My client asked me to pour custard down his pants

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As the fourth liter of custard trickles down my face, I begin to suffer an existential crisis. It’s cold, gloopy, odd-smelling, and I’ve had the sudden realization I haven’t packed a hair dryer. Bother.

This doesn’t seem like the sort of hotel where they’d deign to provide a hair dryer, it’s a cheap find just off a major highway.

My post-sploshing drink, which I’ve faithfully promised myself, and my desperate need to rinse the dairy whiff from assorted orifices will simply have to wait.

But then I wipe some custard from my left eye and see Nathan’s giddy little face. What we’re doing, known in the kink world as “sploshing”, is his greatest dream come true, the moment he’s been fantasizing about for thirty years.

I’d be a rotten killjoy to spoil it for him. Instead, I beam and give him a thumbs up.

“Can you turn around? I want to pour the next liter down your pants. Please!” he begs.

I’m crouched rather uncomfortably on the shower base in the spacious but rather bare bathroom — it’s not seedy, just bland.

I’m wearing only my underwear. I’ve sold Nathan my underwear in the past — he’s a big fan of the humble pair of panties.

The pair I’m wearing today are just plain white - nothing very sexy - and he’s just in a plain set of boxer briefs, but I’m sure he’ll still want my underwear despite their lack of lace.

When I mentioned on social media I was having tea with a clergyman friend, the cheeky bugger asked if he could buy her underwear too. She declined.

Nathan is 35, handsome and hairy, and turned up in a funky purple sports car. He was dressed in a T-shirt and shorts before stripping down, and the graphic designer smells powerfully of cologne.

I’ve requested $250 for this two-hour escapade, plus the cost of the hotel room and custard - all 12 pints of it - six for me and six for him.

If I decide I like him, I’ll let him keep my underwear as a souvenir. They’re only budget store items, and I don’t much fancy popping them back in my handbag after this.

Nathan initially found me on social media and asked me to make him a video of me being covered in twelve liters of custard. He suggested some elaborate plot that we were work colleagues and I’d lost some drunken bet as an explanation for the self-sploshing.

It’s tricky remembering lines, character, and motivation when covered in custard, with a bored cameraman yawning and scratching himself while I talk.

Custarding myself meant I could choose the rhythm, which avoided the element of surprise, and most importantly, pop said custard cartons in a lovely bucket of hot water first to bring them up to skin temperature.

Now we’re finally meeting in person, I’m having no such luck in real life.

“Now the front of your pants…?”

I pray the rather cheap hotel I’ve booked for this experience has decent plumbing and an understanding laundry service.

“And now for…” he yells with a flourish, “the strawberry sauce!” I wince, imagining how long I’ll likely suffer irritation for this escapade, trying to pass it off as an enthusiastic grin.

There was a fad for novelty treats a few years back, penetrating yourself with a lollipop before mailing it to an eager client, which upset my internal balance in a way I feared might be permanent.

It seems to have recovered now, although I’m always careful to use safer substitutes rather than sugar products for staged effects. I’d rather custard wasn’t my downfall.

Nathan has been fantasizing about gunge since the age of 12, blaming Saturday morning kids’ TV shows. He watched a television host get covered in green goo one day and couldn’t stop thinking about the odd fluttery sensations it produced, and the fact that no one else seemed to be that interested.

At 16, he found a copy of a niche magazine online and realized he wasn’t the only one in the world with his fetish. Ever since, he’s bought custom films from women like me, spending around $120 every week to get his custardy fix.

He chooses not to reveal his sploshing kink to girlfriends, fearing ridicule. Otherwise known as WAM (wet and messy kink), he deems it unlikely he’ll find a woman with the same sexual preference, despite it being a big part of BDSM culture.

Female sploshers are rare and consequently in high demand. If you’re looking for a handsome charming boyfriend with a side order of sugar, get yourself on a sploshing site.

That said, I only have one other client like this who also has a tummy fetish. He likes covering my midsection in blue gunge he bulk buys online, then taking pictures of the effect.

However, I’m 47 and my stomach is long past its prime, packed with flab and fibroids, so I’m not that fond of it and only see him during slow months.

Today though, it’s Nathan’s first time ever sploshing with an actual woman in person. He’s genuinely shaking with joy. I fear for his fingers as he slices at the packaging.

(Until chatting with me online, he was too shy to ask a woman to participate. Usually he sploshes alone.)

It’s my turn to gunge him next, and I skid out gleefully to get my revenge. He asks me to grab his phone to get a picture of him at peak gunge. Sadly his phone requires facial ID and flat-out refuses to believe the drippy yellow features I show it could possibly belong to its owner.

He sits in silence as I custard him, like an obedient patient receiving some experimental medical treatment, although I see his arousal twitching as the slime hits.

“I’ve already climaxed three times today imagining this moment,” he says. “Not sure I can again.”

But he does. It’s the sensation of custard against his body that he loves.

I can’t think of much to say and feel idiotic witnessing Nathan’s gigantic life-changing emotions while vaguely wondering what traffic will be like getting home and whether the grocery store will still have any decent bread.

The last carton goes down his pants. Thank goodness. The smell of custard makes me cough. It’s a sort of sickly sugary dairy stench and I’m borderline vegan, so it’s starting to get to me, even through his ecstatic grateful murmuring.

I put the custard-stained towels at the bottom of the laundry pile and hope I don’t get fined for the mess we’ve made.

He washes himself thoroughly, then cleans the shower, but unfortunately forgets to take the trash bag of empty custard cartons with him.

I throw it in my car, forgetting about it for weeks, then wonder why flies keep circling, a souvenir of the delightful if slimy afternoon I’d spent making a young man incredibly happy.

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