjoy it.

A Deep Dive Into Gunge

Please don’t worry, lovely Paid subscribers, you will still be getting your money’s worth - some absolutely shameless gooey filth is on the way for your reading pleasure, very probably in time for Christmas.

Have fun and wash thoroughly,

Daisy xx

Hello my banoffee beauties,

Lovely Jubblies continues! A free tale for everyone. (The first story in the series is here.)

This is basically a ground-up rewrite of my original LJ#2, which I wasn’t happy with. It was too close a retread of the first game, and I think it needed a few more devious surprises to keep the contestants guessing. I hope you enjoy meeting Alianne and Robin, too. We’ll get to know them better in future stories - this particular game is more about splatting than chatting ;)

If you haven’t signed up for free email updates: you cheeky devil! Sound the gunge klaxon! Once you’ve wiped the slime from your eyes, please do pop your email in the box below. If I could reach 100 subscribers by Christmas, it’d be a great present! (I asked Santa for a chocolate fondue hot-tub, but I’m on his naughty list. At least I hope I am.)

I’m working hard on the next Premium story too. Here’s a three-emoji sneak preview: 🤡🍰🐱

Much love, Daisy xx

“You may remember last episode, we tried out a new game. We thought it might be popular. But honestly, we were not prepared for how much you horndogs loved it. So it’s back - and here to stay. Welcome, one and all, to Lovely Jubblies.”

Just like last time, Alexa’s voice-over was accompanied by a close-up of a gorgeous, heavy bust, with toffee-brown skin and large, perky nipples. The legend BOOB CAM sat in red letters in the screen’s lower-left corner.

Panning up revealed the sly smirk of Alianne, a tall, broad-shouldered woman with an air of confidence about her, and a wonderful bushy shock of coily afro hair. In her two previous appearances, she’d tied it back into a tight bun, but she much preferred her natural look - even if she knew it was likely to need some serious TLC after a trip to GungeWorld. She’d been pleasantly surprised to find out that they provided extra haircare expenses for Black models.

The audience cheered as the cameras took in the wider set, Alexa holding court in the centre, dressed in her trademark scarlet ringmaster garb. Two glass cubicles sat against a curved wall, both topped by a cuboid of brightly-coloured slime. These were equipped with fancy rotating mechanisms, enabling the backstage girls to load more slimy payloads into the containers as needed.

Sitting in the other tank, wearing a flirty smile and nothing else, was a non-binary cutie named Robin. They were darker-skinned and shorter than Alianne, black hair cropped into an almost military short back and sides. Subtle but enticing curves, too, and plump pear-shaped breasts ripe for the splatting.

The gunge tanks were not the only exciting thing in view, of course. Two recessed tracks extended from the chairs in the tanks towards a round pit of oozy pink gunk, set into the middle of the studio floor. Large, blocky, transparent containers of slime hovered above its lip and its centre, and standing to one side was a pedestal, housing a big obvious red button.

And standing by each tank was a duo of helpers in jumpsuits, their stainless steel catering trolleys stacked high with creamy cakes and confections, of many different flavours, colours and consistencies.

Alexa remembered pitching the game to these two kinky beauties, in a quiet pub near King’s Cross. She didn’t tell them much more than ‘naked and very messy’. A lie of omission, for sure, but it had got them into the tanks, and that was the main thing.

“It’s the game where buxom, bouncy beauties compete to win delicious prizes. And I am delighted to say we’ve got two absolute crackers ready to play this evening. Firstly, please welcome Robin!”

The contestant acknowledged the crowd’s warm reception with a polite wave and a giggle. Robin had been in the audience for a couple of filmings last series, encouraged along by a friend. But they’d avoided being dragged up to play a messy game - a suddenly-catapulted black forest gateau to the face (Alexa’s little treat for the entire front row) was the extent of Robin’s messy experience. But if they were at all nervous about being sat in a gunge tank for the first time, it didn’t show.

“So nice to have you here tonight. Tell us a bit about yourself, darling. Where are you from, what do you do, sort of thing?”

“Um, okay! I’m Robin, I’m from Leicester, and I’m a freelance writer.”

“You can plug your stuff if you want - don’t be shy!”

Robin laughed. “Sure! So, I’ve written a couple of books, and at the moment I write a column for XYZ.net, giving relationship advice for kinky people.”

They gestured at their surroundings with a smirk. “So this feels appropriate…”

In response, Alexa put on a mock-offended look. “Whatever could you mean? Nothing kinky here, just good clean gameshow fun!”

“Oh, of course…”

“And speaking of clean - at least for now - let’s welcome your opponent. Hi, Alianne!”

Alexa bounded over, full of enthusiasm, to the opposite gunge tank, as its occupant smiled and waved to the crowd, the mood still cheery and light.

“How are you doing, my darling?”

“Not too bad! Uh… surrounded by gunge and pies, which always makes for an interesting evening… at least it did last time.”

“You betcha! Same question - can you introduce yourself, my lovely?”

“Alright - well I’m a Dalston girl, born and bred,” she began, turning the cockney-dial up on her accent for a moment. “And I have a hospitality and entertainment business - we’re called Immense, and we run events all across East London.”

“Impressive! Well, I hope tonight you’ll enjoy our hospitality, and provide us some entertainment!”

Alexa would have happily had Alianne on every week - but she was a busy woman, and fetish play was more of a hobby, so she remained an occasional booking. Still, Alexa relished every chance she got to cover this imposing hottie in delicious slop.

“I suppose you’ll also want to know how we play the game?”

Alianne just gave a polite nod, which was Alexa’s cue to begin her teasing spiel.

“Let’s start with the star prize, shall we? Or rather, I should say, prizes. This evening’s victorious competitor will earn themselves a weekend trip to Paris for two - with five-star hotel accommodation, and a meal at the Michelin-starred Fleur de Pavé!”

This got a genuinely impressed reaction from within both gunge tanks, and from the audience too.

“But that of course pales in comparison with the other trip they’ll be taking - much sooner. That’s right - our lucky winner will make a short but exciting journey across the studio floor, ending with a delightful plunge into the gooey, gorgeous Slop Drop!”

The response from the contestants was a little more confused this time, rather understandably - the winner gets dunked?

Alexa had instructed the contestants to hold off on watching last month’s episode, just so it was more of a surprise. And now she had the chance to lay it on thick, just to really underline this game’s daft, inverted premise.

“Nothing but the best for our triumphant victor! Think you can beat Robin and earn yourself a lovely, slimy bath, Alianne?”

She laughed, embracing the silliness. “I’ll do my best! Who wouldn’t want that, eh?”

“How about you, Robin - excited to try and win your first-ever gunk dunking?”

“Oh, very excited now,” they smirked, one eyebrow cocked. “I love the colour.”

“It’d look great on you, that’s for sure. But how are you going to win that luscious, liquid star prize? Well, it’s fairly simple. I’ll give our two players a category, and they’ll take turns to name something that fits. Succeed, and they’ll not only add £5 to their prize pool, but they’ll also get a delicious treat - a big creamy pie, splatted right in the boobs.”

More tittering and snickering abounded. “It’s what we named the game after, folks! If your answer isn’t in the category, you repeat an answer, or you take longer than five seconds - that’s a miss I’m afraid. No squishy-titty fun for you - but the pies will roll over until someone gets an answer!

“And of course, I doubt it will have escaped anyone’s attention that there is also some gunge perched above our gorgeous friends’ heads. Certain answers in the category are Jokers - name one of those, and it’s an extra £50 in the prize pool - but more importantly, a refreshing shower of slime. Won’t that just be delightful?”

Robin and Alianne were leaning in now, heartily agreeing with Alexa from their soon-to-be-sloppy little nooks.

“The first to find three Jokers will be today’s lucky winner, and we already know what that means. That’s it, no more rules - I imagine you’re both raring to go, aren’t you?”

The two beauties nodded, and put their game-faces on - but then met each other’s eyes, and couldn’t help giggling a little more.

“Well then! All that remains is for me to give you the category - Alianne will answer first. Alianne, please can you name me: a country that has played in the women’s football World Cup!”

The patented tense gameshow music kicked in, and the crowd began murmuring in quiet excitement. “England!”

A sharp dinging noise confirmed that it was a sensible idea to start with the obvious ones. Alianne’s nervous smile grew wider as one of her assigned Stagehands - already armed in preparation - leaned in.

She gave a yelp as she felt the sticky spank of cream, cool but not too cold, full against her left breast, then smeared naughtily over to her right. Her beautiful, full jugs sat slightly apart on her chest, and the motion set them wobbling deliciously.

There was no time to dwell on Alianne’s gooey reward though - as soon as the dinging bell had sounded, Alexa had already turned towards Robin, wanting to keep the game fast and the stooges flustered.

They gave another hopefully-safe answer: “Brazil!”

It was safe in the sense of being correct - but the jaunty, circus-music riff that immediately played over the speakers indicated Robin had hit a Joker.

The crowd laughed at their sharp intake of breath and sudden upwards glance of panic. Just before the goo sloshed down, the sharp-witted Stagehand quickly treated Robin’s firm puppies to a creamy splurging.

“Unf… aaagh!”

Robin’s calm energy, it would be fair to say, was somewhat disrupted by this surprise. Their legs wiggled in alarm as bright green gunge flowed, thick and silky, in a relentless dome over their short hair, questing down that lovely body and immediately rendering it alluringly goopy.

While the gunge tank emptied itself over Robin, Alexa briskly turned to Alianne, as if nothing exciting was happening in the opposite tank. It took Alianne a moment to even realise she was being asked for an answer, as she was very much enjoying the green sloppy action across the floor.

“Oh! Um… oh god, Italy?”

She earned another nice big sloppy pie to the tits, and wiggled a little in her chair, waiting to see how Robin would recover.

Not well, it turned out. Wiping their face and panting, they could hardly believe it was their turn again. “Hold on! What? How am I supposed…?”

They were interrupted by a buzzer, more giggles from the audience at the sight of this colourful hottie flailing and complaining in the tank. “No answer from Robin! Alianne, can you take advantage?”

“Spain?”

Correct, and that meant a rollover. Alianne bit her lip, naughtily excited, as her prize-givers collaborated on a great sticky pie-bra, pushing her knockers together and smearing them shamelessly in caramel-tinged goop.

Finally, Robin had gathered themself, though they seemed rather unsure of their next answer. “Um… Germany, surely?”

“Surely indeed,” responded Alexa. Robin’s sigh of relief was interrupted by a louder sigh of gentle arousal, their nipples being smeared in more cool cream. “Mph…”

They traded a few more correct answers - France, squish, USA, splurge, Argentina, squelch, Japan, splat. Alianne took the pies like a pro, looking down at the smeary, sticky white mess on her chest with a wicked smirk. It was clearly a little more intense for Robin, who gave little squeaks each time, and played fascinated hands through the glop that was quickly piling up on their firm thighs.

It was only getting more difficult now, and Alianne nearly ran out of time before having a brainwave. “Ooh, Norway are good!”

That carnival riff sounded again, to the audience’s great pleasure, and Alianne claimed her first joker. Once again, a smartly-delivered flan to the breasts arrived just before the gushing wave of thick, lukewarm orange goo.

She laughed in shock at the impact against her beautiful, full hair - instantly feeling it get matted down into a lurid helmet. Her laughter only continued as the slop flowed, a weak giggle of embarrassment emerging from under the plentiful gungey torrent. At GungeWorld, even a “normal” sliming meant dozens of litres, and by the time it was done, the sides of the tank and the floor in front of Alianne were both slathered in bright, liquid tangerine.

Not to mention the bedraggled girl, of course, whose delicious curves were well-streaked in neon slop. She ran her hands through her knotted, sticky hair, making a playful little “yucky!” face, but kept her head high, wanting to keep up with the breakneck pace of this silly, silly game.

“That’s levelled things up!” enthused Alexa. “£85 plays £70 - give us another one, Robin?”

They managed to do so, naming Sweden and earning another cool flan, sensually massaged into their bust. They bit their lip as they caught the eye of the jumpsuited Stagehand, Missy, who seemed to be particularly enjoying her job. Missy simply blew a subtle kiss in return, and winked.

Next, the dripping Alianne continued the Scandinavian theme, guessing Finland - wrongly, it turned out. That enabled Robin to claim a first double-splatting with Denmark. They squirmed quietly through the rude, creamy smears against their boobs, catching the creamy mush in their open hands as it fell into their lap.

“The prize money’s level - come on, let’s find some more Jokers and get this show on the road!”

