Just the most gorgeous bride, Tiffany’s a blonde fox with a real lust for anything extraordinarily, repulsively messy; but there’d be none of that shit until much later tonight (with Ricky). Outside, the sun shone brightly through the pink chiffon curtains, showing that it was going to be just the most awesome wedding day, and in the filtered sunlight, her golden hair glows. Her fairly small breasts wiggle as she reaches under, steps into, and pulls up the lacy blue satin bridal briefs into place - those expensive, white lingerie with a sort of lace skirt adornment and the cute little bow. “If only she’d gone for the breast enlargements instead of the second hand Ferrari” she thought, cupping the diminutive breasts, but shrugging it off – he loved her, adored her, fucked her wildly after every messy roll playing thing she did for him. The breasts weren’t anything she had to worry about. Nah. She’s already got the high sheer, lace accented stockings on, and she’s now sitting on the pink satin cushioned chair at the night stand, fixing her eye shadow. Next, the lipstick (again). Although the bridal gown doesn’t need a slip, she’s just so used to wearing the thigh length satin and lace trim garment that she drops it over her head, and slides it into place, without much thought.
The wedding gown is one of those majestic things of heavy white satin beauty, fully lined, lace adorned, with a high satin collar attached to a sea of illusion, showing off a bit of cleavage and shoulder blades under it’s delicate white mesh. Already unzipped, and unfastened, hanging from the bedroom cupboard door, she simply drops it off the hanger, pulls it out on the pink, plush carpet, and steps in. It makes wonderful swishing sounds as she pulls it up, digs into the long arms, and adjusts it onto herself. She reaches back, and zips up, fastens the hook and eye at the top of the zipper (to hold it from accidentally slipping) and makes a super-human effort to twist her arms weirdly so she can push the satin covered buttons into the illusion between her shoulder blades, and then easily fastens the collar behind her neck. The veil is a fragile, billowing drift of fine white material, fastened to a halo of imitation baby’s breath (tiny white flowerets on dainty stems that danced). Tiffany brushes back her silky blonde hair a few more times, and carefully pins the coronet in.
You are (doubtless) wondering why the bride is alone in this most celebrated moment of her life. Maybe because she wants to be? Maybe it’s because her parents are dead and she dislikes everyone else in the family? Maybe she’s eloping? There’s really no good reason for a beautiful blonde bride such as Tiffany to be alone on her wedding day – certainly she has plenty of friends who want to be bridesmaids, helping her do every little thing, her maid of honor bustling about (but no, nobody’s there to help).
Just taking the few steps to the bed, the skirt pulls majestically out behind her, she turns (instantly wrapping her legs in silky white folds), which she pulls at and bundles a bit so she can sit on the edge of the bed. The shoes are the tall, white, clog-sandal type high heels that she slides her feet into, and adjusts the straps over the white stocking feet, and stands up again. She adjusts the gown a bit, pulling out the skirt behind her, fluffing up the veil behind, and strides to the wall mirror to get the whole wedding effect. The stunningly reflection looks back at her with a surprised look on the bride’s face – she’s fucking gorgeous! Tiffany brushes the little flowerets in the coronet with her fingers, instantly motivating a flurry of activity from them wiggling back and forth on teeny little stems. She pushes the fringe of glowing gold hair above her eyes, and is satisfied to see it softly, but stiffly stays put (just the right amount of hair spray to perfectly keep it in place without feeling sharp to touch). The bridal reflection smiles back at Tiffany, and she turns a little this way, and then that. The bride’s hands slide up the front of the dress to her breasts, over to the illusion material and up to the collar – not her choice of wedding gown, but his (he deserved a painful hardness for asking her to wear an old style like this).
She smiles again at the thought, her cleaned teeth gleaming back at her, she still grits her teeth and massaged a finger over them – just in case there was anything unclean in there. Yes, this gown was magnificent – so much lace, satin, wonderfully silky, sensual perfection coating her body (it’s wonderful). She’s getting excited again, butterflies making muscles strain in her thighs, and chest – food would change that (hopefully). She swiftly drags the length of white material out behind, so she can turn without being tripped up by the chapel length train, and heads to the next room – the kitchen.
Tiffany enters the kitchen with an air of regal majesty that a real Princess couldn’t pull off. There’s a knock on the door, and the delivery guy is given the full bridal flourish. “Wow!” is all the flabbergasted guy says before she signs the receipt and happily grabs the bag. She just leaves the bag next to the door, and goes to the kitchen (her mind in altogether another brilliantly happy place). She opens the refrigerator, looking at the huge bowl of porridge (why was that still in there?), the unopened pumpkin pie, chocolate cream pie, various odds and ends, cartons of milk, juice… The phone rings! She jumps – like the device never rang – like it was a fire alarm! She turns, smiling, so incredibly happy (silly happy), and gently pushes the refrigerator door as she almost runs for the wall phone at the far side.
Tiffany: “Hello? – Oh it’s you! Isn’t it wonderful? It’s a perfectly wonderful day?...”
