wet and messy

When the others enter the space, it doesn’t look like a place where anything very dramatic is going to happen.



There are three tables along the long wall, all of them covered with sheets. There’s no way of telling what is beneath the sheets. There’s another table nearer the door, which is laden with tasty-looking snacks and glasses of red and white wine, plus bottles of water.



There are also some lights on stands with diffusers, directed towards the blank white wall at the opposite end from the door. There’s also a young man, about thirty, dressed in a white t-shirt and a pair of dark jeans, checking the sound system and the camera setup. He is average height, slightly built, with closely cropped hair.



The young man is me. I am avoiding the looks of the people coming in because I know, more or less, what is going to happen and I am nervous and excited and I don’t want to give away my excitement too soon. Whatever happens, I know that the most pleasure that the audience has will depend to some extent on the difference between my neat, unobtrusive, efficient demeanour at the beginning, and whatever state I end up in. Which, if all goes well, will be very, very different.



You welcome everyone as they arrive and you direct them towards the snacks and drinks. They know that they are here for something a little unusual and, knowing the kind of thing that you like to present, there is a buzz of anticipation and excitement.



You are, of course, smartly dressed in an expensively tailored shirt and dark trousers. You are the master here.



“Welcome,” you say to the people who have, by now, gathered inside the room, and who have primed themselves with drinks and nibbles to witness what is going to take place.



“I’m very glad you’ve all been able to make it,” you say.



“I know some of you have come a long way to be here this evening. You were all personally invited and I know that whereas you all know more or less what is in store this evening, none of you know the exact details of what’s going to happen. That’s the way it should be. WeÕre all here to witness something rather special. We’re going to witness the transformation of one young man into a piece of art — no more and no less. For this to happen, I’m going to have to ask you to obey a few rules. One is that I must ask you to not use any cameras, unless I have specifically given permission. Another, which is a bit more difficult, is that I must ask that nobody is to participate in the action, unless, again, I have specifically given permission. Neither of these rules is to say that nobody will be allowed to use a camera, or that nobody else may participate. Just that I reserve the right to demand that you refrain from either of these things until or unless I’ve said so. Okay?”



There is a murmur of assent. I feel hot inside my clothes. I don’t know how many people yet have worked out who you are talking about; who, exactly, is going to be the piece of living art on this occasion.



“Excellent,” you say, and as always I feel a pang of affection for the way you are looking out for me, the way you set the rules where I am concerned. For I do not want to be at anyone’s mercy but yours.



“Now,” you say, “I would like you to meet the young man who is to be the centerpiece of the action this evening. Alex, please step forwards.”



Blushing like a girl, shy and reluctant, I leave off checking the video cameras and I walk forwards, my eyes on you, as you smile at me and introduce me to the audience with a gesture. There is applause and a few discreet hoots and whistles. I notice the nature of the audience; it’s not just older men, but also some younger men, a few of them younger than me, and also some women, aged between about twenty and fifty. I can’t help noticing that some of the men and women are looking at me with unfeigned lust, or something like it. In the particular fetish that we are all concerned with, it’s hard sometimes to tell what a person wants to do with you. Sometimes it’s an innocent pie in the face. Sometimes it’s something more intimate. Sometimes it’s something not far short of full-on rape. In any case, I am well aware of what my status in the room is, and while I am your collaborator I am also the object of desire; whatever happens in this room this evening, I am at any rate the intended focus of it. I can feel the blush suffusing my face and I look at you shyly. You smile at me, and your confidence in me gives me courage.



“I think,” you say, “we should get started. Alex, is everything in place?”



I nod, and say a few words quietly, just loud enough for you to hear. You nod in return, one performer to another, and while you talk a little more I take the moment to turn on the camera and pull the sheets off the long tables.



As the contents of the tables are revealed to the audience, they give off little oohs and aahs. For beneath the sheets, the tables are laden with the ingredients for a very seriously messy evening.