This proved easier said than done. Common sense was enough to get a lot of the easier answers in this category, but neither were big football fans, so the knowledge was lacking. Which meant some wrong answers or hesitations sprinkled among the correct ones - and that meant some tasty rollover pieings.

First, Alianne was treated to a brace of banoffee splats to the bust, giggling in glee as they were raunchily rubbed over her huge, jiggly puppies, the Stagehands seemingly getting cheekier with it every time. Robin shuddered through the sticky impact of a particularly lovely chocolate-drenched pie - then after Alianne missed again, earned another double.

They watched the smiling tormentors approach, tensed, tucking their flat hands cutely under their thighs.

“Oomph, fucking hell!” This particular pair of confections was devilishly cold, laced with large wet globs of ice-cream. And just to add to the shock, Missy got outrageously handsy with the cool goo, massaging it into Robin’s bust with a lustful squeeze, making their cheeks hot with flustered pleasure, and only further stiffening their already-firm nipples.

The show had to go on. Alianne, despite her fairly unruffled demeanour, was just getting a bit unlucky - Wales was a sensible shout, but not there.

“Oh dear, this has slowed down a bit, hasn’t it? Have you got one for me, Robin?”

“Uh, maybe,” they replied, pulse still racing from the increasingly naughty, messy treatment they were being subjected to. “China?”

It could hardly have been a more appropriate answer. The klaxon sounded, and the slime rained down once again, a rich communist red, the Stagehands getting a bit of slimy collateral damage as they smushed two huge, strawberry-tinged flans against Robin’s heaving, tingling chest.

“Augh- nff! Oh whaaat, this is bonkers…”

When the plentiful goo was expended, Robin was left looking like a particularly sexy Christmas treat, slathered in red and green and snowy white, a sticky red helmet dripping down their short hair. Their shoulders were hunched, and eyes wide, clearly already finding this a lot more exhilaratingly kinky than they’d expected.

Alianne, laughing sympathetically, flubbed her answer again on the next turn. Robin was far too giggly and distracted to answer. And then Alianne’s next response had already been named earlier, so no joy there.

“Look, just stop. Hold on. Stop!”

It took a moment for the two beauties to register that Alexa was suddenly looking a lot sterner than she had been before - and that with a wave of her hand, she’d silenced the background music. Both of them stiffened a little, like naughty kids when the teacher suddenly gets loud.

“Really, my sweeties,” she cooed icily, glancing between the dishevelled contestants. “I must say I’m rather disappointed.”

Both contestants gazed back at her with big eyes, trying to look innocent, in thrall of Alexa’s charisma.

“I honestly thought we’d have a winner by now. This is supposed to be a fast game! Don’t you want to win the big reward?”

Now, two meek little nods, goop flicking from both players’ hair as they attempted sincerity.

“Perhaps I’ll have to provide a little extra motivation. I do have a special rule, saved for this kind of situation. How’s this: for correct answers, I’ll double the prize money, and add an extra-special sweet treat too. And you can have a few more seconds to answer. Think that’ll help you get your brains in gear?”

Obediently, they gave further giggly affirmations. Robin even muttered an abashed “Yes miss.”

“Good. Now there are plenty of answers left. Think of teams you’ve seen in the men’s tournament! Or just somewhere you want to go on holiday! Come on, I believe in you two.”

The game faces returned, as Alexa raised a hand, ready to give the go-signal.

“We’ve had three misses, so that’s quite a rollover. Are we ready? Let’s return to Lovely Jubblies: Sticky Pussy Bonus Mode!”

“Sticky what?” squeaked Robin, mouth hanging open.

“Your answer please, Robin!”

“Oh, fucking Nora… nnnh, aaah - N-Nigeria?”

A loud ding, and Robin immediately tensed, their breath short.

“Finally!” cheered Alexa, seeming to relax her shoulders. Before turning towards Alianne, though, she let her gaze linger on Robin’s tank, wanting to see at least the beginning of this bonus treat.

Robin wailed in anticipation, as the Stagehands burst into action. Without an ounce of shyness, one hefty flan was whapped against their boobs, and another was plunged downwards, sticky cream smushed right into their squirming crotch.

“Guahhhh!”

This splatting certainly lived up to Alexa’s billing. The Stagehands were frighteningly quick to rearm themselves, one of them concentrating on Robin’s squishy jugs, and the other on their twitching twat. A further half-dozen pies were shared equally between those two lush targets, and Robin writhed in their seat, letting out high-pitched keens of outrage.

Alianne, meanwhile, was feeling devious. Catching Alexa’s eye when prompted for a next answer - Robin enduring a filthy splatting all the while - she sighed theatrically, and put a flirty finger to her lips.

“Gosh, do you know? I’ve gone blank! I’ve just never been that into sport…”

Alexa met Alianne’s cheeky smirk with a tilt of the head, and narrowed her eyes. That’s a bit naughty, my dear, her look said. I’ll let this one slide, but play fair, now.

Alianne pouted a little, but shrugged in compliance, and started to try and think of an answer for next time. Robin was closer than she was to a hearty gunge-plunging, after all, so it wouldn’t hurt to play along. And if everything did turn around, at least she’d win that holiday…

Robin, meanwhile, had only had a second at best to recover from two gorgeous hotties giving them an intimate, creamy massage. And yet Alexa was already looking at them, waiting expectantly for an answer.

“Are you joking?”

They shuddered a little, blinking rapidly, more than a little overwhelmed. The tacky cream in their lap was so enveloping and impertinent - but it was already being slightly, imperceptibly diluted by a musky, intimate wetness.

“Not at all, my dear.”

“This game is impossible!”

When the time-out buzzer sounded, Alexa was a little more forgiving, given Robin’s situation. She swivelled towards Alianne with a stern glance.

“You’re well behind here, Alianne. I expect you’ll want to make up some ground.”

Alianne sighed. “Yeah, sure. Let’s say… Mexico?”

She rolled her eyes as the bell sounded, and braced herself for thirty quid’s worth of splattering, with a grin. It was dispensed with vigour, Alianne’s assigned Stagehands just as keen as Robin’s - three joyful, creamy splurges against her gorgeous boobs, and three frankly indecent smushes into the V at the top of those thick, alluring thighs. Alianne felt her muscles shudder in illicit pleasure, and let out a happy sigh.

Robin had just about recovered enough to enjoy that sight, giving a tiny “heh” on confirming they weren’t the only one receiving a sticky-pussy bonus treat. But it was their turn again.

“You’re so close, Robin!”

“I know! It’s just difficult… um… ah… Russia, maybe?”

The brightest, whitest studio lights suddenly kicked into gear, making everything seem tremendously stark. And a loud Hallelujah chorus pealed from the PA system.

(It wasn’t technically a “Hallelujah”. Spurred by a rakish subscriber comment under the previous video, Alexa had invited the best singers in her messy coterie to a little recording session. “How We Goo Ya” really did sound delightful in four-part harmony.)

Robin would have been forgiven for not noticing the slight lyrical tweak, seeing as they were instantly deluged in plenty more blue slop, and - as was only right and proper for the lucky winner - brazenly assaulted by a storm of creamy splatters.

To a rapturous audience reception, the opening act of the victor’s messy treat began. At the first hearty smack of a gooey flan against their face, Robin spluttered and screeched. It didn’t take long to figure out that all bodily pie-target rules had been abandoned, but neither did that make the sudden rush of sensual, gungey impacts any more easy to weather.

Gorgeous, goopy flans burst against their cheeks, their belly, their legs - everywhere that hadn’t already been splattered, plus everywhere that had. And all the while, silky and sensual slime gushed down, noisy and overwhelming as it sloshed against their beautiful dark skin, and the walls and floor of the cubicle.

When the rain of gunge and the pie-barrage had both finally stopped, Robin let out a baffled little “nyuh…”

Their hands were held palm-up in front of their belly, blue gunge still dripping through their fingers. Their shoulders gently rose and fell as they took deep, recuperative breaths. A mingled mass of slime and cream oozed glacially down their torso into their lap, which already felt astonishingly gloopy and heavy.

“Congratulations, Robin!”

“Aah… erm…”

“That was a resounding victory in the end, eh? Three jokers to one. And £255 in the prize bank. You must be delighted!”

“I, uh… thank… you?”

“Oh, don’t thank me yet dear - you’ve got plenty of treats to come.”

Robin let out a nervous little squeak at the thought of what was waiting for them. First though, Alexa needed to check in with the unfortunate loser.

“Alianne! Commiserations, my sweet. No star prize for you today. What went wrong, do you think?”

The contestant in the tank slicked orange goo from her hair, laughing gently to herself. “I know fuck-all about football, that probably didn’t help.”

“Well, never mind. You’ll be taking home £125 - and I hope you’ll come back and play again sometime?”

“Ha! Yeah, why not…”

Robin had been quietly squirming all the while, still entranced by the sheer gooiness of their situation. But when Alexa strode upstage, taking her place beside a large lever sticking up from the floor, and fixing Robin with a delighted smirk, that squirming became just a little louder.

“Aaah, oh god…”

“Time to claim your big prize, Robin! A first-class ticket to Paris - changing at Slop Drop Central!”

“Eeek!”

The chair shuddered into steady motion, carrying Robin out of the slime-smeared booth, their slippery legs wiggling in anguished anticipation. Within a few seconds, they were halfway to the dunking vat, bunching their hands into fists as they looked up at the large gunge-dispensers overhead.

When Alexa yanked the lever back to a neutral position, and the chair suddenly ground to a halt, there was a ripple of excited laughter across the audience - most of whom had seen last episode’s instalment of this game.

Robin hadn’t, of course, and their uncertain expression, glancing over their shoulder at Alexa, only entertained the crowd further.

“Ummm…?”

Alexa left a tasty pause. “You know what, Robin? I’m in a generous mood.”

Robin’s face turned downwards into a pout, as they pieced together what that probably meant.

“I think you deserve some more prizes!”

With a tug of the fateful lever, Robin was sent rolling backwards. They wailed softly in resignation, glancing left and right to see the two Stagehands already brandishing hefty, gooey pies in both hands.

The chair slotted back neatly into the gunge tank, and soundtracked by hearty cheers, another glossy torrent of slop was unleashed from above, this one the same bright bubblegum pink as the dunking-vat in the studio floor.

“Nooo-spluh!”

Robin’s spluttering face and sticky, curvy body took another shamelessly heavy pie-battering, as they flailed and writhed. Watching from across the set, Alianne clapped with glee, her creamy boobs gently jiggling as she bounced in her seat.

The Stagehands couldn’t help chucking devilishly to themselves as they hurled the last few pies of this volley against Robin’s chest, each one impacting with a filthy squish, while the last litres of pink goo poured over the poor, beleaguered hottie. The winner’s tank was now an absolute disaster zone, great slicks of white, pink and blue all over its perspex walls, and a huge slick oozing out in front, onto the studio floor. 

Robin wiped their face, then just sat shaking their head in disbelief, and wearily flicking globs of goop from their arms.

“Guah… what in the absolute… yeuch.”

They looked down, wide-eyed, at the heavy morass that was swamping their lap, smothering their confused, damp pussy. Then suddenly, they were on the move again, the chair set into forward motion by Alexa’s lever.

And again, they stopped in the middle of the studio floor.

This time, Robin’s look towards Alexa wasn’t one of confusion - it was pure outrage.

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

Without a word, Alexa flexed her arm, and back Robin went, the audience’s scandalised and delighted laughter even louder this time. They were squirming and swearing quietly, slapping their gooey fists against their gooey thighs in sheer frustration.

They re-entered the gunge tank, and keened softly, anticipating another sudden, slimy shower. But for some reason, it wasn’t coming.

“Hold on. Do you think maybe…”

Alexa was holding a querying finger to her lips, looking out at the excited, horny crowd, and wondering out loud.

“Just maybe… this is a little unfair?”

Robin looked up, still tensed and cringing. The teasing was only making it worse.

“Robin’s getting all these extra prizes. I feel ever so bad for Alianne.”

The bold, buxom vixen in the other gunge tank sighed, and rolled her eyes again, smiling at the absurdity of it all. Should have known.

“Let’s do them both this time!”

At her command, yet more thick, shiny slime started sloshing down, this time into both gunge tanks.

A little part of Robin’s brain felt happy that their opponent wasn’t getting off so lightly. But it was vastly outnumbered by the rest of their brain, which was fully overwhelmed by another voluminous gunge-shower and enthusiastic flan-fusillade.

