Over My Head Ch. 01

I had known all my life that I was into WAM before I knew there was a word for it.

Let me explain something before I get into it: WAM is nothing to do with the campy 1980s pop duo of George Michael and Andrew Ridgeley. WAM stands for Wet And Messy, and refers to the fetish of being aroused by oneself or other people being, well, wet and/or messy. By messy I don't mean bodily waste products, although I gather there are some extremists who are into that stuff. The mess itself can be anything from mud to cake batter, via paint, ketchup, porridge, syrup, shaving foam...you get the idea. A silly fetish, as I'm sure you'd agree, but what fetish isn't a bit bizarre when viewed from the outside? People who are sexually attracted to other people's feet look as weird to me as I'm sure I do to you.

I can't remember a time I didn't find it sexy. I can remember that I started off in my teens, when I was left alone in the house, covering my face with shaving cream except for a tiny, almost imperceptible gap over one eye, so that I could see my reflection, and how I looked with my head a white fluffy mass. It never failed to get me excited. Some people do WAM for the laugh, but there exists a hardcore of us for whom it's the most piercingly erotic thing we can do or have done to ourselves. I'm one of them.

In my daily life I actually steer clear of things like charity pie-fights or gungings. I don't want people to see how turned on I get by being hit in the face with a pie, or covered from head to foot in green sludge. It's not something I've shared very successfully with my girlfriends, either. I know there are women out there who go moist at the prospect of a faceful of custard, but I've never met one, unfortunately. Up until the incident I want to tell you about, I had been a self-wammer all my life.

I progressed in my early experiments from shaving cream to flour-and-water paste - big mistake. The flour and water turns to gooey little crumbs that lodge in your hair and are almost impossible to shower off. Oh yeah, we serious wammers don't confine ourselves to being hit in the face. For many of us, full body coverage is essential. I would sit naked in the bathtub, opposite the mirror, and pour the sludge over myself and feel it trickling into every nook and cranny of my body and sigh with pleasure.

Imagine my surprise and delight when I found there was a whole realm of the internet dedicated just to pleasures such as that. It ran the gamut from innocent student prankishness to full-on XXX messy porn. I had never dreamed that other people shared this fetish. I had discovered at long last that I was not alone; that there was no only a name for wanting to get covered in gooey slime but, even more impressively, there was an industry devoted to catering for people who wanted to look at other people getting covered in gooey slime. It was a great feeling.

I learned a lot. I learned that flour and water had been tested by others and found wanting, and that good old shaving cream is held in high esteem (not least for the fact that it's so easy to wash off). And I began to spend more time in the Baking section of the supermarket, trying out the various cake mixes and tinned custards and other lovely things on offer. Not to eat, you understand; I don't actually like cake or custard or sweet things. I was interested in their opacity, stickiness, rate of flow, all of which are only to be experienced when the stuff is in its raw state. Faced with a box of Betty Crocker Devil's Food Cake Mix, I wouldn't think Mmm, that would be yummy to have after dinner. I would think, I bet that could make me really filthy.

I developed newer and more elaborate ways of messing myself. I would time my sessions to prolong them, force myself to wait before washing off the various goos and sludges I had covered my naked body with. The temptation, when you're that messed up, is to go straight for the climax, but the preparation is so time-consuming - you've got to buy all that stuff and spend ages mixing it to the right consistency, and then lay down sheets of plastic all over the floor of the room you're gonna use, and then make sure you've got enough soap and shampoo to wash it all off afterwards - that you may as well make the thing last as long as possible.

I chatted to other wammers over the internet. There was a housewife in Reno who loved to get naked in her bathtub when everyone else was at school or work, and pie herself. There was a Scottish girl guitar player who was even more outrŽ than me in the stuff she put herself through. There was the guy who was obsessed with thongs; he and I had cybersex, my first time with another man, and even while he was deluging me with pies and preparing to fuck me, I think he was secretly waiting for the moment when he could rip down my virtual thong.

But I still hadn't ever physically done this with anyone. I posted personals on internet boards, advertising myself as a "gungebuddy" to gay men. Although I consider myself straight, I didn't mind the thought of being with another guy; after all, we would have WAM in common if nothing else. Some of the pictures of men I'd seen on the net were as arousing as anything else out there, and it had been easier to put myself in the guy's place. However, it was pretty academic because nobody took me up on the offer.

