While you sit out Storm Doris, here’s a glimpse of sunnier times ahead. Contains explicit scenes and some male WAM.
Katie’s high heels hit the tarmac before she’d applied the handbrake. She dashed to the mirrored double-doors, to find Derek loafing in his little cubicle, the antithesis of her urgency. A heavily pencilled Racing Post lay on his desk; the first fixture at Newbury unfolded on TV. No question what this watchman was watching.
“Uh-hmm!”
The middle-aged guard jumped. Initially he failed to recognise the scientist, so removed was her fiery scarlet dress from the sober blouses and trousers in which she passed him weekdays. Her flowing auburn locks likewise contrasted her customary pragmatic bun.
“So what’s been taken, Derek?” she demanded.
“Oh, it’s you, Doctor,” he croaked. “Off to a wedding?”
“A garden party. What’s been taken?” Katie’s terse manner hadn’t clocked off for the weekend.
Derek shrugged. “Hard to say, Doctor.” His leisured West Country drawl maddened her. “I’m no expert in this scientific stuff, me. Goes right over my…”
Not waiting for the punchline, Katie marched down the corridor to see for herself. Derek hobbled after on his gammy leg.
“When did it happen?” came her next question, not looking over her shoulder.
“I did the rounds first thing and all was fine; must’ve been since then,” Derek wheezed. “Dunno why I didn’t hear anything.”
“Betting shop out of earshot?” Katie muttered inwardly.
The laboratory’s air-conditioning was in overdrive, battling the sweltering July air that breezed through a paneless window. Much of the former pane crunched under Katie’s heels. Cables dangled nakedly where computers and centrifuges had been ripped out, papers scattered. A liberated rat zipped across Katie’s path, but she advanced undeterred. Approaching a refrigeration unit – the moment of truth – she yanked it open.
Jars of yellowish-white stood in their proper place. Several times Katie counted: …four, five, six! All there. But had they been switched for duds? She unscrewed a lid.
A rich, velvety fragrance, embellished with citrus overtones, wafted out. An agreeable smell in mundane times, presently it sent Katie to olfactory heaven. For the first time since Derek’s phone-call, she breathed easily. Evidently this break-in was the work of an opportunistic burglar, not a contract thief. The intruder had bagged a few grands’ worth of equipment, but missed the real prize.
She frowned at the bare window-frame. “Can we get that boarded up ASAP?”
“Not ’til Monday, Doctor.” Derek rubbed his stubbled chin. “Jim from maintenance, he’s gone to his granddaughter’s christening, y’see…”
Katie was exasperated. How could she enjoy her weekend when months of work – and potentially millions of pounds – sat unprotected? She glanced from jars to handbag. Taking material off-premises contravened company policy, but if she returned it first thing Monday, who’d know? And the refrigeration issue? Home was too far. The party venue, however, was only ten minutes’ drive.
“You get back to your horse-racing, Derek. I’ll straighten up here.”
Fifteen minutes later, she sidled past the cubicle. Her handbag clinked excruciatingly, and nothing would quieten it. She cringed. Despite Derek’s laxity, he could always be astute when to her disadvantage.
Clink.
Sure enough the codger heard. “Taking a bottle or two?”
Katie froze. “I, err…was, um…”
Derek grinned. “Sounds like you bought the whole off-licence.”
Ah, he thought it was booze for the party. “Mineral water, I assure you,” she smiled coyly, clinking onwards.
“And I rode Red Rum at the National,” chuckled Derek. “Still, a good splash don’t harm, does it?”
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“You’ve overdone it with the desserts, Mel,” Florence frowned, rescuing the latest batch of pastry cases from singeing in the oven.
Mel pulled out an earphone. “Pardon?”
“These sweets. The mere sight is putting pounds on me.”
Florence stood at the back door, shaking her head at the veritable patisserie that was developing outside. Raspberry coulis glistened atop velvet cheesecakes; custard lapped in imperious pitchers; jam doughnuts bled like battlefield casualties under the searing sun. Frosting undulated like psychedelic sea-surf, breaking upon walnut rocks. The smoked salmon sarnies and other savouries clung to a lonely corner.
“Better to have what you can’t eat, than to eat what don’t have.” Mel lavished fondant, vibrant as her purple hair, into the cases, an apron guarding her low-cut navy dress from stray flecks. Slyly she perused Florence’s figure – hips and buttocks impressed with motherly stoutness on the chintzy rose-print frock, shoulders lightly dappled. Yet a certain zest, a sprightliness – exemplified by her smouldering red hair – defied Florence’s maturity.
How long since Mel had been with a woman? Never with one two decades her senior, for sure. And now, furnishing two Bakewell tarts, white and round, with a firm cherry at their centres, she couldn’t banish the image.
“What a day for it,” gushed Florence, probably alluding to activities more genteel in nature. She surveyed the lush lawns, besplashed with marigolds and rhododendrons, resplendent under an oceanic sky. “Perfect for enjoying one’s grounds.”
Mel smirked. Florence was sitting this great house for a distant and wealthy relative, but indulged the fantasy that it was her own.
“Know who lives next-door?” Florence boasted. “Brooke Kelley.”
“Thought this was a classy area,” Mel retorted.