“Aaagh! Fucking aaagh-splfff…”

It was a spectacularly silly, sexy scene, the audience hardly knowing where to look. Alianne was sitting somewhat calmly, hands clasped in her lap, as bright yellow goo soaked her hair and cascaded down her curves. But it was hard to stay too composed, what with the frequent hefty slaps of damp cream against her wincing face and soft tits. She tensed her shoulders, weathering the storm, occasionally spitting out sweet gooey fluff when she found a moment.

Robin, meanwhile, was definitely not sitting calmly. With every shamelessly unnecessary slopping, their exasperation had only intensified. Their frustrated flailing was sending sloshes of purple slime and bursts of pie-cream out from the tank at all angles, and the deliciously squishy noises of the messy assault were accompanied by a litany of yelps and curses.

Alexa stood in the middle, looking as pleased as punch, keeping her sadistic arousal as tightly disguised as ever.

The chaotic double-splattering finally drew to a close, weak dribbles of gunge falling into the tanks, and soft globs of cream falling under gravity from boobs, shoulders and legs.

A whimpering Robin and a sighing Alianne, after carefully wiping their faces, met each other’s eyes. It was impossible not to burst into laughter, and both of them enjoyed a warm moment of humiliated, gooey camaraderie.

Alexa was still holding that fateful lever, though. For the third time, Robin yelped as they were dragged out of the tank - and for the third time, pulled up short in the middle of the journey to the slop drop.

The audience were frankly losing their minds. Not again, surely?

Robin, who at the beginning had happily played along with the “messy prizes” conceit, had clearly now lost all patience, pointing a quivering, slimy finger at the host.

“Don’t you fucking dare!”

Alexa gave a long, smug smirk.

“Oh - impatient to claim your big prize? That’s understandable, I suppose.”

Robin struggled to parse a smart answer to this. They were sliding hands over their slippery, gooey body, trying to de-gunge themself a little, thoughts racing.

“Yes? I guess? Just… I… I think I’ve won enough prizes. For today.”

It was a decent attempt at narrative coherence, to be fair, so Alexa replied in kind.

“Our winner doesn’t want to be too greedy, folks. Aren’t they a sweetheart? Very well then. To the Slop Drop we go!”

Alexa’s fingers were gripped around the handle of the lever, ready to yank forwards. But her thumb was also hovering over the tip of it. And with a wicked grin, she pushed the button hidden in the lever’s hilt.

Two tiny panels in the studio floor flipped open, one on each side of the track, ahead of Robin. They were barely noticeable, in truth.

What they did was very noticeable, however.

From the pressurised nozzles within, two gushing cones of fluffy white splatter began to splurge, with impertinent velocity, upwards at the unsuspecting figure of Robin in their chair.

“Aaagmph!”

The crowd erupted into wild hoots of laughter, as they watched the wailing, flailing newbie get absolutely plastered in thick, creamy pie-fluff.

It was a beautifully slapstick sight - the spray was more than wide enough to engulf Robin’s entire upper body and face, so plenty of the splurge flew past them, flying through the air in a powerful arc, piling up in a comical little creamy mound several feet behind them.

But most of the splurge, thankfully, was splattering against Robin’s beautiful body. Instinctively, they thrust their hands forward in defence, but they soon discovered it was almost useless when faced with this volume of delicious pie-glop. So they shielded their face instead, giving a panicked wipe and a loud, gasping splutter of helpless humiliation, finally able to catch a breath. Their heart was thumping like a drum machine as they endured four, five, six seconds of this mercilessly silly onslaught, though it felt a whole lot longer.

The spray ceased as suddenly as it had started. A moment’s respite? Oh no no no, of course not. Before Robin even had a chance to wail in embarrassment, Alexa had already set the chair in motion once again, and within a couple of seconds, Robin was perched at the lip of the pink slimy pool.

A meek little whimper was all they could muster, their wide-eyed gaze flicking between their impending gungey plunge-pool and the huge, pregnant vats overhead.

They were left to squirm there - shoulders tensed, slippery legs wiggling, and fluffy goop falling softly from their body - while Alexa strolled, leisurely and calmly, to the side of the pink vat, just offering a little smiling glance to Robin on her way past. She stood ready at the podium that housed the marvellously final-looking red button.

She addressed the audience, and the cameras, warmly. “Dearest pals - I do hope you’ve enjoyed another fun-filled instalment of Lovely Jubblies, and that you’ll join us next time. All that remains, of course, is for our lucky winner to claim their well-earned star prize.”

The anticipation was coursing through Robin’s veins at a thousand miles an hour.

Alexa turned and smiled at them.

“Ready, Robin?”

“Er… no!”

A simple shrug from the host. “Oh well.”

She slapped the button.

“Aaa-aaagh!”

To the heartiest cheers of the night, a torrent of thick, wet gunge, a mix of blue and green, began to slosh down over Robin’s head. And it was a doozy.

The vat itself was about three times the size of the slimy payloads that had soaked the contestants during the game. And the aperture from which the gunge spilled was specially designed - not only was it indulgently wide, it also housed a clever little rotating widget, whose purpose was to disrupt the gooey stream. This resulted in a gunge-drenching that was not just thick, heavy and fast, but also deliciously unpredictable.

Delicious for the viewer, at least. Robin was maniacally flustered, totally bamboozled, by the great waves and gushes of goo slopping mercilessly over their head, shoulders, back and thighs. They held their hands up limply in front of their chest, feeling this squishy, messy liquid slap against their palms. And their anguished squeals started to shift into exhausted, resigned laughter - it was just so weird, so naughty, so utterly daft.

“Aha, ahaha, ahahaha…”

Robin’s previous full-frontal coating of sticky cream was now just a swirly addition to the thick swamp of gunge that sat heavily in their lap. They were thoroughly drenched, painted blue-green all-over.

Time for a new colour, then. Alexa didn’t need to push the button again: the timing had all been carefully worked out beforehand (by repeatedly sliming and dunking her beautiful wife, naturally).

The gunge still splattered down, but the tank was around 95% empty now. This triggered a weight sensor, which wirelessly triggered a sharp release of hydraulic pressure in the well-engineered chair beneath Robin. The seat jerked upwards and forwards.

Thoroughly lubricated by the gunge that had quested its way into every last nook and cranny between the chair and their skin, Robin shot out of the smooth leather’s grip at a speed that made them shriek in alarm. A decent amount of blue-green splatter came along with them, tiny droplets exploding into the air. They flew above the gunk dunk, limbs akimbo, for a short but delicious moment.

Into the thick pink morass they plunged, face down, with an outrageously wet and sloppy noise. Huge, gooey waves raced from the site of their impact to the pool’s edge.

Once Robin had scrambled frantically into a standing position, the expression on their face left no doubt how they felt about being gunk-dunked for the first time. Their eyes and mouth were prised open wide in disbelief, a soft “huh… huh… huh…” the only sounds they could muster.

Their arms hung limply out to their sides, hovering above the surface of the waist-deep, still-undulating gunge, its pink hue now streaked with greeny-blue.

Robin was too overwhelmed to even look up, though they knew full well their “treat” wasn’t over yet. Backstage, Sally worked quickly - the gunge-reservoir above the dunking-pit had a downwards-facing camera attached, to ensure it could be manoeuvred into just the right place before it was unleashed. Once Robin’s slime-coated head and shoulders were right in the crosshairs, she pushed the button and let the gunge pour.

The audience’s horny cheers when the gunge reached its target were louder than Robin’s screech of embarrassment, though only just. A splattery, gushy mixture of yellow and orange slime drenched the poor, squirming enby, their shoulders tense, their legs quivering. Marvellous wet, squicky noises abounded, gunge splashing into gunge, gunge slapping against bare skin.

After the last gooey gallons had been expended, the randy shouts from the crowd were accompanied by warm applause - though Robin wasn’t quite ready to take a bow yet. They stood stiff, panting for breath, their entire upper body matted with slick, silky gunge which slowly oozed downwards.

Naturally, Alexa pounced on the chance to tease a flustered hottie.

“Congratulations once again, Robin! Aren’t you glad that you won the star prize?”

They let out a tiny, rueful squeak of laughter, then took a moment to drag a hand across their eyes. The gunge tasted slightly chemical, and slightly sweet, against their lips as they replied, turning their heavy head towards their cheery tormentor.

“Oh, delighted,” they said, voice high and sarcastic. “You’re so generous with the gunge.”

“We try to be! I’m so glad you liked it. And have a fantastic time in Paris - send us a postcard, won’t you?”

“Heh. Sure.” Robin sighed, and let their shoulders slump, absent-mindedly dredging their hands through the gooey surface, feeling their heart rate slowly fall towards something approaching normal. Though the sensation of thick, lukewarm gunge sloshing around their lower half remained a strange thrill.

“Dearest friends - that was Lovely Jubblies. I hope you enjoyed it as much as I did. Please give it up once again for our fantastic competitors - Alianne and Robin!”

The “unlucky” loser gave a perky smile and cheery wave from her gunge tank. The exhausted Robin gave a more laboured goodbye - then started to laugh as they noticed one camera rolling up to the edge of the pit, pointed shamelessly at their chest.

Bringing things full circle, the game’s final shot was a pair of beautiful gunge-soaked tits, set gently shaking by laughter.

“Smashed it, my love. A tour de force.”

Alexa acknowledged the compliment from Sally with a demure nod. “Any notes?”

“Not really. I mean, let’s keep them on their toes - some other surprises next time. But we can workshop that next week.”

“Sounds good.”

They both watched from the comfortable sofa in the wings, as the Stagehands busied themselves with cleanup from Lovely Jubblies, and setup for the next game.

“More important question - who’s on the wishlist?”

“Hmm.” Alexa pondered. “Let’s keep inviting the occasionals, though I suspect word is going to get around how the game works.”

“Yeah, probably.”

“I mean, if the download numbers from last time are any indication, this one’s got legs. We’re gonna have to get everyone on. We might have to do a small-boobs special. A no-boobs special, even.”

Sally laughed. “Again - problem for another time. Just tell me who I should be emailing.”

“Quite right. Let’s see. Well, Missy was enjoying Stagehand duties far too much - let’s see how she likes it.”

The pencil made quiet scribbles against the paper on Sally’s clipboard.

“Ooh, and I liked that lovely big redhead who played the card game - Phoebe, was it?”

“Yep.”

“She got off too lightly, the lucky devil.”

“All good. I’ll get the ball rolling.”

“Thanks. Love you.”

“Love you too.” Sally rose from the sofa, and started to walk away, more work to be done.

Alexa called after her. “Oh babe, one more thing!”

“Mmm-hmm?”

“You know you’re doing the season finale, right?”

Sally’s breezy, businesslike demeanour instantly hardened into a steely frown, her jaw locked.

“Not sure who I’ll pit you against, but it’ll be totally rigged, of course. And double prizes, maybe triple. I’m going to splat those beautiful little tits of yours into submission, then gunge the everloving fuck out of you. Just so you know. Do pop it in your calendar.”

No response came. Sally just stood there with an icy glare.

“And I’d like those emails sent out before close of play, please. See you in the bar.”

After a long pause, Sally turned sharply on her heel, and walked away, clutching her clipboard to her chest.

Alexa stretched out her legs on the sofa, and took advantage of the ten-minute window she had before the next game, slowing her breathing and clearing her head.

“Best job in the fucking world…”

Fin

Hello my sticky strawberry jams,

Just letting you know that I’m opening some slots for commissions. Writing on my free and paid original stories has been going well, a little ahead of schedule in fact. It seems a good time to branch out!

Full disclosure - I’ve never taken commissions before, so this will be a learning experience for me. But I hope my track record will make up for any hiccups in getting used to the process.

Please read the FAQ below! Details of how to get in touch at the end. 

Prices

Standard rate
£24 per 1,000 words

Subscriber rate
Available to anyone with an active paid subscription.
£16 per 1,000 words

Payment is £100 on agreement of commission, and the remainder on completion, using the secure payment platform Stripe. For longer stories, I might ask for partial payments based on milestones, by agreement.

Minimum length is 10,000 words. If I overshoot the word count because the story needs it, the original agreed price will still apply, of course. Rates are subject to change, but I’m happy with them for now.

A bit pricey? Well, even though I’m new to publishing Wamfic, I’ve been writing it privately for a couple of decades now, I’ve honed my craft, and I value my work. Others do too - I’m proud to say the feedback has been overwhelmingly positive. I put a lot of love and effort into my stories - writing and rewriting, polishing and improving, before I put them out.

House rules

Consenting adults only, please.

I’ll talk about consent more below, but obviously no characters under 18, and “barely legal” isn’t appealing to write about either.

No real names or identifying details.