There are pies and cakes and buckets of gunge and slop of all colours and textures. What there are not are buckets of anything savoury Ð you are a considerate master, and you are aware of the things that I find humiliating and the things that I find merely annoying or unpleasant. You have calculated the mess this evening to be an onslaught of gunge that I will not be able to resist. You want to break me down into a helpless target, and you have chosen carefully the weapons with which to do it.



“And now,” you say, “it’s time to begin. Alex, will you stand over there and get ready, please?”



I nod, feeling myself blush. I go over to the corner and remove my shoes and socks, then, barefoot, clad in a white t-shirt and dark jeans, I walk over to the blank white wall and stand in front of it, facing the audience with my arms by my sides.



“Excellent,” you say. The cameras have been running for some time now. The low murmur of talk in the audience dies away to silence. They are all watching me, waiting to see what you are going to do.



You walk over to a table and pick up a pie. My eyes follow you. I am careful not to let my face betray emotion. It’s crucially important that I remain as calm, as impassive, as dignified as possible to begin with.



You walk over to me, holding the pie carefully in one hand.



“I think we’ll begin,” you say, “with the simplest possible demonstration of the art.”



You look at me and I look at you for a moment, then look ahead, knowing what is about to happen.



You raise your arm and push the pie into my face. It is deep and creamy and sticky and I make a brief, muffled gasp as it fills my eyes and goes up my nose and folds around the front of my head. You push the crust upwards slightly, rubbing it in, so it’s sticking to my brow and less likely to fall straight off. This has the effect of revealing my mouth, but the rest of my face, the upper part, is still concealed beneath the pie goo and crust. I breathe deeply through my mouth, your passive victim, waiting for you to do something else.



“See how, when you are allowing yourself to be made into a work of art, you need to submit to the process,” you say. “Alex is a good submissive. He knows not to wipe the goo off, however uncomfortable it may be. It’s the responsibility of the artist to make sure that the artwork is able to breathe, and so on. A serious responsibility, and not to be taken lightly.”



There is a pause, during which I feel the pie crust sliding slowly down my face, covering my nose and mouth and finally falling off me and breaking apart as it lands on my bare feet. I blink, but I can barely see through the thick smears of goo and jam on my face. I see you coming back towards me with three pies. One you shove on my crotch, the other on my chest and the last one on my face.



I moan, this time, because I’m getting an erection inside my jeans and I know that it will soon become apparent that that’s the case. You are saying something about messing up the clothes, but then I feel you opening the flies of my jeans and pulling them down my legs. Beneath them, I am wearing tight white briefs. The pie falls off my face, taking some of the goo with it, and now that I can see a bit better I am able to step out of my jeans. You throw my dirty, sodden jeans in the corner and now I am wearing only a t-shirt and briefs.



You go over to the table and return with two jugs of custard. You make me turn away and face the wall with my hands on it, and then you open the seat of my briefs and pour some custard inside. It fills up the tight underpants and oozes into the crack of my bum, and I feel out seeping out through the crotch and pouring down my legs. Then you make me turn and face everyone again and order me to look up. I look up and close my eyes and gasp as you pour the other jug of custard over my face and it sloshes down my neck, over my t-shirt. You pull open the neck of my t-shirt so that some of the custard sluices down inside it. You open the front of my briefs and pour the last of it inside there too. The crowd is murmuring with excitement at the way my humiliation is getting more and more intimate.



I am ordered to remove my t-shirt and I do so. You go to the table and come back with two pies, which you place on each side of my head, sandwiching me. I gasp. You place another pie on the crotch of my pants, and it squeezes the custard up around my genitals. My briefs are now oozing yellow custard, cascading down my legs, and I feel the pies falling off my head and splattering off my shoulders, but I still can’t see. You make the situation worse by coming at me with a bucket of tepid, rather runny porridge and upturning it over my head. The grey sludge covers my head and streams down my bare chest and back and legs. You leave the upturned bucket over my head for a moment and I can see nothing Ð I am standing before the audience wearing only my dirty, gooey white briefs and the bucket over my head, the grey porridge sludging over my bare chest and dripping off me.



“As you can see,” you say, “Alex is now primed, like a canvas, to receive whatever we want to give to him. But there is one special final procedure we have to go through before he will be totally ready.”