“And you call me the snob…”
The doorbell’s chime halted their good-natured squabble. “Ah, one’s guests are arriving!” Florence trotted up the hallway. “Well hello! You must be…”
“Katie – Alice’s friend. Sorry I’m early.”
“No worry, dear! Delighted to meet you.” Florence launched into small talk, while Katie inwardly squirmed with impatience. Her cargo needed cooling, and fast. It dawned that she faced a tricky social opener:
“Excuse me, hostess, may I pop something in your fridge?”
“What is it, dear?”
“Nothing really. Just a prototype sex serum.”
Another car arrived, distracting Florence and sparing Katie this clanger. She slipped past and located the kitchen. Mel laboured over a mixing bowl, back turned and earphones in. Katie eased open the fridge and transferred the jars of yellow-white goo into a discreet corner, Mel remaining oblivious to her presence. She nudged the door shut – mission accomplished.
The aforementioned car had brought Alice and Johanna. A black corset hemmed the former, breasts burgeoning like buns in a basket, joined by a micro-skirt, fishnet stockings and matching fishnet opera gloves – attire better befitting a bondage bash than a garden gathering, but anyone who knew Alice knew this was Alice. A small, carnation-bearing hat perched atop her cropped, brown hair, a token touch of decorum. Johanna, her sandy-haired companion, was dressed far less fetishistically (ironic given she was German) in an emerald-green gown.
While Florence fixed them with drinks, another car brought Charlotte and Mark. Brunette Charlotte stepped out bashfully, conscious of the plunging (so she thought) neckline of the sky-blue number Mark had persuaded her to wear. Clocking Alice’s outfit, she relaxed, feeling positively chaste by comparison. Mark, bearded and bespectacled, cut a dapper profile in cream dinner jacket and black bow-tie.
Then Marie, dark-haired and porcelain-skinned, arrived à vélo. She removed bicycle-clips from her mauve frock, letting its folds billow like petals. She met face to face with Johanna over an expanse of Belgian chocolates and Dutch waffles; the pair were prone to a spirited, if tongue-in-cheek, Franco-German enmity.
Corks popped and cakes were cut. Everyone tucked in and made merry. Alice introduced the stranger. “Mark and Charlotte, this is Katie, an old friend.”
“Pleasure,” said Mark. “What do you do, Katie?”
“I’m a pharmacological chemist,” Katie replied. Charlotte and Mark bluffed sageness.
“Way to make it sound dull,” Alice tutted. “Katie is a bedroom boffin, a saucy scientist!”
Katie rolled her eyes. “What Alice means is I’m developing a serum to boost the libido. To help long-married couples rekindle their spark, that kind of thing.”
“Isn’t there Viagra for that?” enquired Charlotte.
“No no, this serum boosts the software, not the hardware.”
“Won’t be much software once you’ve taken this stuff!” Alice quipped.
Katie sighed. “I mean the brain. The serum heightens sensuality and desire. Or so it’s supposed to; unfortunately the compound rapidly transmutes at room temperature, and its effects change from erotic to erratic. When given to lab-rats, they splash about in their water and kick sawdust at each other.”
“Imagine that,” said Charlotte, glancing knowingly at Mark. “It might make us smear these goodies all over each other’s bodies.”
Mark blushed. He’d divulged his WAM fetish to Charlotte some time ago, but it was atypical of his close friend to embarrass him over it. Indeed, such brazen talk typically embarrassed Charlotte herself. Only an hour ago, she’d fretted over an inch of cleavage; now she partook in profanities over profiteroles.
But she wasn’t the only one. From Alice, tongue scooping the melted residue of a sundae; to Marie and Johanna, sizing up pastries as they bickered over bratwurst versus boudin blanc; to Mel and Florence, chuckling as they brought out yet more treats; “wamminess” mingled with the bees and butterflies. Even he felt “wammier” than normal. Only Katie remained aloof in her scientism.
Was it the balmy heat? The Pimms? Or was it…?
“Cheesecake?” Florence proffered, to eager demand.
“Too bad I’m lactose intolerant,” Katie lamented. “Looks delicious, like everything else.”
“It’s exquisite,” Charlotte confirmed. “It’s got the same lemon flavour as the profiteroles. Mmmm, I could stuff my pants with it!”
Had she just…?! Mark gawped; he must have misheard.
“There was Lemon in this sundae, too,” Alice noted. “Good thinking to drizzle it in” – white and pink dripped from her chin – “sticky and fresh.”
Even from Alice, this was laying it on thick.
“Actually it’s lemon-flavoured cream,” Mel revealed. “Where’d you buy it, Florence? I must get me some; I bet it’s a great accompaniment to nipples.”
Nipples! She said nipples!
Florence, fondling a cinnamon swirl, stopped and frowned. “What lemon cream?”
“It was one of the fabulously gooey ingredients in your fridge,” Mel insisted. “Yellow stuff in jars. No label.”
Katie turned stony-faced. “In the lower-left corner?”
Mel pondered. “Yes, behind the gloopy trifle. Why d’you ask?”
Katie’s mouth went dry, wanting of words to break the troubling truth. But in any case, raised voices caught the group’s attention; the diplomatic spat between Marie and Johanna was escalating to physical conflict.
“You have chocolate on your face,” Johanna grimly told Marie.