If you want me to write a messy fantasy about your crush, or your favourite celeb, then please change their name and blur the details. If they read the story, would they suspect it’s about them? If the answer is yes, that’s too specific.

Consent to getting messy is optional - consent to sexual acts is mandatory.

It’s OK if a character is pranked, peer-pressured, or even blackmailed into a gunging. But ideally, they should discover it’s more fun than they expected - and sexy situations can lead from that.

It’s not OK if a character is forced to strip, or have sex, when they really don’t want to. If they’ve signed on the dotted line for a very naughty gameshow, then that’s on them. But really cruel and humiliating pranks, especially sexual ones, aren’t that fun for me.

Fantasy-world stories are more complicated. Love potions, enchantments, etc. can be fun and hot, but we’d need to discuss that.

Gender and sexuality

Characters of any gender and sexuality are welcome in my stories. I would enjoy the chance to improve my writing of trans and NB hotties (and appreciate advice on writing them). However, if you’ve read my work, you’ll know I prefer sloppy ladies and femmes, with a few guys sprinkled in. I’m probably not the person to write your m/m gunge fantasy - I wouldn’t do it justice!

Other kinks

I’m happy to include other kinks alongside Wam, though mess should be the main focus of the story. And I can’t promise to get the sexiness right with kinks I’ve never written - though I’ll take direction from you. If the kink is a big turnoff for me, I might not be able to include it at all, sorry.

Timescales and process

This is a very rough estimate, but I’ll aim to turn around a 10,000-word story in about six to eight weeks. Sadly I can’t guarantee that - slimy creativity comes and goes. But I will keep in touch and give progress updates. Longer stories would scale with that estimate, naturally.

The first step is to get in touch, by replying to any of my Substack emails, or emailing directly on duncandaisyd [at] gmail [dot] com. Let me know the broad strokes of your story, and we can discuss from there.

I can work from a broad brief or a specific one. If you provide some characters and a loose plot outline, I’d enjoy the chance to get creative and surprise you. But equally, if you want to specify the scenarios, substances, devices, and even character reactions, that’s fine too. We’ll work it out in discussions via email!

There are also some things that might particularly pique my interest. I’d like to experiment with more types of mess, though not too gross: savoury foods, paint or mud could be fun. Manure/sewage - no thanks. Interesting locations are great: a secret office building that’s been closed for years, say. And a cool sci-fi or fantasy premise is like catnip to me.

If any of that appeals, then I look forward to hearing from you!

And if not - thanks, as always, for subscribing. More sloppy mayhem is on the way very soon.

Daisy xx

This one is kinda different. I thought the idea of a journalist visiting GungeWorld would be fun, so I started writing, and the story took me to some places I didn’t expect. It includes some cultural history of gungey TV shows, which obviously I’m very inspired by. It also became a chance to talk about the Wam community (mostly the good bits), and also interrogate my own writing, looking at how my fetish rubs up against my morals and biases.

So it’s maybe a little self-indulgent, and I know some people don’t like mixing porn and politics. But this one wouldn’t let me go until it was finished. I hope you’ll give it a try - I think it’s pretty unique as Wamfics go, and there’s lots of discussion of naughty, sexy mess. Plus, who knows what might happen to our plucky journo by the evening’s end?

And never fear - I do still love writing the really shameless, splattery, bouncy, custard-drenched fuckfests. The next paid story, which is progressing nicely, is certainly one of those.

Daisy x

I: A Brief History of Slime

Dunking two sugars into a milky coffee, I survey the unpretentious, nordic-modern office space in which I am sitting down to interview Alexa Mountjoy. Something about the way I glance at the recessed light-fittings and the tasteful Mondrian print on the wall, or my inability to quite rest comfortably in my seat, seems to betray a nagging fear. Alexa, who I will come to learn is an expert observer of human behaviour, picks up on that, and reassures me.

“Don’t worry, no nasty surprises here! All the offices, dressing rooms, and backstage areas are gunge-free zones. We’d all be too on edge to get anything done otherwise.”

It's not a reassurance that I would normally get from an interviewee. But, as will become apparent, this isn’t a normal interview.

From: Priya Khan
To: Alexa Mountjoy
Subject: Interview request, Vibe

Dear Alexa,

I hope this finds you well. I’m a feature writer for Vibe Magazine, mainly focusing on sexuality, sex work and social justice in the internet age.

I’ve been keenly watching the way GungeWorld has exploded in popularity over the last year, in particular via TikTok. As I’m sure you know, there’s been plenty of discourse along with it: how your content, and the Wam fetish as a whole, connects to feminism, consent, gender, race, power dynamics, etc. I think it’s a tricky issue with a lot to unpack. I’d love to get your take on this, and I wondered if you might be able to make time for an interview some time in the next few months.

If it’s possible, and you’d be happy to grant access, I’d love to combine it with a peek behind the scenes at filming - it seems like a huge amount of effort must go into every show, and it’d be fascinating to see.

If you’d like to have a look at some of my previous pieces to get an idea of what we might talk about, you can find a list on my website here.

Best wishes, Priya

Alexa Mountjoy would not immediately stand out in a crowd. She greets me at the door of a cavernous, industrial building - a plaque reading “GW Enterprises” its only signage. She’s tall-ish, and very pretty, with deep brown eyes and a slightly Mediterranean complexion (“Greek or Albanian, somewhere down the line.”)

I am a little embarrassed to see we are matchy-matchy, both wearing a light blouse and a dark skirt, though I reckon hers may not be made of cheap polycotton. Her brown hair hangs to her shoulders in a neat bob. She would look perfectly at home in a corporate office in the Shard, or a fast-moving newsroom. Both of which I am sure she would find deathly dull by comparison.

Alexa is the CEO, co-founder, main host, and creative director of GungeWorld, a fetish erotica website specialising in Wet and Messy (Wam) content, specifically the sub-niche of its title: gunge. Yes, gunge: the gooey, neon slop that has long been thrown around in bucketloads on British kids’ TV.

If you ask a Wam fetishist about the origins of their kink, they’ll very likely mention the TV shows of their youth. Programmes that stirred a reaction of “I feel funny and I don’t know why,” watched alongside parents who could never understand.

The particular fondly-remembered classic varies by age: Tiswas’ gleeful mayhem for older gen X-ers, the revenge fantasy Get Your Own Back for millennials, the cocaine-fuelled anarchy of Dick and Dom in Da Bungalow for the zoomers.

Wammers are hardly unique in this regard. After-school gogglebox time has long provided early kindling for all stripes of fetish, from the leather and spandex of superhero shows, to the crush-worthy anthropomorphised animals in cartoons. Disney’s foxified Robin Hood has become something of a sexual-awakening meme.

This is the internet age, of course. And so when those confused kids become horny teenagers, they are immediately able to access - for better or worse - a cornucopia of Wet and Messy porn. For the price of a round in the pub that won’t serve them, they can watch a sexy person get covered in gunge, or pelted with custard pies. And the range of content is plentiful.

It’s worth noting early on that the Wam niche doesn’t encompass bodily fluids, which I am deeply thankful for while researching - although cum is a somewhat inevitable exception. And the Messy side of the scene seems to be more active in producing erotica than the Wet, though these two communities appear to enjoy a peaceful coexistence, united in the middle of the Venn diagram by mud.

Most messy content is produced in the UK and the USA, a special slimy relationship. (Japan has its own thing going on, but the language barrier there is steep.) Before doing my due diligence, I may have naively informed you that across the pond, they call gunge ‘slime’, and left it at that. This is not the case.

Wam from US producers has some glaring differences from British content. The slime is a different consistency: usually thick and lumpy, like cottage cheese. It looks decidedly unpleasant to me. The cream pies, a frequent accompaniment to a sliming, are thicker and splattier. Those are more appealing.

American models often look up when getting slimed, taking it full in the face and open mouth. The first example I saw triggered a deep ick - how can that possibly be sexy?

Ah - it’s TV again. You Can’t Do That On Television was a Canadian sketch show for older kids, which also aired in the US. It had a signature gag: anyone saying the phrase “I don’t know” would be, out of nowhere, showered in chunky green slime, usually looking upwards in a sort of resigned helplessness.

The number of ways US Wam producers have worked those three little words into a video script must be in the triple figures. Two nations divided by a common language, indeed.

A car, a house, both in a street
The boredom of a sober week
The weekend's here, hip-hip-hooray
To make the blues just go away

“Entertain Me” by Blur, 1995

Back on these shores, gunge enjoyed a spell in the Saturday night prime-time limelight, thanks to a bearded ex-DJ and a terrifying, inflatable pink-and-yellow monster. And we do need to talk about this.

Not only did Noel’s House Party turn Mr Blobby into a deeply unsettling national treasure - and, unbelievably, a chart-topping pop artist - it also established Noel Edmonds as the Picasso, the Cruyff, the Sondheim of gunge.

The show began on BBC1 in November 1991, a year after John Major replaced Margaret Thatcher as Conservative prime minister, and a few months before he won a surprise general election majority. Despite that victory, this was the start of the Tories’ weakest era, a grey lacuna between Thatcher’s slash-and-burn and Cameron’s ruthless neoliberal polish. It was the age of the sleepy suburbanites, of driveway Renaults and rotary clubs.

Noel’s House Party was the perfect TV show for this aggressively mediocre moment in history.

In case you’re not familiar, here is the concept. Noel lives in a fictional country manor house in a fictional Little England village called Crinkley Bottom (ha ha ha). Every week, he invites a swathe of the public - plus some famous special guests - to his house party. Surely, by all social conventions, this should be a dignified and classy affair?

No, our expectations are subverted - it turns out to be very silly and a bit rude!

This is light entertainment at its most gossamer-thin. There are sketches, wherein minor household names do a character bit: Neil Morrissey as a clumsy handyman, say. There are outside broadcasts - the “NTV” segment puts hidden cameras into one viewer’s living room, their reaction enjoyed live on air. And there are pranks - more hidden cameras abound, as Noel winds up his celebrity friends in the “Gotcha” segment.

I could call Noel’s House Party a comedy of manners, one that gently satirises the British class system, puncturing their stuffiness. But I think that gives it too much credit. For one thing, satire is usually funny.

In a desperate effort to understand NHP I have watched an inordinate amount of it - every episode is there in full on YouTube. I could honestly count the number of times it has made me laugh on one hand. The audience are there in my headphones, wetting themselves. 14 million are watching at home. I feel I must live in a different world from these people.

Younger, fresher comedians clearly resented this Saturday night juggernaut, and set out to create its antithesis. While NHP was airing, The Fast Show proved you could deliver half a dozen tight gags in the time it took for Noel to play out one doddery sketch. Trigger Happy TV completely upended the tired hidden-camera genre.

Noel didn’t care, of course. He just kept on wearing those horrible gaudy shirts and raiding the BBC’s prop cupboard, to great success.

Yet for all Noel’s establishment vibes and broad, bland appeal, there is clearly a little revolutionary instinct in his heart. Something that maybe even he didn’t recognise. Something genuinely subversive, transgressive, creative.

Something brightly-coloured and gooey.

From: Alexa Mountjoy
To: Priya Khan

Dear Priya,

Thank you for getting in touch. I’ve read your work with interest in the past - I thought the recent piece on ThiccTok was particularly good. I’d be very happy to be interviewed.

If you’d like to do so at the studio on our next filming day, which is Saturday 24th of this month, you’d be very welcome. However, we do have a policy of ‘no backstage passes’. Apart from certain contractors (mechanics, cleaners, etc), anyone who wants to see the filming live has to do so as part of the audience. That involves signing the basic waver, which I’ve attached if you’d like to read it. In short: you might get messy, you might not, and we won’t ask you to take your clothes off. (Though if you’d like to, I can send over our other waivers.) It does also mean you get paid an appearance fee, messy or not.

If that doesn’t appeal, then we can keep it to just the interview. We could meet in the office space here around 10am, which would give us plenty of time before filming. Address and directions attached. Or we could find a pub or cafe quiet enough to suit the likely subject matter - do let me know what works for you.

Best wishes, Alexa

It starts with a gunge tank.

The gunge tank actually predates Noel’s House Party - it made its debut in Edmonds’ previous vehicle, Saturday Night Roadshow. But its signature incarnation was revealed in the very first episode of NHP: an ornate wooden booth with perspex sides, topped by a cuboid of gunge, the victim’s seat directly below.

Sometimes it would fill with coloured foam from the base before the gunge fell, adding some visual appeal. At first, gungings were doled out to audience members as a punishment for bad behaviour - an office prankster is snitched up by her friends, for example.