I feel the bucket being taken off my head and I blink, but the grey sticky porridge is clinging to my face and there’s already enough pie cream and custard and jam on my face to blind me. So I do not know what you are doing, and only when I feel your hands pulling my wrists behind my back and handcuffing me do I know what is about to happen.



“This is the part that most of us are not able to endure,” you say, “although Alex is experienced at it, and that’s why he is here today allowing us to put him through this. I assure you that whatever he says, however reluctant he seems to be, this is what he wants to happen. The strictest codes of discipline are enforced.”



And then you roll down the hem of my briefs, just a little bit, so that they’re down below my waist, riding my hips.



This is the point where what you said wasn’t entirely true. I may be used to you doing this to me in private, or even on a camera. Never before have I allowed you, or anyone else, to strip me nude in public. This, for me, is the first step towards ultimate humiliation.



“Oh no,” I gasp.



“Shall we do more?” you say. There are cries of “Yes!” and “Strip him!” from the audience. Quite a few women whoop with joy. And a couple of men.



You pull my filthy, sodden briefs down a little further, uncovering more of my hips, so that my bum behind me is actually half-uncovered, although turned away from the audience. By now it is really only covering my genitals, the only thing which is preserving the remotest part of my modesty. I squirm a little.



“Oh no, please . . .” I say.



“He wants it!” shouts a woman’s voice.



“What is it you don’t want?” you ask slyly. “Tell us exactly.”



“Please . . .” I whimper, “please . . . don’t strip me naked . . .”



And then, slowly but inexorably, you slide my tight, sloppy briefs down over my bare hips, first uncovering my bum behind me, as I keep up a constant moaning whimper:



“Oh no . . . no . . .please, no . . .don’t take them off . . . please don’t do this to me . . . . oh please, no . . . oh please . . .” but it’s useless, because as they uncover the sides of my gluteals the front of them is going lower and lower, pulling my stiff cock downwards until finally it bounces free as I gasp.



“Oh God!”



You strip me nude before the audience, exposing me and shaming me. My pants slide down to the floor and when I am finally nude there are cheers. I step out of them and then almost immediately I feel you placing them upside-down on my head, covering my face with the messy seat of them and humiliating me.



Now I am nude and vulnerable and messy among strangers. Anything might happen. And because I am handcuffed and at your and their mercy, anything probably will. I know that they are looking at my slender nude body, taking in the sight of it, enjoying the fact that I have allowed you to strip me completely and mess me up in public, that I am offering my body to them for their entertainment, giving them the memory of this evening Ð and indeed more than the memory, because they will be going home with DVDs of the whole evening so that they can watch it again and again and bring themselves to arousal at the sight of me being stripped nude and messily humiliated.



I stand, trembling slightly, aware of their gazes on my naked body, my gooey sticky briefs covering my face, and then I moan as I feel thick gunge being poured over my head and inside the briefs, making the fabric cling to my face and adding to my humiliation. There is nothing whatever I can do Ð I am blinded and my hands are cuffed behind me. I could try to hide, but it would be useless. I lift my pants-covered face and moan louder as the thick, sweet-smelling gunge drenches my head and slithers down over my body. My cock is sticking straight out ahead of me.



I hear you talking, but the sticky fabric and thick gunge on my head muffles the sound and I can only make out something about punishment and acceptance. Then I feel you lifting the briefs off my head and I breathe gratefully. You wipe my face with them a bit and my vision clears. I look at the audience, blinking, shamed, and I can see them watching me, riveted and aroused. A few of the men are fondling each other’s crotches and some of the women are doing the same thing.



Briskly, before I can get used to being able to look at them, you go to the table and return with a couple of pies which are slapped in my face. Then before I can shake my head to dislodge them, I get another one in the crotch Ð it oozes around my hot, stiff penis and balls and I whimper with pleasure.