A time came, then, when I was sick of never wamming with anybody else, and I started to read the personals myself, looking for someone who might want a partner.

Most of it sounded too picky. They wanted women, almost invariably, and the few men who posted were usually looking for someone barely out of his teens (I'm 27) and shaved (I'm not, although my hair is short).

Then one night I saw a message on the board of one of the many WAM groups:

Discreet, fit bi couple (40-45) seek WAM partner (m/f) for 3some fun and frolics. Under 35 and slender build preferable, must be OK with nudity. Come and be our gunge slave!

There was some more, including a mention that they were not only in my country but in my city, plus an email address.

I was excited. I fitted their bill exactly. I was well under the age limit, I'm slightly built and I never wore anything while wamming. Not only that, I had no hang-ups about my sexuality and was desperate to get messy with other people. I also liked the bit about being their slave. When I have normal sex, I like to be pretty take-charge and forceful. But my great WAM dream was to be dominated by someone who would gunge me over and over again, obliterate me, render me unrecognisable. They sounded like they might be the ones. I emailed them straight away:

"Hi,

I read your message on the site. If you're still looking for a WAM partner I would love to volunteer. I'm 27 and live in _____________. [I gave my address.] I'm up for anything you suggest. I enclose a picture of myself.

-wamslave"

I would have liked to enclose a photo of myself naked and covered in gunge, but there was a good reason why I didn't. I don't own a digital camera. You, who probably don't share this fetish, but who may have fetishes of your own, should consider that. I couldn't just take a picture of myself naked and covered head to foot in cake batter and chocolate syrup and have it developed by a lab. The people who work in labs see what your photos look like. I didn't want to get any funny looks from the chemist. With a digital camera, you can do your own stuff and nobody else need ever know about the strange and humiliating things people sometimes do to get their rocks off.

So instead I just provided a photo of myself looking reasonably OK-looking and relaxed and confident. I'm not the most gorgeously formed human being on the planet, but I eat sensibly and I exercise and I am slender and certainly not a couch potato. If anything, I'm on the skinny side. I didn't really think I would get a response, but I was proud of myself for trying.

I got a reply within twenty-four hours.

"Dear wamslave,

You sound absolutely perfect and your photo is lovely. We would love to have you around for a session. How free are you next Saturday? We can't wait to get messy with you. We can promise you a gunging like you'll never forget! And maybe a bit more besides!

-Pete & Barbara

P.S. We enclose pictures of ourselves"

The enclosed jpeg told me all I needed to know. It was obviously taken on holiday, they were standing on some beach. She was a good-looking curly-haired blonde wearing a bikini, not tall but with a lovely figure, while he was a heavy-set guy with short black hair and a slight paunch, wearing a pair of inappropriately brief swimming trunks, the two of them sporting sunglasses and standing with arms around each other's shoulders, smiling at the camera. I could have done a lot worse.

I was very excited. I emailed them back and told me that next Saturday would be great.

I got myself a haircut and took special care to eat well and work out so that I would be the WAM partner of their dreams. I even had fantasies about them adopting me in some strange way as their wamslave (I didn't choose my nickname idly), somebody that they could call upon whenever they wanted to wreak their wildest havoc on some willing young guy. I was a little surprised that they'd chosen me over a girl, but there aren't quite as many women into this as there are men (although there are more than you'd think).

When Saturday dawned, I woke up early and I shaved with special attention and showered myself scrupulously and put on my oldest and cheapest t-shirt and combats, freshly laundered for the occasion. It was only a short bus ride from my flat to their house, but I wanted to be ready for anything that they wanted me to do.

We had arranged for me to turn up around two p.m. I was so excited that it was hard to walk down the street to the bus stop without the bulge in my trousers being obvious to anyone who happened to look in that direction. I got the bus to their street, a quiet suburban avenue with detached houses and neat front gardens.

I walked down the street checking the numbers, feeling like I had an appointment with destiny. Finally I reached their house. It looked like all the rest. There was a car in the driveway. It was a bright windy day.