Soon though, minor celebrities - or more likely, their agents who had seen the viewing figures - gamely agreed to get involved. The public were invited to call in votes at premium rates, dooming their preferred victim to the tank. Noel conducted these faceoffs with the zeal of a mad Roman emperor, two heathens on his chopping block. Call 0800 771 201 to gunge Barabbas! And it’s 0800 771 202 if you think Jesus should get it!

Soon the gunge tank was redesigned as a sort of car-wash, the seat moving through roller brushes to position the victim below the slime dispenser. As far as I can tell, this was mainly done to surprise Gloria Hunniford, the first gungee of series 3, naively thinking it was safe to sit down beside, rather than in, a gunge tank.

Moving seats became a theme. Series 4 and 5 featured the “trip round the great house”, where the week’s unlucky subject was seated in a peculiar little round cart, which proceeded to take a leisurely trundle across the set, punctuated with various sloppy surprises, often themed around a lame gag.

Carol Vorderman, famous at the time for Countdown and Tomorrow’s World - and who perhaps exemplifies the type of inoffensive TV personality that NHP thrived on - suffered a particularly vicious slathering, agreeing to test a magic “gunge guard” potion that would supposedly protect her on the trip. As the obvious joke unfurls, the formula does not work: she endures a salvo of several large buckets, poured from the balconies above, on her travels through the mansion.

She is left visibly drenched in thick goo, and though she keeps smiling like a trooper for the cameras, it is very apparent that she did not expect to get quite so plastered. After an additional dousing in white foam, sprayed from the walls, the cart ends up (as it did every week) in the grand fireplace of the house. This would usually unleash a final, multi-jet splattering of gunge. In Vorderman’s case, a load of fake washing powder is dumped over her instead - she had faced media criticism for lending her aura of scientific expertise to adverts for a brand of said product. It’s one of the show’s few moments of genuinely biting satire, a corporate shill undergoing ritual public humiliation. It’s borderline anti-capitalist.

Over the course of eight seasons and 169 episodes, Noel relentlessly indulged his sticky neon creativity, seemingly on a mission to prove that there is no such thing as a gunge-free zone - inside or outside of Crinkley Bottom. Slop pours from wall panels, from ornate vases, from the lever that an audience member pulls, thinking it will gunge their friend. Unlucky viewers might be surprised in their home, press-ganged into a gunge tank erected in their back garden.

A segment called Number Cruncher sees the public flock to a special phone booth installed somewhere in the UK, topped by that fateful, brightly-hued reservoir, ready to unleash on the chosen player if they fail to guess a passcode. Two professional cyclists ride exercise bikes that slowly tip oversized cauldrons of slime over the other contestant. Gunge tanks descend from the rafters into the audience. Audience members descend into the floor, emerging matted in wet colour.

While GYOB’s Dave Benson-Phillips may out-slop Edmonds in terms of sheer volume, dunking mild-mannered teachers into giant vats of the stuff, he has absolutely nothing on the hairy maestro in terms of artistry.

I do not detail these innovations in gunge-delivery simply as a historical aside. I list them because by indulging in these flights of messy fancy, Noel Edmonds has strongly influenced the sexual desires of a sizeable enthusiast community.

His Wikipedia entry describes him as a “television presenter, radio DJ, writer, producer, and businessman.” I find myself quite tempted to indulge in a little wiki-vandalism and add “fetish porn godhead” to the list.

Hi Alexa,

Thanks so much for your response and your kind words. Saturday 24th would work, very much look forward to meeting you - see you at 10. If it’s possible, I'd like to have a chat with some of the cast members too - would that be OK?

Though it did take a couple of gins beforehand, I’ve signed the basic waver. Possibly extremely foolish, but I think I’d feel like a spoilsport otherwise. Shall I just bring that along on the day?

I’d also be interested to see the other waivers, if you wouldn’t mind sending them. To be clear, I’m not intending to sign those! I’ll leave that stuff to the professionals.

Best wishes, Priya

For most British Wam producers, success depends not just on attractive and bubbly models, but quality devices and contraptions. A gunge tank is almost a minimum requirement. Some are able to stretch to full dunking vats. “The hazard tape adds to the sex appeal!” reads one approving comment on a machine that propels models into a slop-pit.

The standard across the field is impressively high, in terms of engineering, colourful set-design, and slapstick setup-writing. But GungeWorld’s big-budget ambitions really do set it apart.

Gunge tanks? It has dozens, every one with some kind of unique slime-delivering functionality. Vats of slop? Take your pick from classic gunge, custard, or giant tiramisu (yes, really, and yes, edible).

Custard pies? A typical hour-long episode will involve literally hundreds of these being thrown, smeared or splattered. And not just in faces. The show does contain safe-for-work content, as long as your workplace is very weird. But before too long, things always start to get hot and heavy.

Strip forfeits might start to be introduced, for wrong answers or bad dice rolls. A sketch about a clumsy butler may see him pouring custard into his employer’s cleavage. Bikini-clad bodies jiggle through messy obstacle courses. Two topless women kiss passionately in a two-seater gunge tank. A Fifty Shades parody sees a strapping stud and blushing maiden indulge in some gooey bondage.

A typical GungeWorld finale might see one or more naked, curvaceous ladies taking part in a comically difficult or blatantly rigged trivia quiz. The loser will be mercilessly covered in absurd quantities of slime, and slapped with dozens of cream pies to the face, chest, arse, and crotch.

The winner might take home a genuinely impressive prize (these have included holidays, fancy furniture and a motorbike). They will also be relentlessly splattered, sometimes more so than the loser. At least one will be dropped into a vat of something gloopy, and then slathered in even more mess. They will probably masturbate, or have sex, or both. There is a lot of spluttery, breathless cumming.

While the quantity of gunk used is certainly a selling point, GungeWorld’s appeal also lies in the way they dispense it. It’s a turbocharged version of House Party’s puckish, nervous, no-one-is-safe energy, with booby traps and double-bluffs in abundance.

When I speak to some of the regular cast, they all tell me one thing: if you think Alexa has finished gunging you, you’re probably wrong.

“I think the meanest one was the hundred pies,” says Lettie, a sweet-natured Canadian woman in her twenties who creates erotic content for OnlyFans.

“We were playing this game, and we had to pick forfeits from this sort of numbered wall. It was kinda like Deal or No Deal, I guess. Anyway, one of the columns had pies, starting off with one pie, then two pies, and so on. I got a few of these, a few buckets of slime, had to strip off, you know the vibe,” she says breezily. I nod that I do.

“So it’s all the way up to 9 pies, and someone else got that. Then my next forfeit comes up in the pie column, too. So I’m bracing myself for 10, which is, you know, a pretty good pieing. But Alexa reveals the card, and… there’s an extra zero on there.”

It’s a good gag, I say. “I mean, she absolutely got me. My jaw dropped. Even the other girls were like, oh that’s mean. And then all these dessert carts get rolled in. So yeah, I’m sitting there butt naked on my little stool, getting plastered all over with pies for like a full two minutes. And the thing is, she didn’t even make a thing out of it. There was no big fanfare, flashing light, anything like that. And then I just had to finish the game. Didn’t even win a prize,” she laughs.

“Oh, and there was so much cream on the floor, when I finally got up I slipped and fell right on my ass.”

“Yes, I remember that moment very well, in my first game,” recalls Aoife, a comedian and occasional glamour model. “And the thing was, I’d watched some episodes before I came on. So I really should have seen it coming! But somehow, she managed to sneak it in my blind spot, the bastard.”

What form did it take? “Oh, the usual sort of thing. Big pit of pie cream opens up in the floor, huge tank of custard descends from the rafters. Tip, splat, splosh. She can’t do it in every game, of course, because then we’d be wise to it. Sometimes she plants things that look like they’re going to gunge you, then they don’t. Absolute psychological terrorism. Evil genius. Have to respect it, really.”

drag him out your window dragging out the dead singing I miss you snakes and ladders flip the lid out pops the cracker smacks you in the head knifes you in the neck kicks you in the teeth steel toe caps takes all your credit cards get up get the gunge get the eggs get the flan in the face the flan in the face the flan in the face dance you fucker dance you fucker don’t you dare don’t you dare don’t you flan in the face take it with the love its given take it with a pinch of salt take it to the taxman

“A Wolf at the Door. (It Girl. Rag Doll.)” by Radiohead, 2003

II: Taking the Plunge

This propensity for slapstick by stealth preys on my mind as I sit down with Alexa Mountjoy, a couple of hours before filming is due to commence. Thoughts dance in my head of the stationery cupboard flying open to reveal a spring-loaded pie machine. But once she explains that the mess is confined strictly to the extremely well-signaged studio space, I am more able to relax.

Alexa shares showbiz DNA with Penn & Teller: she is absolutely going to trick you, but she clearly warns you that she is going to trick you. What you have to find out for yourself is when and how.

We start off by chatting through her origin story. In 2006, a few years after earning a double first in Engineering from Edinburgh University, Alexa appeared with her housemate Sally Denton on Holly’s House of Fun, an execrable sort-of-reboot of NHP, hosted by a heroically overqualified and visibly regretful Holly Willoughby.

They both enjoyed mocking the show’s tackiness over cans of continental lager on a Saturday night. Sally, however, didn’t know Alexa had volunteered them both to participate until the day of the filming.

“Like, very not cool of me. We’re so reckless with each other’s feelings when we’re young, aren’t we?”

Do you regret signing Sally up for the show, then?

“Well, I wouldn’t go that far. It got us together, to be fair. And led to all… this.” She wrinkles her nose. “Wait - delete that answer. Change it to a firm no! I don’t regret it in the slightest.”

The clip of their appearance is on YouTube, and has become something akin to a religious text for Wammers. ‘Alexa and Sally. If you know you know,’ reads one comment, finishing with a side-eye emoji.

Their segment is called Flat Wars: dotted throughout the show are a series of daft slapstick games. In one, they each piece together a jumbo-sized jigsaw puzzle while dressed in cumbersome cat outfits. In another, an underpaid runner draped in a bedsheet chases them about with pies as they transfer eggs between containers.

Each game ends with Holly charging in for a manically snappy interview. Sally glares daggers throughout these, while her flatmate smiles smugly, even with a face full of cream. Sally’s wince is especially pronounced every time Holly mentions the thing they are competing to avoid: the Gunge Plunge.

“They had another pair of flatmates as backup. So really, she could have said no,” says Alexa, teasing Sally in absentia.

After the third helping of knockabout tosh, the points are totted up. Sally’s screwface when it is announced that she will be facing the Gunge Plunge is really quite a thing to witness.

“It was definitely subconscious at that point,” says Alexa, referring to her messy fetish. “Like, I never would have said to anyone I was into that. I hadn’t seen any Wam stuff online. But in retrospect, it obviously guided my decision to apply for the show. And I suppose the same was true of my feelings for Sally.”

Holly gees up the audience as Sally sits at the top of a long conveyor belt, her bare feet resting against a buffer to stop her sliding down. The silly outfits are gone now, so she’s wearing what she arrived in, a black strappy top and blue jeans. A close-up captures her hangdog look, staring down defeatedly at what awaits her: a tremendously large vat of bright pink, matching her cheeks. In a nice touch, it bubbles and gloops as the camera swoops across its surface.

Surprisingly, there is no elaborate final game here, no chance for Sally to win a consolation prize or get a bit of slimy revenge. Perhaps the show’s producers had become tired of ripping off other gungey shows. Instead, Holly offers commiserations to Sally, and congratulations to Alexa, who is allowed to pull the fateful lever.

The conveyor belt jerks into motion at a genuinely alarming pace. The audience get about one second to enjoy Sally’s horrified expression before she is flung, headlong and screaming, into the pink slop at a spectacular velocity.

“Lovely bit of engineering,” comments Alexa admiringly. “Scary but safe. I’d hire whoever made that, but I never got their number.”

Sally’s initial splash-landing sends a tidal wave of slime up onto the studio floor. A few seconds later she emerges, having dragged herself to her feet. Her arms are raised weakly out of the slop in front of her, like an underconfident sorcerer trying to cast a spell. More goo rains down from above as the audience go bonkers. The camera lingers on Alexa’s devilish, fixed grin.

Still cannot believe that some coked-up TV execs and Holly Willioughby are unwittingly responsible for the greatest fetish porn series of all time. Every morning I wake up thankful for this

@GungeGod420, Twitter

Sally and Alexa married in 2012. Together, they do pretty much all the work that puts GungeWorld on screen. Writing scripts, designing games, blueprinting elaborate devices, and often co-hosting the show. It should be taken as read that in my descriptions of Alexa’s creative pornographic endeavours, there is an implicit credit to Sally. As any loving wife would be, Alexa is effusive about Sally’s intelligence, humour and vision. It almost sounds as if Sally is the real brains behind the operation, I say.