The pies fall from my face and I blink through the mask of cream, just in time to see about six members of the audience standing in a row, each of them with something in each hand — I only have a moment to gasp no, please, before they throw, and I instinctively shrink back a little before the pies splatter over my naked body. Most of them are not well-thrown and land on my torso and legs, but one hits me on the side of the face. I gasp and when I straighten up, there is another, better-thrown barrage — this time I get two square in the face, in quick succession, stinging me and forcing pie goo up my nose and into my startled, open mouth as well as filling my eye sockets.



And then for a while there is nothing but that, just a succession of pies thrown at me while I stand naked and handcuffed and helpless to stop them. You interrupt it at one point to turn me around and they land on my back and bare bottom too, until after a few minutes I am a sodden snowman of pie goo and crust. You seal this by bringing four pies over and planting one on each side of my head, another on top and a fourth in the face, so that my head is totally enveloped in pie. It is dark and silent and I moan into the thick coating of pie crust and goo covering my face, squirming gently.



Now I have been comprehensively deluged with pies, utterly destroyed by them, as messy a pie slave as the greediest, horniest audience member could hope for, but of course you are not finished. You are nowhere near finished. I am still squirming slightly and moaning with shame when I feel you unlocking my handcuffs.



I am relieved, and then I feel you pressing some kind of rubber kitchen implement into my hand. I shake my head and the pie crusts fall off, and then I use the kitchen tool to start scraping the worst of the pie gunk and gunge off myself.



At this point, I have all but gone beyond ordinary shame and humiliation. As soon as I’ve got the goo off my face and can see, I am aware of the audience watching intently as I clean myself up, ready for the next round. The gunge is splattering off my body as I scrape at it and falling in a thick pool of sludge around my ankles. The more I scrape at myself with the squeegee, the more bare flesh I re-expose and soon I am no longer a blurry white snowman but once again a recognizably pink and naked young man, albeit still a very dirty one, besmeared as I am with streaks of melting whipped cream and bits of porridge and cake batter. It’s tangled in my hair and wedged into all the nooks and crannies of my body.



When I am at last reasonably myself, you give me the nod and I go to one side to one of the tables, which has by now been emptied of pies and gunge. The other two tables are still heavily laden. This first table, about nine feet long and three feet wide, is on wheels, and I wheel it to a position in front of the wall. It also has tough nylon straps that fasten with velcro, one at each corner.



I place this table so that one narrow end is facing the audience, then I lock the wheels and climb onto it and lie down on my back, then I raise my arms so that they are stretched over my head. You come over and fasten each of my wrists into the straps on each side, then you strap my ankles into the other straps. I am now strapped down on the table, flat on my back, my legs forced apart, my arms spreadeagled, utterly exposed and helpless.



You invite the audience to gather around and soon they are standing in a circle around the table, looking down at me.



“As you can see,” you say calmly, “a truly submissive gunge slave makes an excellent centerpiece for an evening’s entertainment. I invite you to express yourselves freely in how you choose to decorate him. You may use any of the materials on table two.”



I look up at the audience which is staring down at me hungrily, and I flush with shame and tremble with a little nervousness and arousal. My cock, which had grown somewhat flaccid from the routine nature of cleaning myself up and moving the table, is now erect again and half the audience can’t keep their eyes off it, while the other half is trying not to look at it.



It doesn’t take a second invitation. Already some of them have gone to table two and returned. A handsome middle-aged woman starts spraying whipped cream over my bare chest and stomach, while a distinguished-looking bearded man with twinkling eyes takes pleasure in slowly pouring a jug of beaten eggs over my crotch and watching the yellow fluid slithering over me while I squirm, whimpering in protest. In a way, I can’t believe you are letting them use me like this but I realize that you are in charge and that nothing will happen without your consent. Still, I am in the hands of strangers and although part of me is delighted to be giving them so much pleasure, another part of me is crimson with embarrassment that they are seeing me like this and doing this to me.



I am decorated with cherries, more whipped cream, squirted with chocolate sauce. Oil is poured over my crotch after the eggs. The more ornately decorated I become, the more aroused the audience seems to be getting, and one or two of them can’t resist stroking me and touching my cock and feeling between my legs, although you invariably murmur a word of mild reproof and they laugh guiltily.

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