Marie touched her mouth. “Where? ’Ere?”
“No.” Johanna picked up a slice of chocolate cake. The responsible compartment of her brain – the German part, which valued exactitude and efficiency and things running to timetable – urged restraint, but an inexplicable compulsion overrode it.
Marie, impatiently, touched a cheek. “’Ere?”
“No. Here,” said Johanna, rubbing the cake into Marie’s lower face.
Marie’s precious Parisian persona might have stormed to the bathroom at this cosmetic outrage, but a primal craving, strengthening by the second, compelled her to reciprocate. “I’m most grateful for your telling me,” she said stiffly, ganache smeared around her mouth. “But I’m afraid you ’ave fruit salad on your blouse.”
Johanna studied her green frock, bemused. “Vhere? I’m not seeing anything.”
“Look ’arder,” answered Marie, upending fruit salad over Johanna’s chest. Slices of watermelon, mango and kiwifruit tumbled over the frock’s folds. Green fabric darkened from the juice and clung to Johanna’s substantial bosoms.
Trembling, Mark discreetly began videoing on his phone. He needn’t have hidden his excitement; the others were as hooked as him.
“How kind of you,” said Johanna, striding to the beverage table. “I owe you a drink.” She returned with a can of Guinness, which she opened over her rival’s head. The brownish foam glugged out, turning Marie’s dark locks lank and soaking her dress.
“Pah!” Flicking back her sodden hair with Gallic obstinacy, Marie selected a jug of custard, so weighty it wobbled in her grip. “Let me serve you dessert.” Bright yellow splattered lumpy at first, then flowed smoothly, coating Johanna’s head. The Fräulein stood in comic deadpan, even as the goo ran down her fringe and forehead and encroached over her eyes.
Katie quietly backed away to the kitchen, partly to check the fridge and confirm her fears, and partly so she’d be well clear when the carnage really started.
Said mayhem wasn’t far away. While Marie admired her handiwork, Johanna, with slapstick slowness, parted her fringe like yellow curtains from her eyes. She took a pitcher herself – this one brimming with semolina.
“On her tits!” shouted Alice.
Obliging, Johanna pulled out Marie’s flowing frock. The mademoiselle’s pert bust beckoned, ensconced in a sleek, black bra. Fixing her adversary sternly, Johanna transferred from jug to jugs. Marie, like Johanna previously, remained impassive under the onslaught, though not without twitching and flinching at the surging off-white paste, some of which plopped from the hem around her feet.
The semolina jug was finished, but Johanna’s turn was not. Pressing Marie’s dress with a squelch, she seized a loaded bowl of trifle and crowned her opponent, spurting white cream over dark hair.
Retaliation was in order. Mustering what aplomb she could, Marie lifted the bowl, causing layers of fruity goo to tumble down her hair. Her right hand shook a canister of whipped cream; her left lifted Johanna’s dress to midrift, revealing tight pink panties and a moistening line along the Fräulein’s lips.
Qu’est-ce que tu fais!?! The voice of reason still appealed in Marie’s skull, but distant and muffled now. The serum was working in full effect, stoking an insatiable craze. The last vestiges of rationality fading, Marie shrugged and inserted the nozzle into Johanna’s panties. The German neither struggled nor protested; she too lay under the spell. The spectators were no less afflicted, sniggering and egging Marie on. Mark could scarcely contain his excitement, and his trousers his erection, as he zoomed in.
Marie pressed the button. Cream gushed with a carnal hiss. Within seconds the panties expanded, before white streams shot out at the legs. Johanna’s composure gave out. A loud “OOOOO!!” escaped her lips – a blend of nerve-jangling torment and sensual bliss.
British intervention was called for. “Ladies, this has gone far enough,” said Florence, as she and Mel approached. Her tone was stern but her eyes spoke mischief. “Enough of fighting – it’s time to sit down and talk.”
Mel duly positioned chairs behind the troublemakers, a hefty Black Forest gâteau resting on each. She hitched up the pair’s dresses, wolf-whistling to discover Marie clad in a very skimpy thong that left her rounded brioches exposed. Florence pushed the feuding pair down, seating them in the gâteaux. A graphic squelch and brown, white and crimson flew in all directions. Marie’s eyes gaped as her bare buttocks met the cold, velvety goo, while a wave of white cream splurged from the Johanna’s waistband.
“Ah, Schwarzwälder Kirschtorte!” remarked Johanna, identifying by texture alone.
Marie ventured a Gallic grumble at the cake choice, but was cut off when Florence and Mel emptied jugs of coloured cake batter – green over her own head, blue over Johanna’s. The standing women then took a creamy white pie each. They sized up their seated victims, but their glances connected and betrayal clicked. In a mixture of attack and pre-emptive defence, each swung her pie at the other. Mel hit Florence first by a fraction, but it didn’t stall Florence’s pie from slamming into her own face.
The pair staggered back, their faces white and hair haloed. Marie and Johanna seized the upper hand. Taking to their feet, they positioned two crèmes brûlées (Marie insisted on a French dessert this time) on the chairs and brought Mel’s and Florence’s bums smashing through the glaze and into the sticky yellow beneath. Coloured pies followed; Marie sandwiched Mel’s head with blue and red, which with the white created a Tricolore, while Johanna, likewise nationally inspired, smeared yellow and black into Florence’s red hair. Then came the rice pudding, jugs positioned over heads and poured. Not that Florence and Mel minded much – they squealed and laughed as the lumpy goo oozed over their hair and slid down their backs.