“Oh, no no no. To be clear, I’m the boss.” It’s said with a cheeky smile. But there is an important truth to this, which Alexa explains with slightly disarming frankness. “She’s the sub, I’m the domme. On and off camera.”

In the show, this is fairly hard to miss. Sally is very often the butt of the joke, and just as unsafe from Alexa’s trickery as any of the other performers. On the rare occasions that the hosts get the tables turned on them, it’s usually Sally. If they both get messy, Sally will probably get it worse.

In keeping with this dynamic, Sally also tends to stay out of the limelight, and isn’t keen on interviews. “And she’s my guinea pig. Which is, I can’t stress this enough, delightful.”

From testing new gunge tanks, to calibrating the range of pie-flingers: Sally is the inevitable patsy. Do those beta tests ever get a little steamy? “Er… yes. We usually end up fucking, if that’s what you’re asking.”

She laughs. “Unless I’ve really tricked her and she’s not talking to me.”

Back to 2006, and Alexa remembers Sally attempting to give her this silent treatment after emerging from her shower, kitted out in a House of Fun dressing-gown.

“But she couldn’t stop herself ranting at me. She’d glare in silence for twenty seconds at a time, then it would burst out again - Unbe-fucking-lievable, I hate you so much, oh god, everyone at work will see it...”

Did they? “Oh yes. They called her Slimy Sally for a while. Ha! She was furious.”

Holly’s House of Fun went out live, but they’d set the Sky box to record it. “I was obviously gagging to watch it back. Sally protested, but she could hardly not, could she? Get gunged on the telly, have to see that, right?”

I concur. I would.

“I laid it on thick with the teasing, all the way through watching the games. Then it got to the Gunge Plunge, and it was just silence, both of us. We watched her get it. And then suddenly, we were all over each other.”

In the fresh, new-relationship glow, there was much messy fun. “Custard in the bath, sort of thing. Messy quizzes - usually with me as the quizmaster.”

Usually? “Well, I let her get her revenge sometimes. Seemed sort of fair, and switching can be fun. But only if it’s the exception, rather than the rule. There’s a saying I learned from improv - use it like saffron, not salt.”

The two would occasionally rewatch their House of Fun episode, feeling nostalgic for that big-budget, glitz and glamour gunging.

“And then we found the messy forums online.”

The pair realised that not only did this offer a way to get back into the gunge tank, via the many producers keen for new models. But the community also led them to the advice, supplies, and expertise needed to build their own.

Not, of course, in a tiny flat. But a significant stroke of luck in the early days of cryptocurrency, plus a well-paid engineering post for Alexa and writing gig for Sally, meant they were soon house-hunting.

“We needed somewhere with a big old outbuilding that had extremely sturdy drainage - a small farm, basically. We told the estate agents we made ‘kinetic liquid sculptures’. Which was sort of true, I suppose…”

Gunge tank mark one took a couple of months to build, and the set to make it suitable to film videos another few weeks. “Nothing fancy. Just the tried and true, ‘pour a load of gunge on your head’ model.”

It got regular use both on and off camera, with a steady stream of female guest gungees. “We paid well, we were easy to work with, and women tend to like working with female producers.”

Reviews online were glowing, and download sales ticked along nicely - though Alexa stresses that this has never actually been a profitable enterprise.

“We moved to a subscription model a while ago, which has worked nicely for us - you get useful stats and feedback. There’s an honour-system discount for low-income fans, and on the other end, we have some more generous subscribers who want to support the content. And though it all helps, it covers maybe a quarter of the overheads. We do buy an awful lot of custard.”

How on earth do they keep the site going, then?

“Investments. I mentioned the crypto windfall - that was pretty significant. It’s the reason for this studio.”

I ask how much she made, and Alexa frowns. “It feels gauche to say precisely, which I know is terribly British of me. But it’s enough of a chunk that Sally and I can have a comfortable living - and indulge in this totally absurd hobby - from the income that sum generates. We are hugely, hugely privileged in that sense. And I am grateful for it every day.”

Soon after starting out, GungeWorld picked up their first gong at the Wammies, a community-organised awards show. Do they win every year?

“We’ve won something every year,” clarifies Alexa, “but this is a community, so the Wammies celebrate everyone. No-one absolutely cleans up, if you’ll pardon the pun. We’re never going to win Best Mud Scene, for example, and that’s fine!”

I take the opportunity to ask about the messy substances they use. Gunge World definitely has a sweet tooth, with plenty of games and sketches themed around bakeries, chocolate factories, and the like. But once in a while, a particularly unfortunate participant will get covered in something decidedly less pleasant: baked beans, pea soup, raw eggs, beef gravy. Mashed potato, even. I recall a particularly weird moment in which a confused nude competitor is pelted with bread rolls.

Do Alexa and Sally ever let things get savoury in the bedroom? “God no! It’s awful, nasty stuff. To tell you the truth, I don’t even like watching other people get covered in it. But it’s a very important weapon in my arsenal.”

How so? “Well, you know… most of our models are pretty into the fetish. But my job, you see, is to make people squeal. Really surprise them. So I need something as a proper threat, offer some jeopardy. It’s very much a power thing.”

Someone tell me why Dave Benson Phillips was 10x scarier than the Demon Headmaster???

@benedick_cumbersnatch, Twitter

I ask Alexa’s views on the Wam community as a whole. Her first instinct is to get excited and effusive about the people who make it a better place, especially female models and independent producers.

“There is a background level of shittery that every woman on the internet has to deal with. Double that if you are openly sexual in any way. Double that again if you are loudly feminist or progressive. It takes effort to swim against that current, and I think we’re on the right side of things. I hope. We could do better - one could always do better.”

We certainly agree on that. I pry a little, asking about controversies in the community that I might not be aware of. There is a silence. She doesn’t look uncomfortable, just deep in thought.

“I don’t want to excuse, or cover up, anyone’s bad behaviour. We’re absolutely in support of anyone who has been a victim. And we don’t work with dickheads. This is your piece, but for my money, it’d be a shame if it was about shitty people, rather than lovely sexy gungey people.”

Could we keep this bit off the record then, I ask?

“Ah… I suppose so.”

My recorder turns off for a few minutes, during which I hear tales of a few wrong ‘uns on the Wam scene. But really, I’m doing little here except indulging my own thirst for gossip, so we soon resume.

I’m feeling a little bolder by now, and I’m not a PR rep here to write a puff piece. GungeWorld’s cast is almost all women - what gender are the viewers?

There is a very slight sigh, and a shrug.

“Mostly men, though not all. Similar to other porn.”

Would it be fair to say that broadly, your stock in trade is humiliating women, for the gratification of men? Making them squeal, as you said earlier?

Alexa sighs again, but to her credit, takes the question head on. “Yes, broadly, it would. Obviously that’s something I grapple with. It’s hard to reconcile with being a feminist, certainly. Square peg, round hole.”

It’s not intended as a gotcha. I’m genuinely keen to know how that disconnect affects her creative process, and her feelings about it.

“I suspect that this will sound like a series of flimsy justifications,” she begins when invited to elaborate. “But the whole point of kink is that it’s inherently weird, or transgressive, or taboo. And for the majority of people, kinky sex and kinky porn is a healthy, pleasurable outlet for desires that might, absolutely, be problematic if followed elsewhere.”

Does she think watching porn with humiliation elements can encourage dangerous attitudes? I raise the worrying trend of teenage - or even younger - girls being sexually harassed, or pressured into sexual acts they don’t enjoy, by boys who’ve been watching hardcore stuff online. The rise of far-right misogynist influencers like Andrew Tate seems inextricably bound up with this, too.

“Yes, I do worry about that nasty trend, and I’ve heard some grim stories from teachers. And I bloody well hope no young kids are watching GungeWorld, obviously. One of the positives of fetish stuff, at least, is that it usually costs money, and that does create something of an age gate.

“But we know the desire is out there. Wam erotica will exist with or without us. And I hope that we’re among the best when it comes to consent, boundaries, et cetera. It’s very important to me that we help keep the standards high.”

She has another quiet moment. “I think if a teenage boy does find our show, though, he’ll see something playful, something enthusiastic. Those are both good instincts.”

This programme is only intended for viewers aged 18 and older.
It contains full nudity and sexual acts, including penetrative sex and group sex.
It also contains fetish content, focusing on gunge, pies, and other messy substances. Other common themes include roleplay, humiliation and bondage.
All participants are fully consenting adults and are paid for their time.
Please do not try to replicate at home any of the stunts or devices in this show - a lot of engineering went into making them safe.
Messy sex and play should always be careful and consensual. For a list of information and resources, visit gungeworld.com/help.

-Disclaimer at the beginning of every Gunge World video

Before arriving, I read the other waivers that Alexa sent me. There are eleven in all, each extremely rigorous. They are sorted by the level of “naughtiness”, a term which initially strikes me as too silly, until I realise I am struggling to find a better word for it.

On the PG end, nothing that couldn’t be shown on national TV pre-watershed: pies in the face, traditional gunge tanks, nothing poured or splattered into intimate areas. Then slightly saucier, even if still clothed: the territory of the bikini pie fight. Getting messy while naked comes next, though we’ve not yet reached messy sex: in this tier, you might get a pie in the pussy or gunge poured on your tits, but any groping, kissing or heavy touching isn’t covered. Even once that factors into the equation, there are separate signoffs for softcore, hardcore, sex with women, sex with men, sex with both, sex with many.

A cadre of Gunge World’s keenest models, the aforementioned horndogs, have signed the uppermost tier in perpetuity - they’re known as Main Cast. But, Alexa explains, that doesn’t guarantee they’ll be shagging in slop every episode. It doesn’t even guarantee they’ll get messy or naked at all.

The waivers lean heavily on the concept of “up to and including”. This, Alexa says, is essential to the frisson, the crackle in the air that GungeWorld aims for. Competitors genuinely don’t know if they’ll face prize-winning triumph or sloppy humiliation.

“You might stay clean and win a holiday, you might end up vibing your brains out under a shower of custard. All part of the fun.”

I return to the question of gender. Gunge World does have male performers, but it’s very rare for a game or sketch to be only men. If any guys get messy, it’s usually alongside a woman, and almost always as part of messy sex. It seems like the show doesn’t really want to gunge men at all. Pushing my luck a little, I ask: are the male models essentially just cocks to fuck the women with?

“Well, that’s quite the turn of phrase,” she says, a little spikily. “Yes, I definitely do like gunging women more than men, because I’m attracted to women. But lots of our models enjoy sex with guys, and lots of our viewers like co-ed content.”

She pierces me with that stare. “It’s hard to know what you’re asking of me, in terms of an alternative. Gunge more guys, in an effort towards gender equality? I think there is probably better praxis.”

A fair point, I say. Alexa’s shoulders lower, and she seems conciliatory.

“Gay male gunge porn is its own niche, and if I started trying to make that content, I’d feel like a huge fraud! It’d be arrogant. They understand that mode of desire so much better than me. They have their own tropes, their own trends.

“And, not to make sweeping generalisations, but women’s reactions to mess are just waaay funnier and sexier. The guys tend to take it rather calmly, even if they’re turned on. With the girls, there’s squealing, flailing, laughing, jiggling. It doesn’t compare, really.”

There certainly is a lot of jiggling. Of GungeWorld’s most popular models, a substantial proportion are substantially proportioned.

“We do welcome all shapes and sizes,” says Alexa. “But a lot of our models were already doing other adult stuff before trying Wam. And they do trend towards busty and curvy. So that’s the well we’re drawing from.”

It is played up to slightly though, I reply. I mean, you invented a game that’s specifically about pieing buxom girls in the chest.

A little smile and a bite of the lip, here. “Yeah. Fair cop. But if there is a finer sight than a pair of huge boobs getting slathered in cream, then honestly, I’m yet to see it.”

I pause, and a cheeky question bubbles up into my mind. Sally, your wife, is not the most well-endowed lady in the world. Does she resent your love of big breasts?

I’m expecting Alexa to bristle, but she doesn’t. “It’s different with your partner though, isn’t it? What’s that Magnetic Fields lyric? I don’t know if you’re beautiful, because I love you too much.”

From the prurient to the poetic - quite the conversational U-turn, I note. We both laugh.

