Sameena Cleans a Seaside Cafe

Today was the day, Sameena reminded herself as she dragged herself out of bed. Never a morning person, her day job rarely gave her a good reason to be excited about getting up. Paying her bills was a necessary evil, not a reason to jump out of bed.

Sometimes, though, her cleaning gig was a good reason to be excited. Today was one of those days. Well, it might be, and that was already and improvement over most days. It was summer, peak holiday season, and Sam had taken up what most people would consider an unenviable contract: a beach-side cafe. It would be hot, sticky and open relatively late -- which meant she wouldn't be starting till 9 o'clock.

Ironically, these were all some of the reasons Sam was looking forward to it. Well, except for the heat. That wouldn't be ideal, but it would give her plausible deniability if someone caught her in a state of undress.

The stickiness, though, was exactly what she was looking forward to -- in a manner of speaking -- and the late start meant no prying eyes. She already knew from visiting the place that CCTV only covered the outside. It was the perfect opportunity, and better yet, it was guaranteed to be filled with sweet, gooey foodstuffs. As Sam got ready, her mind was awash with images of molten ice-cream, sticky syrups and, if she was feeling bold, maybe even some doughnut or waffle batter.

All that was later, though. For now, she had other, less enticing jobs to be getting on with. She dressed as sexily as she could manage, given her dowdy uniform, so that at least her underwear could be a permanent reminder of what awaited her. As usual, she wanted to wear some of her finest lingerie to get ruined -- what was the point, otherwise, she always thought. Sam wanted to look good, feel good, and then utterly ruin everything so that she could feel even better.

Today she chose a white bra with black mesh straps and black mesh patterning. She debated the thong versus brief topic in her head while shaving her legs, trying to decide between form and function. A thong looked better, nestled between her round cheeks, and that would feel racier. Briefs would be better for filling, though, and gave her more options when it came to where the mess could go. Either way, it would have to match her bra -- that was not up for debate. Indeed, that was what swayed her in the end: she had briefs that went with the bra, but she had a thong that had come with it as part of a set.

Stockings were another no-brainer. She would wear a skirt as part of her uniform, given the heat, and there was some risk of the nylon being exposed if her morning job required much bending over, but that was part of the appeal as far as Sam was concerned. The thought of someone seeing her was always part of the thrill, even if, realistically, she would prefer to avoid it. She chose stockings that, while sexy, could easily pass for tights if the tops remained hidden.

Unsuitably dressed, she slipped her plain black trainers on and headed for the door, ruing the fact that heels would be impractical on multiple levels. However naughty she felt, there was no way she could do her job safely in heels. Pity.

All morning, Sam's attention kept coming back to what she had planned for the evening and what she was wearing in preparation. When she stopped at a local cafe for breakfast, the pastries and cakes on offer reminded her of what was in store. When she got back into her car, and inadvertently -- and fleetingly -- revealed her stockings and thong to any lucky passers-by, she was reminded again. As she worked her morning contract, even boring tasks such as dusting and cleaning were given an extra little frisson of excitement when she remembered the fact that she was a few centimetres of fabric away from being exposed.

Her morning appointment -- a regular gig at a small office -- usually felt tediously drawn-out. Today, it flew by, driven on by the anticipation of what was to come. She found herself smiling to herself, and occasionally others, at an appointment in which she usually kept her head down and ignored the majority of employees. She even found time to text her friend Lucy. Sam found that telling a friend multiplied her excitement. It was like sharing a dirty secret, except, of all people, Lucy knew Sam's proclivities already. Still, there was a guilty pleasure in admitting what she had plans and Lucy only added fuel to the fire by egging her on and adding her own suggestions.

"U gotta try the donut batter x" one message read.

Where though? Sam replied.

"Knickers" was the blunt answer.

Sameena agreed she would try it if she could.

Eventually, her regular appointments were over. She had a couple of hours break between them and the next. Time for some food -- for eating, in this case, though she had to ignore several compete urges. She didn't want to risk spoiling her evening's plans by peaking too soon, so even the temptation to have a quick fiddle -- even a clean one -- had to be ignored.