Mark had to pinch himself; had he really woken up this morning, or was today a thoroughly awesome dream? Here before him were the milfy Florence, delicate young Marie, punkish bisexual Mel and busty Mädchen Johanna, all engaged in saucy slapstick. And a bigger surprise awaited: while Mel and Florence struggled to their feet, his reserved friend Charlotte armed herself with two meringues and, yelling “FOOD FIGHT!!”, launched herself into the mêlée.
Had the visual feast not engrossed him so, he might have noticed Alice sneaking up behind him. “Quite the David Bailey, aren’t you?” She yanked him away by the ear, dragging a trolley with the other hand. Mark knew not to defy Alice in one of her domineering moods. And at heart, he didn’t care to.
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Five empty vessels on the worktop, another half-empty in the fridge – Katie’s fears were confirmed. Through the kitchen window the clamour intensified. She couldn’t quantify how much serum had been ingested, nor how badly the heat had corrupted its composition. There was no telling where this would end.
She couldn’t call work; she’d be fired. Police and ambulance were possibilities, but she was stumped for what to say. Maybe the fire brigade – that lot out there could use a hosing d—
SPLATT!! A jam tart shattered on the window, leaving a red circle flecked with pastry. Red for danger. The thrower’s chestnut eyes and bared teeth glinted manic under batter and cream. The French girl, Katie guessed. Not that it mattered – her citizenship was of a primaeval cult now.
Marie, armed with a cache of confections, scuttled away from the window, heading towards – oh shit! The back door!
Katie dove and twisted the key, just in time.
The handle rattled. “Come out, mon amie! Play with us!”
Katie fled up the hallway. She’d go to her car, drive somewhere safe and figure out what to do. She opened the front door. An equally messy Johanna was waiting behind it. “Vhy are you afraid?”
Katie slammed the door, but Johanna jammed it ajar with an icing piper. Yellow spurted over Katie’s dress. She shrieked at the familiar lemon fragrance. She couldn’t let the serum get on her face; a mere speck in the tear duct could dope her. As icing continued to fly, she bolted up the stairs. Johanna entered and gave chase, Marie close behind.
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While German and Frenchwoman buried rivalry in their common quest, and Alice cajoled Mark to his fate, Charlotte was getting groovy. The serum had hit her heavy, like cider to a fourteen-year-old, dissolving inhibition and releasing all that pent-up passion. Her dress came off and flew into the air with a “woooo!!” Sensible undies were likewise tossed. She was starkers, and cared not a jot.
Taking a run-up, she belly-flopped onto a table. Her front smashed into a sheet-cake, fondant smothering her chest and abdomen. Momentum carried girl and cake along the table, her heedless face collecting confections as she went. She rolled onto her back, smearing herself with the spilt goodies.
As Mel and Florence looked on, bemused despite their own intoxication, Charlotte snatched a towering stack of pies and legged off to a shrubbery, her hysterics echoing into the yonder.
“Well she’s come out of her shell,” Florence whistled, watching the girl’s sullied bum disappear into an azalea.
Something barged behind Florence’s knees. She tumbled backwards, landing on her arse in a wheelbarrow. Inverted in Florence’s vision, Mel grinned down, brandishing a pudding basin from which gooseberry fool surged forth, disarming any attempt Florence might have made to flee. Spluttering her mirth in the pale green goo, Florence’s body flopped in the barrow, legs kicking ineffectually. The floral dress crumpled in ungainly fashion, shoulder-straps slipping.
Mel gazed at the growing slice of mature cleavage, those stirrings she’d felt in the kitchen returning. Heart aflutter, she drew back the flower-print fabric. The white bra helpfully had a front clasp, which Mel utilised. Florence’s breasts were truly splendid – two squat round knolls, firm despite her years.
Mel plucked a slither of ice from a Pimms jug. Holding it like an artist’s crayon, she encircled the generous areola of Florence’s left nipple. Under gooseberry goo, Florence sighed softly as the ice skirted the bumpy ring.
“Quite the lady of the manor, aren’t you?” Mel murmured. Having patrolled the perimeter, she progressed to the central tower. The ice began to melt and a drip clung to the pink teat as she coaxed it to attention. She repeated with the right nipple.
“Lady of the Manor” – she clutched the Bakewell tarts that had inspired her earlier fantasy – “or Lady Muck?”
Tarts were squished into bosoms, turning Florence’s muted moans to playful squeals. Mel massaged, marvelling at the mechanics of the milf’s mammaries. She peeled off pastry, leaving two smeared circles of white, cherries substituting the nipples, like clown make-up for boobs.
The dress was slipping at the other end, too, exposing firm thigh. Mel leant over her captive, letting her own attire loosen enough that braless nipples peeked into view. She folded the dress past Florence’s hips, revealing large daisy-print knickers – prim, proper, perfect.