“Look - Sally likes big honkin’ knockers as much as I do. So we both take the chance to enjoy them in this job. Is that objectification? Yes, probably. But we are actual pornographers, after all!”

me discovering gunge world: this is straight-up glorification of women’s humiliation. regressive misogynist trash
also me, still watching gunge world: woopsy doodle, i seem to be flicking my bean for the fourth time this afternoon, very curious

@anxious_train_enjoyer, Twitter

I’ve noted down Alexa’s mention of tropes in messy porn, which I’m keen to return to. Some of the things I’ve seen, especially in GungeWorld’s hardcore content, feel like a difficult fit with the talk of female empowerment. I mention a specific sequence, where a model called Faye is bound in ropes, suspended from a harness, and blindfolded. Two men douse her in gallons of gunge, smack her naked body hard with pies, then roughly fuck her in tandem, orally and anally. She’s left literally dribbling with semen and slime. It was, for me, an uncomfortable watch.

“Mmm-hmm. It’s certainly not for everyone, that scene. But I workshopped it with Faye - largely her idea. She’s very much into bondage, and she did say it was maybe the hardest she’d ever cum.”

What about the instalment of Barmy Bakery in which Violet is penetrated by a mechanical toy, while being doused repeatedly in fake semen, over her face and chest, by half a dozen realistic dildos? It feels like the ultimate in hyper-pornified, male-gaze centric, stimulation by degradation. And that’s before we even get to the seven-way lesbian tiramisu orgy that follows it. I count my personal feminism as sex-positive, but… really?

Alexa stares at my arched eyebrow, and considers her angle. “So the intent behind that… Barmy Bakery is a huge, over-the-top slopfest. And Violet is pretty insatiable when it comes to getting splattered - she was desperate to be on the roster for it. Almost too keen. So the tons of extra gungings, the fucking machine, the fake bukkake: it was an attempt to create a messy game so absurdly degrading, even Violet would think it was… a bit much.”

Did it work? “Not really. She said she’d do it all again in a heartbeat.”

There is another long pause, as Alexa tries to elegantly connect some dots. “Look, horny men helped buy me this studio. Yes, I am going to make stuff that they like. And in a crowded marketplace, you have to build a brand.

“Our brand is all about contrast. On the one hand, it’s rainbows and prizes and sugar and laughter. On the other, it’s humiliation and filthiness and punishment and domination. The further we push it, the deeper that contrast gets. And that’s what I love about it, where I find the creative satisfaction.”

There is another question on my mind about demographics, possibly a little more contentious than the slim/curvy body type spectrum.

There seems to be a kind of career ladder for GungeWorld models: those who play the biggest, sloppiest games, or act in the messiest slapstick sketches, are sometimes rewarded with a guest host episode: their chance to ask the questions, pull the levers, and crack the jokes.

(Inevitably, Alexa and/or Sally will return at the end to dish out a spectacular gunging to the temporary host, and reclaim their role for next time.)

Brandy, a sweetly naive redhead whose exasperation in the face of slime Alexa particularly enjoys, had the first guest spot. “Sort of an apology, because we really are mean to poor Brandy.”

Faye, the aforementioned fan of rope play, was rewarded for her up-for-anything attitude and snarky wit with an episode as host in the third series. The same series also saw northern lass Cassie enduring the final slopathon in every one of its eight episodes.

“That wasn’t planned or fixed, by the way. The rule was that the loser came back next week, and she really did lose the final game eight times. We were almost as baffled as she was.”

Cassie was duly rewarded for being such a good sport/hopeless stooge, and in the next season’s premiere, she took the helm, playing a pro-wrestling-style persona called Madame Goop. The character is all vague mysticism and flighty whims, with an eye-popping outfit and a comically bad French accent - Cassie really sells it. She also got to host a one-off summer special, with a custom-built set, an art-deco variation on the “kooky mansion” theme.

Alexa sees this as a sort of protégée system: though she doesn’t ever see herself stepping down from the very top, she does genuinely want to help others develop, and pay them more for their work.

The “successful” models mentioned above do all have something in common: they’re white. And though women and men of colour now feature more regularly, the early series were very pale-hued overall.

Alexa grimaces. “We’ve not done well enough on that front, historically. I have to hold my hands up there. I was definitely naive about the work you have to put in towards equality, both in fighting societal bias and that unconscious, personal bias. And we still need to do more. Which we are. The next crop of protégées will help address the balance.”

I concede that this seems to be a wider problem in porn. Many producers say that videos with models of colour tend to sell less. “I used to hide behind that excuse, shamefully. But it’s bullshit. We all have a responsibility here, and you can’t just blame it on the invisible hand of the market. That’s a cop-out. Do the work! Get excited about beautiful people of colour. Try a little harder to represent them in your content.”

I tell her I appreciate the honesty, at least. “Well, if our track record isn’t the best, honesty feels like a good place to start, doesn’t it?”

PSA: It’s kinda gross to call Black actors in erotica “chocolate beauties”. Unless you actually cover them in chocolate, like we do

@GungeWorldOfficial, Twitter

Reassured that pressing her on questions like this will not bring the interview to a screeching halt, I ask about other types of representation where the show has lagged, specifically trans, non-binary, and disabled models. “Still doing the work there as well. We’re not where I want us to be yet, but I hope we’ll get there.”

Alexa takes a moment to refill our coffees. On her return, we ramble off into an enjoyable chat that veers between sex positivity, slapstick comedy, and how the internet has been shaped politically. I start to discern the shape of her worldview: formerly a centrist liberal, she has slowly turned further left as the world seemed to drift in the opposite direction. She applauds the resurgence of union organising in recent years, and despairs at the current state of the Labour party, which she reckons to be “led by the human equivalent of margarine” - though she remains a member.

I feel I have done my duty as the hard-nosed interviewer, and Alexa has more than met me halfway, so it seems a good time to return to the softball stuff. What’s next, I ask, for GungeWorld? Every season seems to try and outdo the last in terms of bigger, better, messier. Is that getting more difficult?

“In a word, yes. But I expected us to run out of road a couple of years ago, and we haven’t quite yet. I’ve already got some ideas for next season.”

Do I get a sneak preview? “Hmmm. No specifics, sorry. But I think we’ll shift the approach slightly. The last couple of seasons, we’ve got quite carried away with big, complicated sets. Now, as an engineer, they’re super fun and satisfying to design. But it takes a lot of effort, and cost, and physical labour. And after a certain point, you do get diminishing returns. So probably a bit less of that.”

I say it almost seems a shame, given her talent for creating them: the Rube Goldberg of rude gungings, if you will.

She throws her head back. “Ha! Yes please, I’m having that. Love it!”

Any particular favourites? I mention being quite impressed by the sieve-like platform that lifted Sally out of a gunge-pit so that she could be tipped into another one.

“Yeah, definitely a fun one. And that was a vote among the cast - it could have been me getting it. Sally was outraged. Hee hee…”

Alexa mentions the Race Against Slime, an obstacle course comprising almost every possible way of getting messy, not least the final drenching in 200 litres of chocolate sauce. “The Choc Drop is the money shot, but I’m very fond of the bits leading up to it - the GMX, the Pick-A-Pie, the Swamp.”

So what’s up her sleeve, if not more tricksy devices? “Well, all the machines just go into storage, so we can always bring them out again. Not wasting all that effort! But like I said, bit of a different focus. More about how we surprise the cast, rather than what we surprise them with - if that makes sense. Time in the writing room.”

I remark that we keep coming back to that word ‘surprise’ - it seems to be a pretty core component of the GungeWorld brand.

“Absolutely. It’s fundamental,” says Alexa. “Going back to influences, that was what Noel always did so well. The surprise second gunging - Jenny Hull, oh my god, just perfect! - or the one for someone who thought they’d got away.”

Alexa sees her task as somewhere between those of a mystery writer and a puzzle game designer. Although the latter usually wants the player to ultimately succeed, “and I’m all about delighting in their failures. So it’s not quite the same.”

She gets somewhat philosophical at this point. “It’s definitely not just a Wam thing, though. Pranks and teasing have always been a form of bonding, or flirting - groups of mates, boyfriends and girlfriends, they play little mean jokes all the time. And it is quite irrational, because we shouldn’t really enjoy seeing someone we love experience this combination of shock and embarrassment. But we do, and it actually brings us closer. Human brains are weird.”

Well, nowhere is that more evident than in the fetish community, I say.

“Quite.”

Super. Look forward to having you with us. Yes, if you could bring along a copy of your waiver, that'd be great. I don’t do Docusign - paper and ink makes it feel more like a fair and proper agreement, I find. Other waivers are attached - please don’t circulate or post them online.

I’m sure the cast would be happy to chat, and there should be plenty of time in the green room beforehand - most of them will also be having a couple of gins, or the like. We do find it helps.

See you soon, Alexa

III: Going Live

Normally, when I sense an interview has come to a natural end, it’s a relaxing feeling. All that remains is to give the goodbye-and-thanks-so-much pleasantries, as photographers or publicists sweep the subject away. Today, the spooling down of conversation is instead accompanied by a mild, insistent dread.

I suppose I should give you this then, I say, fumbling in my backpack and emerging with the dog-eared basic waiver that my printer eventually consented to cough up.

“Thank you very much,” she says, plucking it deftly from my tensed hand. “Butterflies kicking in?” she asks with an amused but sympathetic smile. A little, I confess.

“Remember, there’s no guarantees either way. You might have a tremendously boring time.”

My eyebrows are high and skeptical. I suggest there is no way she would pass up the chance to have some fun with a journalist interloper.

“But would leaving you alone be funnier if everyone expects you to get it? Or perhaps I’ve been waiting to see if I liked your interview technique before deciding what we do with you?”

I instantly flash back to my fair, but uncompromising, questions earlier. “I enjoyed our chat, for the record,” she says, and I notice that something in her smile, her eyes, has changed.

The cameras may not be rolling, but now that my signature - my mortal soul on paper - is in her hands, Alexa is beginning to toy with me.

I realise I am blushing, and have said nothing for a long moment. “The others should be starting to arrive now. Shall we decamp to the green room? You said you’d like to speak to some of them.”

Perfect, I say, trying to regain a little professional poise. But as she leads me through several double doors, I am acutely aware we will be one step closer to the inner sanctum. There is just a little wobble in my stride.

The green room is very green, in more than one sense. The walls are painted deep emerald, with maroon accents, alongside a panoply of healthy houseplants, hardwood furniture and a gorgeous vintage patterned carpet. It gives confidence that this is indeed another gunge-free zone - you wouldn’t want to stain that shagpile. Along one side runs an illuminated art-deco bar, with two slim brunettes in tuxedos literally polishing glasses - for effect, possibly, but the effect is achingly cool.

There is a smattering of very beautiful women, and a couple of handsome men, all already armed with drinks, sitting in several loose groups. Most give friendly waves or nods to Alexa as we enter, looking infinitely more relaxed than I feel. I recognise Lettie, comfortably draped into a booth with two other ladies. Aoife is chatting with her partner Dev. They are perched on low stools by a circular table, sipping pints, as if they are just normal people who I have not watched messily fuck each other in HD.

The dress code is essentially “Saturday night on the town”, with a notable exception. One booth contains three women in spectacular cosplay. There is a gym-bunny blonde in a green skin-tight leotard and bright red knuckle-dusters; some sort of spider-queen skater girl with pigtails and serious underboob; and a frilly maiden in a striking crimson jacket, blouse and leggings.

My first guess is something from an anime: later - after they are joined by an astonishingly busty wrestler in a baby blue PVC peekaboo number - I will learn it’s Street Fighter.

“It’s a free bar,” says Alexa, “but do try not to get falling-down drunk, if you please. We’re doing the messy drinking games next month. What can we get you?”

The craft beer selection looks superb, but wary of the thought of burping on camera, I request a dry white wine. As it arrives, I remember that burping would, embarrassment-wise, probably be the least of my worries. Alexa informs me that in about forty-five minutes, she’ll gather up the newbies for a quick ground-rules session. In the meantime, I’m invited to join any group - they know what I’m here for, and she’s asked them to be nice.

More potential gungees filter in, as I put on the figurative trilby with press card tucked into the brim, and attempt to sparklingly ingratiate myself into the emerging little coteries.

After getting Aoife’s “surprise slopping” story, I turn to Dev, curious about what it’s like to be a rare man in the milieu.

“Well, best job in the world, obviously,” he grins, as his partner gently rolls her eyes. “I get to watch hot kinky ladies having fun, and sometimes fuck my hot kinky girlfriend. I’m the luckiest bastard alive, really.”

You’ve never been intimate with any of the other models? Aoife interjects, looking at Dev. “I wouldn’t mind, you know.”