By the time she had eaten and made her way to the cafe, Sameena could scarcely contain her excitement. The youth that handed the keys and showed her around the place barely registered in Sam's consciousness. He was simply another obstacle between her underwear and some gooey mess. She nodded and agreed to everything he said, took a set of keys from him when offered, then bade him good night.

It was just after ten when she saw him round the corner on his bike. She pulled down the shutter and turned to survey her messy playground. Messy was an accurate descriptor; either it has been an extremely busy day or the staff hadn't bothered to clean up after themselves. Possibly both. It was the peak of the holiday season, after all, so the idea that some low paid teenagers hadn't been bothered to tidy up a stiflingly hot kitchen amid a near-constant stream of customers would make a lot of sense.

None of that really mattered to Sam, anyway. She saw a lot of work ahead of her, but also a lot of opportunity. Typically, she would tidy up first, saving prospective mess for later and making sure she would have her job done in case she ran out of time. Tonight, though, she knew she had the better part of eight hours before anybody would be back to open up. The place was a tip, yes, but it was a couple of hours work at most.

There were spillages on the worktop, something was burned onto the oven and something very sticky had made a puddle on the floor. Those were just the most obvious issues, but there was a whole lot more. Sam knew she should make a start, or at least form a mental plan of operations. What she really wanted to do, however, was slip her shoes off and see what that puddle felt like through her thin nylon stockings.

That's what she ended up doing. She had waited all day and she couldn't resist any longer. She kicked her shoes into the corner by the door and all but jumped into the sticky puddle. It barely budged around her, and it didn't make any discernable noise. Only when she tentatively lifted a foot did she notice a sound like a sticker being peeled. Whatever this puddle was, it wasn't any of the usual gooey, slimy mess she was used to. This was sticky. Like, really, really sticky. A step down from glue. Syrup that had been left in the summer sun, she figured, but she would never know for sure.

Whatever it was, it clung to her stockings and she quickly realised that standing in it might have been a mistake. She would be spreading it all over the shop floor unless she did something about it. She had plenty of time to deal with that, of course, but she didn't want to make her job harder than it had to be. She had two options as far as she saw it: remove the stockings and deal with them later or clean this mess up immediately.

Off they came. After wearing them all day, it was a bit of a relief, actually. She loved how they looked, but feeling the air on her bare skin was nice, too. Better yet, any more sliminess would be in direct contact with her skin. Besides, if she wanted to fill her stockings, it's not like she'd thrown them in the bin. She could put them back on at any time if she felt the need.

Alright, she thought. What next? The variety of options was almost paralysing. The space was small -- she could only imagine how cramped it would be with more than one person -- but there were so many fluids, sauces and slimes. A variety of syrups on one shelf; doughnut and waffle batter already made up for the morning but leftovers and ruined batches from today; ice-cream, fresh and molten leftovers; a variety of savoury sauces. Everywhere she looked there was something slimy to dump over her head, in her knickers, or wherever else.

It was a sticky hot night, made worse by the residual heat of the oven, grill and electrical appliances. Ice-cream seemed like a natural starting point, so she reached into the freezer. She knew she had to exercise some restraint with the saleable goods -- if the staff found everything missing when they came back, there would be a lot of unwelcome questions for Sam to answer. She opted against just digging chunks of ice-cream out with her bare hands, choosing instead to use a scoop to scrape out a moderate amount from each of the different flavours. She dumped them one by one into a handy mixing bowl, resulting in a relatively large, multicoloured pile of ice-cream balls. It was a bit like a rainbow gelato croque en bouche, except that it was already starting to soften and melt in the heat.

On the plus side, it melting would make things easier for what Sam had planned.

Satisfied with her pile, she picked up the bowl in one hand, raised it to her chin and unbuttoned her polo shirt with the other hand. She took a deep breath and braced herself in anticipation of the cold shock to come. She didn't want to make too much noise; the staff had left, but there were still people around outside and would be for the duration. While the idea of being caught was always a background thrill, Sameena didn't want to actively increase the chances of it happening by squealing.