I went up to the door and rang the doorbell. A shape materialised behind the glass and the door opened.

It was Barbara. She was wearing a light cotton frock and looked very attractive. She looked at me blankly for a moment, then she evidently recognised me from the picture. A sly smile came over her face.

"Hello, you," she said and stepped aside to let me in. I smiled back, slightly nervous; after all, we each knew something secret and potentially embarrassing about the other. I entered the house and she shut the door behind me.

She held out her hand and I took it. She shook it, grinning at me.

"It's really nice to meet you," she said.

"You too," I said.

"Have you ever done this before?"

"Not exactly, no," I said with a nervous laugh.

"Oh," she said encouragingly, "you're in for a treat." She led me into the living room and offered me a cup of tea or coffee. I asked for plain water. She fetched me a glass and I sat on the sofa, sipping.

"Pete's just upstairs, setting up," she explained.

"Right," I said.

"So just to know where we stand," she said, crossing one leg over the other. "You're okay with most kinds of gunge?"

"Well, sweet stuff, yeah," I said. "Not so much ketchup or baked beans or anything like that."

"Fine," she said, nodding seriously. "We thought that." What a weird conversation, I thought. She seemed to think so because she smiled and went charmingly pink before asking the next question.

"And nudity's okay?"

"Oh, it's essential," I said with mock seriousness, and we both laughed.

"Okay," she said, "and, um...what about sexual contact?"

I looked her in the eye.

"I'm fine with that," I said casually. She smiled and put her hands between her knees. The gesture pushed her breasts together, emphasising her cleavage. I knew she did it to excite me, and she knew I knew, and I knew she knew I knew.

"Pete and I have an open marriage," she said, like I couldn't have guessed that.

"Have you done this a lot?"

"Got messy with someone?" she said. "A few times, yeah. Pete got me into it."

"What do you like in particular?" I asked. She considered for a moment.

"Pies," she said. "Nothing like a big fluffy pie. I thought it was a bit strange at first, but now I love it."

"I suppose it is a bit strange," I said.

"Yeah, it is, actually," she said, and laughed.

"Hi there," said a voice. I turned; a large man was in the room. I recognised him as the guy in the photos. He was wearing a black t-shirt and a pair of jeans. If anything, his paunch had got bigger since the picture. He advanced on me with an easy smile, holding out his hand.

"I'm Pete," he said. We shook hands. He had that annoying habit of squeezing your hand too tight.

"Barbara's been treating you well?" he said.

"Of course I have," she said.

"Great," he said, and stood irresolutely in the middle of the room for a moment. I got the impression that they were a bit shy, that they wanted someone to make the first move.

"Shall we go up, then?" I said gently. Pete beamed and brought his hands together. "Great!" he said again, and Barbara and I stood up.

"It's this way," he said, and went out into the hall. I followed, with Barbara coming last.

We went up two flights of narrow stairs, at the top of which he opened a door and entered.

I went in.

It was an ordinary loft space that had been temporarily converted into a place to get messy. Heavy plastic sheets lined the floor and all the walls except one. There was a curtained-off alcove in a corner. The far wall of the room, the only one that wasn't covered with a plastic sheet, was mirrored, giving the unnerving impression that the place was twice as big as it was. There was a sturdy-looking plastic chair in the middle of the room, facing the mirror wall.

Lined up on the floor along the adjacent wall were buckets and buckets of multi-coloured sludge, some of it pink, some blue, some green. There was a table with rows and rows of pies and bottles of chocolate sauce. Light came from a bare electric bulb and a skylight.

I must have been grinning all over my face, to judge from the look on Pete's.

"That's all for you," he said with a smile.

Barbara came in. I faced them.

"Okay," I said, "how do we do this?"

"Well," she said, "you could start by taking off your clothes. Not your pants, though."

She picked up a plastic bag and I took off my shoes, socks, t-shirt and combats. Underneath I was wearing a pair of faded boxer shorts. I handed my clothes to Barbara and she put them in the bag, then carried the bag downstairs.

I stood in the attic in just my boxer shorts, feeling vulnerable and nervous and fantastically excited. I was about to be messed up like I had never been before, by two total strangers.

Pete checked the plastic sheets and fiddled with things.