Momentarily, I worry that I am stepping into a serious discussion about boundaries between the two of them. Thankfully, said boundaries turn out to be pleasantly fluid.

Dev turns to me and, matter-of-fact, says “She’s shagged plenty of other girls here. It’d be a little hypocritical if she minded, wouldn’t it darling?”

Aoife gives a look that says “aye, it would” through a deep draft of her pale ale.

“I think Alexa sees us as a couple, and books us on that basis. But if I were called upon, in service of the arts,” Dev says, starting to affect a corny thespian accent, with matching hand flourishes, “to put this humble cock to use in pastures new-”

Aoife snorts at his goofiness, and spits beer onto my arm. She spends the next twenty seconds trying to simultaneously apologise, and tissue-mop beer from me, her nose, and the table. Dev watches, clutching his stomach with laughter. I feel that if nothing else, I am adding to the vibe.

Best Negroni I’ve ever had in London… and it’s at a fetish porn studio. I love my weird life

@BigJoeXXX, Twitter

As I flit around, there is one question that is asked of me, without fail, and always with a wry smile. “So you’re in the audience?”

The first time it is posed, I ask Lettie if she knows something I don’t.

“I mean, no,” she says. “But… how much of the show have you watched?”

Plenty, I say. “OK. Then to be honest, you know as much as I do.”

I cannot stress enough how distracting it is when, as you try to casually interview people, you are also trying to work out whether they are all in on a grand conspiracy to cover you in gunge. But as promised, everyone is very nice. Even when I’m being teased, there is a comradely air. 

I encounter Faye, the pixie-cut sporting, bondage-loving New Zealander, and one of the models who has signed the highest tier of waiver, until further notice - Main Cast. I ask if she feels there’s a similar appeal between BDSM and Wam.

“Oh, totally. They’re cut from the same cloth, fetish-wise, for sure. It’s about being totally at the mercy of someone else - maybe that’s having the keys to your handcuffs, or the button for your gunge tank. Or both.”

What else keeps her coming back to GungeWorld? “I mean, the mess just feels really nice. It’s sweet, it’s sensual…”

If you’re lucky, I interject. “Fair point! I didn’t love the gravy gunging, that one time. But nobody ever gets too much of the nasty stuff.”

She considers the other selling points. “The anticipation, too. That feeling before the slime falls, or before you get dunked, especially if you’re not sure exactly when it’s coming - really, uh, gets the blood flowing!”

I can feel some of that, I say, and I haven’t even set foot in the studio yet. I don’t think I’m turned on by it, though. “I mean, there’s no obligation to be. Some people genuinely find it quite icky, but they come on the show once just for the experience, professional exposure, and a nice little payday.”

She pauses. “So you’re in the audience…?”

That question again. I ask Faye to estimate my chances of getting away clean.

“Honestly, if I was Alexa… and I had a journalist in the crowd… I mean, there’s no way I’d be letting that chance go to waste, know what I mean?” I tell her I have a suspicion she’s right.

“Are you on the basic waiver?” Yes I am.

“Well, at least if you do get it, it’ll probably be early on in the show, so you shouldn’t be on tenterhooks too long.”

A thought seems to suddenly strike her. “Though I do remember what happened to Cherry,” she says, with a teasing smile. This sounds ominous, I say.

“So she was first up, sits in the gunge tank, plays a little quiz game. And gets a pretty good sliming, of course. The thing is, Alexa made her stay in the gunge tank. For the whole show.”

And then? “And then between all the games and skits, Alexa would just come back and gunge her - sometimes twice, three times. Then she started doing it during the other segments. Like, ‘Question two, what is the - oh, wait a minute, can we gunge Cherry again please?’ It was relentless. I think she got it about 30 times that episode.”

My mouth hangs gently open. “But y’know. I’m sure that won’t happen,” she giggles. “I mean, she’s done that gag already, right?”

Before things kick off, I meet one more unique group among the throng - or, indeed, slightly apart from it. A private section in the bar is filled entirely with folks in matching outfits: a dark red boiler suit, monogrammed in gold with a classy “GW”, and sturdy but lightweight boots. Much like the whole group, a few men are dotted among the mostly-female crowd. The drinks on the tables are hot and caffeinated rather than fresh and boozy. This is the realm of the Stagehands.

Liana, a lithe Black woman with a striking smile and a long plait, acts as spokeswoman of the group. We sit at a small table in the corner of the private section, and I get the lowdown.

Everyone who does more than a couple of shows gets rotated into Stagehand duty. Their job, as you may have already guessed, is that of slop delivery. While GungeWorld prides itself on its over-engineered messy machines, there is still plenty of call for manual labour in the gunging department. They sling buckets, throw pies, pull levers and ropes, spin wheels of misfortune, and just generally have rather a nice time being on the right end of the equation.

“I mean, mostly,” qualifies Liana. “No guarantees, and I’ve definitely seen Stagehands suddenly picked on to get slopped. But not me, thankfully, and it’s pretty rare!”

They also seem to get a bit of collateral damage when the gunge starts flowing, I note. “Oh yeah. I mean, that can be kind of inevitable. All part of the fun, and it’s why we have these boiler suits…”

Every Stagehand gets paid the same for a recording - somewhere between the basic waiver fee and the hot and heavy pay. And there is of course another benefit, which is the reasoning behind the VIP section here in this bar: they are in on the joke. At this point, Alexa has already briefed them on all the games, skits, tricks and surprises that will befall today’s various contestants.

Is that why they’re herded into their own little private section? “Obviously we’re fine with keeping the secrets. It’s not like we’d just blurt out the briefing info if we were mingling in there. But I think Alexa likes to build a bit of camaraderie.”

Does it work? “I’d say so. It’s like being crew on a stage play. Though a pretty weird stage play, to be fair.”

I almost shy away from the next question, as it feels like cheating. But at this point, I’m too fascinated to refrain. She knows what might be in store for me, doesn’t she? To her credit, Liana maintains her poker face. “We know what’s in store for everybody.”

Sorry, I say - I had to ask. “No, of course. Obviously I can’t tell you. But if I can give some advice: try to relax. Easier said than done, I know.”

She leans in, conspiratorially. “Look, Alexa makes this big show of being the queen of mean. But she has a very good sense of what people are up for. I’ve never seen anyone come away from a show feeling really upset.

“And besides, sometimes the funniest gag is to subvert expectations. Innit?” An expert response: one that offers me a glimmer of hope but absolutely no real information.

finally persuaded my bestie @LusciousTilly to come and play at @GungeWorldOfficial - she didn’t know i would be the one throwing the slime buckets!!! LMAO best day ever

@SazzaSquirt, Twitter

The hour draws nearer. I order a second glass of wine, and while I chat with the barmaid, Alexa gently taps me on the shoulder. “I’m rounding up the newbies - are you OK to come and have your briefing?”

I assent, trying to keep my cool as I am plonked down in a booth, soon joined by three other women, including the crimson-jacketed Street Fighter I noticed earlier. We do introductions: the cosplayer is Rhian, a self-described “sexy online nerd” with a lovely, lilting Welsh accent. She was introduced to “this whole thing” by her friend, one of the other Street Fighters. There’s also Dana and Kit, two mixed-race girls from Brighton who’ve both done various fetish modelling gigs. “And this one looks like good fun,” says Kit.

Alexa takes her place at the head of the table, naturally, and brings her calm authority to bear. We cover waivers and plans. Rhian and I are both on the Basic, while Dana and Kit have consented to stripping off. I am the only one who’s not officially booked onto a game: the Street Fighter gunge showdown will be in the first half of the show, while Dana and Kit will be playing a messy game of Blackjack sometime in the second half. The Brighton girls and I will start the show in the audience: having cosplayers in the crowd looks a little strange on camera, so Rhian will wait backstage.

Ground rules are also run through. “First: have fun. Cheer, clap, be nice to your fellow performers. Or boo them, if we ask you to. There will be big signs held up, it’s not rocket science. But we do run on enthusiasm, so get excited. It’s a big, silly spectacle, enjoy it!” I like the positive start.

“And this extends to getting messy too. No hiding please! If you’re in a gunge tank, no ducking down so it goes over your back. And no covering your face from a good pieing. We know it happens by instinct sometimes, especially when things get very gooey. But you should know that excessive avoidance will be punished by extra mess, at my discretion.”

Well, that’s us told. I have seen this happen before: if someone doesn’t take their forfeit with good grace, they’ll either get more slop immediately, or brought back next time for a much messier experience. Or both.

“Next, today’s safe word. If you’re finding things a bit overwhelming, or you feel like this isn’t what you signed up for, we respect that here. Your safe word for today is Pikachu.”

This gets a giggle round the table, including from me. “Can you all remember that?” We nod.

“Now, bear in mind - the games and skits can be hectic and chaotic, and we’ll not be pausing all the time. So if you want out, say your safe word loud and early. It’s possible you may have to do so between pies in the face. But both I and the Stagehands will be listening out.”

Do the safe words get used a lot, I ask? “Honestly, barely at all. Usually it’s when people just need a break. Then back into the breach they go.” Fair enough, I nod.

“Boring but important, health and safety. All the equipment has been tested, and things have padding, and grippy surfaces, et cetera, to avoid any bumps or falls that could hurt. So please follow any instructions on where you should sit, or stand, or run, or jump. If you suddenly go off-piste we can’t account for injuries. Though obviously we have first aiders on hand.”

Finally, there is a diversion into personal hygiene that I wasn’t expecting. “After you’re done, the stagehands will show you to the showers. You’ll be pleased to know they’re very nice showers. Feel like that’s the least we can do.” Knowing glances abound.

“We have lots of nice soaps and gels with scents that work especially well on dairy. Take your time and scrub down more than once - you’ll thank yourself later. But be careful with your vagina - don’t use too much product, it can be harmful. Warm water is a pussy’s best friend.” That’s another sentence that I’ve definitely not heard before today.

“All of our mess should come out of clothes, and we’ll wash them for you. In the unlikely event of staining, we’ll replace them of course. I think you’ve all brought spare outfits, haven’t you?” 

We all have. “They’ll be ready if you’d like to rejoin the audience after getting messy. If you do get messy, that is,” she says with a pointed glance at me - I’m the only one whose fate is not set in stone. I wrinkle my nose, the other girls enjoying my discomfort and uncertainty.

“So. Any questions?”

For the first time today, I really don’t have any.

“Well then. Time to marshall the troops. Good luck everyone, and have fun. I know I will.”

So what do I do?
I’ve got a slightly sick feeling in my stomach
Like I’m standing on the top of a very high building
Oh yeah, all the stuff they tell you about in the movies
But this isn’t chocolate boxes and roses
It’s dirtier than that

“F.E.E.L.I.N.G.C.A.L.L.E.D.L.O.V.E.” by Pulp, 1995

IV: Showtime

And if you’d like to find out what happened, you can do so by subscribing to GungeWorld for the very reasonable monthly fee of £24.

Only joking, of course. I wouldn’t leave you hanging like that.

The plug is real, though. I know it seems dodgy, journalistic-integrity-wise. But the truth is, before I’d even met Alexa in person, I was already going to suggest that curious, adventurous, kinky readers give GungeWorld a try. Even - or especially - if you’ve never encountered this fetish, and thought Wam was just a badly-named tribute band.

Because I can guarantee it is unlike anything you’ve seen.

Full disclosure - as well as my appearance fee, I get a small and carefully-allotted cut of the subscription income, just as every guest does. I tried very hard to waive this, but Alexa refused outright. As far as she’s concerned, I’ve done valuable labour that should be compensated.

Even just by sitting in the audience. Which is definitely what happened next. Nothing messy or embarrassing. No siree. Perish the thought.

(I think Alexa’s propensity for teasing might have rubbed off on me a little.)

“Attention, dearest friends! Please proceed to the studio and take your places for this evening’s filming of GungeWorld.”

Alexa’s voice booms across the bar, and a hubbub begins. I am wished good luck by several of my interviewees as we file out, down a wide corridor.

There is a little ante-room in which we all remove our shoes and socks, a slightly odd moment that tingles my kink spider-sense. (Alexa graciously clarifies in a post-show email that it’s not specifically a foot-fetish thing - so no clarification at all, really.)

Barefoot, and grateful that my nails are at least presentable, I continue on with the crowd. We file past a large plastic sign on the wall. It is bordered with yellow-and-black danger-striping, and the letters are printed nice and bold.

STUDIO FLOOR
Past this point, you are at risk of getting messy. Don’t say we didn’t warn you.