Two Knickerbocker Glories (what could be more apt?) were emptied into the leg-holes. In slid ice cream and fruit syrup and nutty fragments, eliciting ejaculations (of the verbal kind, maybe more) that Mel had scarcely imagined from her priggish older friend. Another helping of rice pudding followed into those knickers, enveloping underneath Florence’s buttocks. The undergarment swelled until the waistband breached, sending a wave of pink-swirled white over Florence’s navel. Her body spasmed in the barrow as she cackled uncontrollably.
Having filled those pants, Mel slid them up and away. She beheld Florence’s slit, embossed in the mess, flanked by matted pubes. She next selected an éclair, firm and lengthy, sticky chocolate on its upper face and cream beckoning from its cleft. Florence exclaimed at its insertion, but Mel pacified her with a smile. The growing wetness, together with the chocolate, lubricated the pastry as Mel slid it in and out of the love-tunnel.
Florence, gripping the wheelbarrow’s sides, moaned in time to the strokes. The serum’s hold on her had progressed from giddy buzz to fuzzy mellow. Her head rolled to one side and she gazed across the lawns – hot, humid, bustling yet lackadaisical. Two damselflies mated on a leaf. The sun warmed the goo on her cheek and breasts, releasing a medley of aromas. Body, mess, aromas and all, overspilt the barrow and floated across this paradise, filling the green expanse and merging as one with all it contained. Merging as one with Mel, who too was swept up in this serene euphoria, as she worked the éclair in and out… in and out… in and out…
Florence’s cries soared with the larks as she climaxed. Mel squeezed the éclair, cream melding with cum. Then Mel dropped her own dress to her ankles, followed by her panties. Her firm, young body gleamed white in Florence’s upside-down perspective.
Smiling amorously, Mel handed down two marshmallow pies. No words were required; the pair resonated at a mutual wavelength. Florence reached up and smashed the pies onto Mel’s tits, making fluffy cushions of them.
Now Mel straddled her partner, mouth descending to salvage the éclair from its vaginal dugout, at the same time presenting her own pussy for consumption by the blissful face below.
But the barrow tipped, unseating their attempted 69. The pair rolled in puddles and pie-tins amidst the grass, laughing and continuing to explore each other’s bodies.
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“I know you,” Alice scolded, jostling Mark into a walled kitchen garden.
“Y-you do?” said Mark apprehensively.
“Oh yes,” purred Alice. She shoved him with his back against a runner-bean trellis. “Getting off on those girls covering each other in food.” Threading some twine through the cane lattice, she bound his wrists above his head, and his ankles slightly apart. He was forced onto tip-toe, but Alice nonetheless stood inches taller, her large frame imposing, boobs straining her corset. Brown eyes glinted harsh yet hungry. This was more than her regular nymphomania; the serum had driven her to uncharted territory, and Mark would pay the price.
“Those girls squirting cream, smothering each other with goo, rubbing slop through each other’s hair…” She leant towards him, her lips in flirtatious proximity, her tone soft yet heavy. “Quite your dirty fantasy, isn’t it?”
“W-what makes you s-say that?” stammered Mark.
“This, for a start.” She unzipped Mark’s fly. His erect cock readily sprung out, hardening further as she frowned disdainfully.
“Hmmm, we better get that covered up. A bird might mistake it for a worm.” Taking a cream horn from the trolley, Alice slid the wide end onto his prone todger. Mark moaned as his shaft sank into the cool cream.
“Tell me what a bad boy you’ve been,” Alice instructed, wanking him with the pastry sheath.
“I’ve… been… very… baaadd!” Mark gasped, mustering one word per stroke of Alice’s hand. The cream horn’s pointed end burst under pressure, white splurting out. Mark verged on a similar eruption himself, but Alice, adept, forestalled climax.
“Indeed, and bad boys get punished.” She perused a range of coloured pies on her trolley, plumping for pink. Balancing the pie on one opera-gloved palm, she gently removed Mark’s glasses. The blend of delicacy and menace sent his heart leaping.
She pounced. Bubblegum pink momentarily filled Mark’s vision, followed by darkness. The trellis rattled as synthetic strawberry saturated his senses. He blinked his eyes clear.
“The colour suits you,” Alice laughed. “Let’s try some others!” She sandwiched two pies – lime green and plummy purple – on his head. Another pie slammed his face, this time yellow.
The next assault was heralded by a heaviness matting Mark’s hair. It ran down his face, the decadent aroma of fudge, dripping onto his jacket and soaking his shirt.
“I have to return this to the hire company,” he feebly protested.
“Oh! We can’t have your clothes ruined, can we?” Alice scoffed. Her hands roamed Mark’s body, removing his spruce attire. Jacket, shirt, trousers and undies were swiftly gone, threaded through the twine restraints with a conjurer’s dexterity and tossed across the vegetable beds. His bow-tie, Alice spared.
“That better?” She slapped a pie to Mark’s undercarriage, massaging his balls. A lemon meringue was crushed and smeared across his chest. On and on, the barrage splattered his naked form, some cakes flung from afar, others delivered point-blank.
Alice wiped Mark’s eyes, letting him survey his front, slathered with colour. His manhood still protruded, an additional layer of goo over the cream horn.
Now she wielded a deluxe Super-Soaker, which, judging by the opaque contents of its tanks, wasn’t loaded with water. She pressed the barrel vertical in her cleavage, her hand priming the pump (Dr Freud would have approved). Mark braced himself.