"Will I sit on the chair?" I said.

"Yeah," he said, absently. I guessed he was as excited as I was, and was only waiting until he could get down to it. I sat on the chair and faced my reflection, slender and pale, the dark blue boxer shorts the only thing preserving my modesty.

Barbara came back up the stairs and shut the door behind her. She smiled at me in the mirror and held something up.

Handcuffs.

"You ready to be our gunge slave?" she said, dangling the thick metal cuffs.

"I'm ready," I said. She walked towards me, I saw her in the mirror coming up behind me, smiling at my reflection, and she took my arms and handcuffed my wrists together, looping the cuffs through a cutaway in the back of the chair, so that I was fastened to the chair. She fixed the cuffs so that they wouldn't tighten on my wrists and stroked my head, smiling at my reflection.

I was dying for them to start, almost panting at the thought of them turning their arsenal of pies and gunge loose on my body.

Then Pete pulled aside the curtain in front of the alcove, and a young woman wearing a dark blue t-shirt and sweatpants stepped out, carrying a digital camcorder. She didn't look at me, but took the camera over to the mirror wall and set it up, pointing in my direction. She looked about twenty, with shortish brown hair and an attractive pale face with a wide mouth. She worked as though I wasn't there.

To say that I was astonished would be putting it mildly. I hadn't agreed to be filmed doing this.

"What's this?" I asked, trying to sound indignant.

"That's our daughter, Karen," said Barbara, smiling sweetly at my reflection. "She's going to be filming this."

"I didn't say you could film it," I said, getting frightened.

"Oh, did we not mention that?" said Barbara. "Sorry. It's for our website, you see."

"No!" I said, increasingly panicky, trying to wriggle out of the cuffs. The chair, I realised, was attached to the floor.

"You're gonna be our latest star," said Barbara smoothly. "And I wouldn't talk too much, or people will recognise your voice."

I was horrified. It was a trap. They had lured me here on the pretext that we would have a private WAM session, and it was going to be all too public. I groaned inwardly as I thought of all the things I had agreed to - nudity, "sexual contact" from either of them. I was going to be a messy hardcore porn star and there was nothing I could do except scream my head off.

And there was something else; their daughter was in the room, and she was going to witness the whole thing, another of her parents' weird playmates with his bizarre fetish. God, I was so embarrassed and humiliated that I blushed crimson. Karen, the daughter, was looking through the viewfinder at me. She was long-legged and slender. What would she think of me? Her face was completely impassive. She didn't resemble either of her parents and I found myself wondering if she was adopted.

There was nothing I could do. I felt the chill of certainty spread through me as I realised that I had only one option; to go through with it, and hope that nobody I knew would ever see the evidence.

For some reason, it didn't frighten me too much. The initial shock and embarrassment had worn off, and I was becoming strangely calm.

I explored my feelings and I found that, deep down, I wanted to do it. The thing had gone from being a playful and erotic afternoon to the greatest shaming of my life, and something in me responded to that. I was actually feeling a kind of excitement about it. It was still going to be hugely and overwhelmingly embarrassing if any of my friends or family found out, but I would just have to face that. I had volunteered to come here and the only way I could rise above the situation was to accept it.

I sat in the chair, trying to keep calm. Pete and Barbara strolled around in front of me. I looked at my reflection, sitting handcuffed to the chair in his boxer shorts, blushing, breathing heavily. Pete asked Karen if she was ready and she nodded silently. The camera was on me.

"Roll the camera," Pete said.

The red light came on. Pete went over to the table and picked up a large pie. He came over to me and stood to one side, just out of shot.

"You want this pie?" he said.

"Yes," I said, my voice quavering.

"You want to be our mucky little gunge slave?" he said.

"Yes," I said.

"Say it," he said. "Say 'Please, Pete and Barbara, make me into your mucky little gunge slave.'"

"Please, Pete and Barbara," I said, dry-mouthed, "make me into your mucky little gunge slave."

He threw the pie at my face. I had never had a pie thrown at me before. It hit me just off centre. My head jerked back with the force of it. The cream and custard forced themselves up my nose and into my eyes. I couldn't see. The crust fell off, hit my shoulder, broke in two and fell onto the floor.