As the first of the ice-cream toppled inside her top, she gasped breathlessly. Her mouth was open wide but she managed to contain the breath in her throat and let it out in rapid, almost-silent bursts of panting, puffing out her cheeks over and over. The ice-cream was shockingly cold against her skin, and since it had already started to melt it was making rivulets of sticky slime from her collar bone to her breasts. There, her nipples hardened very quickly, only getting harder as the pudding pooled up higher and higher in her pretty bra cup. Within seconds, it had melted enough to start pooling in the scant space between her pretty bra and her breasts.

"In for a penny, in for a pound" could have been Sameena's catchphrase, with "I probably shouldn't, but..." as a close runner-up. Naturally, then, she didn't stop at one globe of ice-cream. She let them all tumble in, and even allowed a few seconds for some of the already-melted slop at the bottom of the bowl to trickle into her cleavage. Still gasping, still squirming, she soon ran out of room in her bra and felt several scoops of ice-cream lodge precariously in the bottom of her polo shirt. She hadn't tucked it in, so if she moved too quickly the weight of the ice-cream would cause it to fall out of her clothing.

Sam needed to act quickly, so she did. Biting her lip in anticipation, she squashed the whole lot against her tummy with the heel of her hand, and began smearing them around with the palm. It was a struggle not to giggle -- a struggle she soon lost, but she at least managed to limit the volume. Now the ice-cream was truly starting to get everywhere. Even when Sam pulled her hand away, the material clung to her sticky, slimy skin. The material was fairly thick, but not so thick that her hand escaped the mess. Her whole palm covered in a thin, sugary layer of slime, a layer that would make it hard to do what she wanted -- no, needed -- to do next.

Typically, Sam liked to keep the tempo of these sessions quick but more-or-less even. In other words, she liked a constant, steady stream of mess. Things were escalating quickly this time, though, and rather than look for something to wipe her hand on so she could do the next bit properly, she wiped it on her own face and up through her hair. She shivered at the feeling of the ice-cream on her scalp, but the shiver came with its own juvenile giggle. The way this combination made her chest jiggle made her laugh all the more, especially the way that the motion dislodged some of the ice-cream slime.

Not for the first time, she imagined how she would look from somebody else's perspective right now. Ridiculous, she knew, but in a fun way, she hoped. She was so taken by this idea that she decided to make a little game of it. Hunching her shoulders, she deliberately shook her chest up and down to see just how much ice-cream she could remove from her bra in this fashion. The fact that she felt extremely silly doing it was a bonus.

It almost worked too well. Although the way the motion made her still-hard nipples rub against her bra was strangely enjoyable, the way it drained her bra -- and almost bounced her tits right out of it -- reminded Sam that she still needed more mess. Much of the ice-cream had leaked out of her bra, but since it was almost all sticky sludge by now, it had no chance of just bunching up inside her polo shirt. Her skirt was already starting to take on its fair share of mess, too, and since that covered so little, her thighs were getting sticky along with it.

What next? Sam cast around for something to keep the party moving and found her eyes kept coming back to the bottles of syrup on the counter. She wasn't overly keen on using something so sticky and hard to clean, but the devil on her shoulder was growing more emboldened by the moment and had already gotten difficult to ignore. With a resigned sigh -- and an undeniable thrill of excitement -- she grabbed two bottles. Before she could talk herself down, she lifted one bottle (strawberry) above her head and slid the nozzle of the other (blueberry, maybe) under the waistband of both her knickers and her skirt.

Then she squeezed. Hard.

Despite being in total control of what she was doing, Sam's body reacted as if it had blind-sided by the sticky gunk. She cringed more at the syrup than she had at anything else so far, but she forced herself to keep going. She continued long past the point at which her knickers overflowed, long past the point at which her face felt completely covered. If anything, she squeezed harder, very much maintaining her "in for a penny, in for a pound" approach. Soon both bottles were empty, but she felt the weight of the syrup clinging to her face even as it slid inexorably downward. She had expected to feel like the star of a bukkake video, but the texture of syrup was absolutely nothing like cum. It clung to her eyebrows, oozed stolidly down her nose and off her chin, trailing into her cleavage.