But Alice blew a kiss and sauntered off.
Minutes passed. Mark strained his ears through the muffling layers. Squeals and giggles drifted on the balmy air; shit was evidently going down with the other girls. But where was Alice?
His answer arrived in a wet blast against his arse through the trellis. He shrieked as the cold jet ascended his back, thick and lumpy, whatever it was.
“Let’s bring you down to Earth.” Alice detached the section of trellis, tilting him backwards. The picturesque horticulture rolled away, until he lay amongst the radishes, soil sticking to the gunk on his arse and back. The azure sky was smattered by cirrus and the vapour trail of a jet in cruise. Would any of the passengers guess that thousands of feet below he lay supine, decorated like a modern art canvas, his pastry-cased cock a sundial?
A shadow fell. Alice towered over him, her feet at his armpits. His gaze climbed, stitch by stitch up her fishnets. Up authoritarian calves, ready knees, the full swell of her thighs. Scaling suspenders to her garter belt. She’d removed her panties, if indeed they’d ever been there. Her trimmed cunt pouted at him.
Her mouth, higher still, pouted alike. Shaking a can of squirty cream, Alice discharged line upon line of silky white onto and between her labia, then embedded a strawberry into her arsehole.
“What would a garden party be without strawberries and cream?” She squatted over Mark’s immobile face, thighs eclipsing the airplane. “Tuck in.”
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Peace and quiet – that’s what Brooke Kelley appreciated most about her custom-build country mansion. Of course the eight bedrooms, emperor-sized sauna, and swimming pool shaped like her own arse had their appeal, but serenity ranked above all else. A sanctum where she could paint still lifes, learn the zither, even read books without pictures. Where she could put past ignominies behind her – getting sacked from The Massive Morning Meal for lack of intellect, for instance. Yes, she’d show her detractors; all she needed was peace and quiet.
On this Saturday afternoon however, as the brunette crouched in the centre of her Zodiac-decorated patio in her Lycra two-piece, palms upturned and fingertips together, the oasis was shattered. The convivial chatter from next-door she’d tolerated, but when it turned to childish screeching it pushed the line. And now the vociferations were positively obscene. How could she attain an astral plane with this cacophony?
Cursing, Brooke abandoned her meditations and strode towards the source, but the perimeter wall that stopped paparazzi peering in also prevented her seeing out. A cry of “more blancmange on my blancmange, please!” floated over – that awful woman Lord Hoskins had left in charge of his house. Brooke would have words when he returned.
Something rustled in a silver birch overhanging the fence. A bird? A hefty white glob dropped. A big bird? Maybe she could identify it in her orni-whatsit book.
As Brooke moved closer, the creature, camouflaged against the bark, became apparent. She gasped. It was as big as a man – or woman, rather; it had the subtle swells of breasts and pelvic girdle – but its skin glistened a brilliant if uneven white. A Yeti? Escaped from the zoo?
Brooke’s scholarly side reminded her that Yeti weren’t real. Another bit dropped off and splattered the branch below. Whatever this monster was, it was shedding flesh. Something glistened in its left hand – a stack of silvery discs. Its eyes locked with Brooke’s – wild, vacant, fixated. It grinned.
Perched on a branch, a naked, cream-coated Charlotte lobbed a pie from her stack. The foil-cased projectile hit Brooke’s bare foot. Brooke screamed, convulsing as though splashed with acid. As she jigged about, another pie thwacked her right boob.
She pivoted away, cowering in distress. A third pie caught the back of her head, sending streaks of cream through her dark hair. Then a slap at her butt. Damp coolness seeped through her Lycra bottoms. The foil case clung briefly to those toned cheeks (who wouldn’t?), then clattered at her heels.
Enough was enough. The arse was a step too far. No-one touched the arse and got away with it. She spun one-eighty and craned her neck, glaring at the monster.
“Excuuuuze mmeee! I don’t know what you are, but this is private property, it’s Saturday, and I’m busy doing yoga. If you wanna throw pies at me, contact my agen—mmmppphh!!”
That “mmmppphh!!” resulted from a pie, predictably dropped onto Brooke’s face. The cream ploughed into her features, spurting into her hair from the edges, but the citrus bouquet soon mellowed the blow. The texture was rather pleasant; she’d pay good money for such a face-pack. Her famous broad grin momentarily spread amid the white. Then she pulled herself together.
“I’m done playing games,” she admonished the tree-dweller. “You better come down, right now!”
Charlotte leapt, limbs spread, tits and snatch thrust forth, pies in outstretched paws. This bundle of cream and mania and naked body bits bowled Brooke onto her back. Two pies sandwiched Brooke’s head, completing its transformation to yellow-white blob. As she spluttered inside the velvet cocoon, Lycra twanged and boobs flopped free. Charlotte ground against those celebrated celebrity mounds, transferring cream from her own smaller tits, nipples skimming nipples.
Beneath it all, Brooke tried to be angry, endeavoured to be irked. But she was succumbing fast, the serum overwhelming her. Her bottoms came off now; a hand massaged goo into her private parts. Brooke surrendered. Her vision obscured, she reached out and found peachy buttocks to clutch.
Atop her, Charlotte purred. She’d always wanted to meet Brooke Kelley.
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Roomy though the house was, Katie couldn’t hide forever. Marie and Johanna cheered as they opened the wardrobe where she cowered.
“You’re IT!!”
“Whatever it is, I don’t want to be it. Leave me alone!” Katie clung to musty tweed jackets, but the hunters hauled her out, carrying their trophy downstairs and into the sunlight. Mel and Florence were on their feet now, naked, slathered and inflamed with desire.
“Look at her!” simpered Florence. “Still nice and clean!”
“Let’s see her unspoilt flesh!” gushed Mel.
Hands snaked over Katie, grabbing, groping, exploring her curves, tearing cloth from skin. She burned with mortification as her buoyant tits and tidy thatch (she was a genuine redhead) met the heady air. “Please! No!” she wailed, but her assailants weren’t open to reason. Their messy bodies pulsated to a primal beat, like jungle natives who’d snared a hapless explorer.
But her fate wasn’t a cooking pot. To great fanfare, Brooke and Charlotte wheeled forth a tall, perspex cubicle (Brooke had obtained it from a TV station clear-out some years ago). A seat waited inside and the compartment above glowed green in the sun. Recognising the device and knowing its purpose, Katie whimpered in horror, but the hungry hands gripped her tight. Mel smacked her bare arse, impelling her towards the tank. There was no escape.
Resignation set in. She’d been stripped naked; she was going to be gunged; she might as well enjoy it. Craning her neck, Katie buried her face into Marie’s coated hair. The citrus goo tasted even better than it smelt. She lavished it over her gums, letting it enter her bloodstream. By the time her bum touched the gunge tank seat, she was relaxed. She even chuckled.
A little splash don’t harm, does it?
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Meanwhile in the kitchen garden, Mark was embroiled in Alice’s twat, her arse-cheeks smothering his face-cheeks. She’d freed her tits from the corset, and pinched her nipples as she instructed him in tongue acrobatics. The finale was approaching; she tossed back her head and moaned as his lips suckered her clit, his tongue flicking that epicentre of flesh.
As orgasm arrived, Alice lifted her groin a few inches clear. She was a squirter and wanted Mark to know it. She purred, as much with triumph as ecstasy, as her girl-jizz sprayed her sub’s face, completing her dominion over him, a crowning glory to the mess.
Mark was still licking her juice from his lips when she lifted the entire trellis, him still bound to it (she was a brawny lass), and dragged it towards the throng, his cock pointing the way.
“Look what I found in the cabbage patch,” she announced. Even under the influence, Mark cringed at being paraded in such a manner. But the girls greeted him in a like state; even Charlotte – shy, modest Charlotte – wore nothing but cream and a massive grin.
And was that Brooke Kelley?!
Mark had no opportunity to verify the celebrity presence. Righting the trellis, Alice presented him to Katie, seated in the gunge tank. Or more precisely, presented Little Mark to her, at close quarters to the nude girl’s face.
Already deep under the serum’s spell, Katie’s lips accepted the offering without quibble or query. If truth be told, she’d been rather starved of sausage lately.
But this sausage was sweet as well as meaty. Her tongue glided in circles around Mark’s bellend, cleaning off the layers of pastry and cream (lactose intolerance notwithstanding). Along with the sugared richness of the confections, there mingled the lemony tang of the serum, giving her a further hit, and the distinctive saltiness of Mark’s precum, which had seeped out during Alice’s teasings and now dribbled anew.
With his bellend cleaned and throbbing, Katie devoured more of the treat. Grabbing Mark’s buttocks, she rocked both him and trellis, working his manhood deep into her mouth. The tip of his cock rubbed against her tongue and gums, while her lips directly nuzzled his shaft. Katie had complete control over speed and timing, and Mark moaned at every motion she put him through. The spectators too hung on each slurp and suck.
Sensing, in that way women do, Mark’s imminent climax, Katie disengaged and held him at optimal proximity. Grunting, he spurted like a fountain, cum lashing Katie’s face and tits. She grinned as his seed stuck to her eyebrows and dangled from her nipples.
The starter served, it was time of the main course. Alice slashed the twine, sending Mark sprawling into Katie’s lap. But the last laugh was on her; sneaking from behind, Mel yanked off Alice’s corset and skirt, sparing only stockings and suspenders, and pushed her in with him.
Mel slammed the door and pulled the lever. To rapturous cheers, green slime descended, surging upon Katie and Alice, running down their hair, cumulating in pools over their breasts. It deluged Mark too, though already wearing a heavy coat of mess, the sensation was less direct. As the downpour lessened, the laughing trio scooped up handfuls of the goo, slinging and slapping it over each other’s bodies.
“Everyone over to my pool,” whooped Brooke. “Last one in runs a lap around the village!”
With cries of “pool party!”, the assembled women made haste to the Kelley residence. Alice disentangled herself from Mark and Katie, and tore after them, vowing revenge on Mel.
“Shall we go?” said Mark, perched on Katie’s thigh. But Katie tugged at his arm with a quiet urgency; she wanted him to stay. Their eyes met, followed by their lips. Mark’s tongue explored where his cock had already visited, and as the pair kissed and embraced, it dawned on them that there was more than a malfunctioning serum stoking their passions; a genuine bond of affection entwined them.