The blueberry syrup in her knickers was just as thick and just as sticky, but had less to cling to and so it simply oozed down the groove between her cheeks and pooled in the gusset of her underwear. The pool grew steadily and became heavier and heavier, causing her ruined knickers to sag a little. In a way, this was good news for Sam, because it meant that her lower body wasn't constantly in contact with the syrup, but she knew that things would be different whenever she moved. She tested this by pushing her knees together. The syrup pool did indeed squelch against her pussy and arse again, making her giggle and immediately spread her knees again. She had created a trap for herself -- a trap that would be triggered over and over, no matter how aware of it she was.

Something about that idea -- the inevitability of having her pussy doused in syrup, whether she wanted it or not -- gave Sameena a new kind of thrill. She was still in control overall, but there were sticky, punishing consequences she just had live with.

Equally, though, Sam knew she was running out of time and supplies. What she wanted -- no, what she needed now -- was some kind of finale to bring her to her own finale. She continued to open and close her legs, continued to wriggle her chest in order to keep the slop moving while she tried to work out what to finish with. Her eyes darted back to the ice-cream (no, done that); the syrups (fun, but she wanted something different) and eventually settled on the various tubs of batter. Ah.

Lucy had only offered one piece of advice for Sameena, but Sam hesitated. Surely, if anything would be noticed missing it would be that, wouldn't it? There were a lot of tubs, though. How much difference could there be between waffle and doughnut batter, though? Maybe the end result would be different, typically, but Sam wasn't planning on cooking anything. Sludgy batter was sludgy batter, surely? Sameena was slowly convincing herself that if she took a bit from each one there wouldn't be a problem.

She had to work quickly, she knew, or risk overthinking things. She pulled the Tupperware boxes down one-by-one, four in total, and placed them on the counter in front of herself. Two were marked Waffle and two Donut.Sam pried the lids open. The contents looked identical to her -- thick, stodgy yellow-white slop. She scooped some out with a handy ladle and ran her finger through it. It was every bit as thick and gloopy as it looked, clinging to her finger even after she'd pulled it away. Perfect.

Without further delay, Sam unfastened her skirt and let it fall to the ground. She was wanton, now, and it would only get in the way. She hooked one finger inside her sticky knickers and used her other hand to empty the ladle of its waffle batter directly into her knickers. The fact that it took a couple of seconds for the slop to slide off the curved surface added a touch of incidental but very welcome anticipation.

The batter hit the inside of Sam's knickers and rolled down, slowed slightly by the syrup, but still slapped against her pussy in satisfying fashion. Sam squirmed, but that wasn't nearly enough. She scooped a ladle-full from the first doughnut batter tub and up-ended it into the exact same spot, this time hurrying it along by shaking the ladle. As it landed, she let go of her knickers and began rubbing the bulge around from the outside, squelching and shifting it non-stop, her mouth open in a permanent barrage of whimpering gasps.

She needed more but she didn't want to take her hand away from her crotch. Sam firmly smeared the globules of batter in rapid circles around her pulsing clitoris. This left one hand to administer more mess, which she did by ladling over into the gap between her neck and her polo shirt. Her aim was deliberately careless, allowing the thick slop too ooze down her chest in various directions -- some pooling in her bra, some running down over the fabric and down her stomach. She made a point of pulling the bottom of her shirt out so that the batter could continue unimpeded. It spurted out in one heavy blob, coating her thighs as it had coated everything on the way down. Sam took a moment to rub it in -- to her chest, her stomach, her thighs, but her other hand never once stopped rubbing her pussy.

She wanted to treat herself to one last load, but she was having a hard time doing anything but smear herself with the gunk she already had. Her head lolled back, her knees were starting to go weak and her breath was coming in short, sharp bursts. She could barely focus on anything beyond the needy, immediately physical sensations she was so vigorously applying to herself. She managed, somehow, to scoop out one last ladle of batter, but any attempts at precision were out the window. The best she could do was time it with the inevitable, so that's exactly what she did. Panting, purring, shivering, she poured the fourth and final ladle of batter over her own forehead and let it wash over her from head to -- wherever, she lost track almost immediately.