Mark’s hands climbed to Katie’s chest, taking the measure of her cups. His fingertips teased her already erect nipples. His lips broke from hers and proceeded to her neck, his head nuzzling neath her gunge-covered hair. Down and down he kissed a path through the gunge and his own cum, over Katie’s collarbone and onwards to her teat, whereupon his mouth took over from his fingers.
Katie sighed with a heavy softness as Mark sucked and gently bit her nipple, while his hands roamed yet further south. The gunge had streaked down Katie’s abdomen and made inroads into her pubes, but there was a wetness of a different origin at her pussy lips. Indeed, as Mark discovered intruding his fingers between Katie’s folds of flesh, she was sopping.
“It’s only fair I return your favour,” Mark announced, slipping away from Katie’s body to kneel before her. With a giggle of pleasure, Katie further parted her thighs, inviting him in. Mark kissed in a circle around the exterior of her pussy, from navel to ass and back again, building the anticipation, then his tongue ventured inside. The instructions Alice had barked to him earlier got a second usage, and proved just as effective this time round. Katie moaned with increasing vigour as his tongue flicked her clit, every now and then straying to dart deeper inside her. Moans morphed into whinnies, and he sucked harder until Katie cried in ecstasy and her juices gushed over his face.
Mark clambered onto the seat, and the pair shared a lingering kiss, Katie gleaning her own juice from his lips. But neither would be satisfied with one orgasm apiece. Katie took Mark’s dick in her palm, pleased to see that Little Mark was already back in the game. A few strokes of her dainty yet firm hand brought him fully to attention.
She got up, two fingers prodding Mark in the chest to tell him to stay put while she went to peruse the tables. Little was left following the afternoon’s frenzied food fight, but she found some unopened boxes of cheap red wine. Standing on a chair, she emptied the beverage into the compartment above the gunge tank. Mark shuffled on the seat, expecting to be a submissive victim for a second time… and he was fine with that. His cock twitched in anticipation of Katie pulling the lever and sending the gallons of wine over his body.
But instead, Katie looped some twine around the lever, tying the other end to her wrist. “A toast, to us,” she explained, as she lowered herself onto Mark’s waiting cock, biting her lip as his flesh snugly filled her. Passion diffused warmly through their bodies, far beyond this point of contact. She drew him to her in an embrace while he grasped her by the love-handles, grinding her entire body up and down on his shaft. Her vaginal muscles clenched as he moved her. Her tits swung back and forth in his face.
“Uuuhhh! Ooohhh! OOOOOHHHH!!” As Katie exploded in orgasm, she yanked on the twine. Red wine surged upon the two of them – dark, heady and rich – Katie’s sustained screams of pleasure substituting the customary gunge tank siren. Mark reached climax himself, spurting his load deep inside her.
The two sat breathless, spent but happy. The wine had rinsed their bodies somewhat of mess, as though a blessing to the newfound intimacy between them.
Then, not uttering another word, Katie kissed Mark on the forehead and started to jog away across the lawn. Frowning, Mark stared after her. Had he done something wrong?
“Where are you going?” he called.
Katie turned – not her whole body, just her head, so that her lovely bum still faced him, glinting in the sunshine. “Don’t you remember what Brooke said? Last to jump in the pool has to run a lap around the village; looks like it’s gonna be you!”
“We’ll see about that!” grinned Mark, giving pursuit.
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Monday, 6:30 a.m.
The half-filled jar had nothing to clink against as Katie snuck past Derek. After the life-changing experience of Saturday afternoon, continuing pleasures with Mark that night, and returning, somewhat sheepishly, to assist in the Sunday clean-up, the issue of the missing serum had only struck her at the eleventh hour (literally) last night. Now panic reigned upon entering the lab.
She placed the vessel on the workbench. Deep breaths. Two hours, that was all that was needed to replicate the chemical structure. Come nine o’clock she’d have six brimming jars, and no-one would be the wis—
“I won’t say good morning, because it isn’t.” In strode Katie’s line-manager, Lauren, her make-up immaculate, her grey trouser-suit crisp, her dark hair in a bun. A take-out coffee was hostage to her iron grip. Junior to Katie in years, senior in hierarchy, Lauren was one of those “claim credit, delegate blame” bosses, evoking fear and resentment in equal measure.
“So the bastards stole the serum?”
Not trusting her voice, Katie nervously nodded.
“I’m holding you responsible.” Lauren scowled. “Why didn’t you request higher security?”
Katie flushed. “I did. Multiple times. You slapped me down for putting pressure on the budget.”
Not listening, Lauren picked up the jar and squinted at it. Katie’s stomach dropped to the sub-basement. Her brain scrabbled for a cover story. She couldn’t tell the truth; it simply wasn’t believable.
Lauren opened the vessel and sniffed. “Lemon cream, huh? I’ve been looking all over for some. Mind if I have a taste?”
The question was rhetorical; Lauren spooned the serum into her coffee cup without waiting for permission. Katie bit her lip, watching her boss sip the beverage. But then horror gave way to a wicked idea.
“The thieves left footprints in the mud outside,” she said innocently. “Down by the duck-pond. Perhaps you should take a look.”
“I will, once I’ve finished my coffee.” Lauren stirred in another spoonful. “This cream really is rather good.”
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