She is just so overjoyed to hear the groom on the other end of the line, cupping the receiver (so nobody else can hear) she mutters sweet nothings into the phone, but then abruptly stops when she hears something she doesn’t like. Her face slowly, ever so slowly sinks from gloriously radiant with delight, to a sort of pleasant, sinking quickly to puzzled, then glowering, and finally a kind of stern, simmering, hatred. She carefully places the receiver back onto the hook, and stands there for about a minute before exploding.
Tiffany: “FUCK! You FUCKING NASTY – - you think my breasts are TOO small? You don’t LIKE the SEX? Who the FUCK do you think you are Mr. jerk-off fucking corporate lawyer ASS-HOLE!”
She’s just standing there, turning this way, and that, and now heading towards the cutlery drawer (looking angrily for something to cut the dress from her body with); but in an instant, it comes to her – her face slyly changes as she settles the knife back into the drawer, and closes it. She’s had the most wicked idea, and her face looks almost Grinch-like as she opens the refrigerator, and stands back to view the contents more thoughtfully now. She pulls the deep bowl of cold porridge out, and puts it on the counter top, next to the sink. Next comes the pumpkin pie, and she opens the box, dumping the cardboard into the garbage.
The glowing hot, really pissed off bride looks at the porridge, and the pie, bundles up the front of the skirt with both hands, (just so fucking aggravated by all the damned soft material billowing around), and looks down to the slip, covering to her thighs. She digs her had into the pumpkin pie a good heavy measure, and smears some of the stuff to the slip, turning it wet but only the lace hem really catches dark orange. She decides instead to spread it over the white lace skirt of her blue satin panties, smearing it to the front, then plastering the handful under herself, and against her legs and back up. The stuff plastered all the lace a dark orange, but it just feels sort of wet, falling in soft clods to the floor - it's not like she wants. "Fuck this" she thinks, and just plunges the next handful into her panties, scrapes out the remainder from the crust, and pounds that handful inside too. A bit of the stuff squishes from both leg openings, and she presses through the lacy front at the gross mound inside, squeezing it, squishing, mushing and sliding it. She drops the white skirt over and the radiant bridal look is re-established (as if nothing has changed) - except for the rage she shows and the sticky orange hands. She washes off her hands at the sink, drying them on the towel, and returns to the refrigerator for something else to use - she wants ingredients, really vile obnoxious ingredients!
Nothing else in the refrigerator looks interesting enough, so she moves to the left to open cupboard doors above her. The stuff in her panties squishes, slides, and slurps inside there, obnoxious feeling, and she almost delights in the nastiness of it - almost wishing she could go to the wedding wearing this ugly mess in her panties, and telling him to go fuck himself in front of the entire assembly. Cardboard boxes of things (gravies, gelatins, sauces, herbs and spices are up in the first cupboard), next to that are cans of this-a-ghetti, that-a-roni, baked beans, canned tomatoes, fish in brine... She grabs the can of baked beans, and rummages around in the drawers for the opener, then opens it. She hesitates for a few seconds – she can still stop this, take off the panties and slip, re-establish the beautiful bridal look, and nobody would know - once she starts, there’s no going back (she’d better be sure about this), and she begins pulling the back of the skirt up, mounding it against her back, fiddling under the slip for the elastic holding the high-cut satin panties to her, and dumps the entire 6oz canful of gook inside. Stuff instantly pours down her legs, she can hear lines of wet stuff hitting the bundle of skirt on the floor between her feet, she replaces the can, then reaches back, mushes through the bulging slimy panties at the filthy feeling wet globs of guck inside. Her face of misery as the orangey brown-ish beans and slimy liquid slurp fills, immediately stains, drenches, and dripps from the panties would tease even the most hardened connoisseur of messy videos (if this were a video).
Tiffany: “Uuuungh – fuck – mmM-MmmM”
It’s just fucking repulsive, but she’s standing more on her left leg as she twists to the right, unable to see what she’s doing under the mound of white material she holds to her back, squishing and squelching it up her ass-crack, sliding it under herself, and back, spreading the small round feeling globs and that mush inside the panties against herself. Beans from behind squeeze through the elastic leg openings with pumpkin pie from in front as she mushes it up between her legs, muttering “fuck”, reaching under. Now letting go of the skirt (letting it slide softly over the back of her legs and hang over her arm), she digs under the skirt in front and behind. Both hands work under the skirt to push beans forward and pie behind, sort of mixing the whole warm feeling mess, but the skirt is quite a hindrance, and she leaves her ass, deciding to concentrate on the mess in front. The bottom edge of the slip feels wet against the backs of her legs as she takes her arm out from behind, bundling skirt in front, and dropping it to the side (holding it there) standing upright, squishing her butt-cheeks together, feeling mushy beans press out. The stuff feels kind of heavy between her legs (sort of dangling in the panties) as she squeezes her legs together now – Tiffany bites her lip as she pushes through the slippery material bulging from in front of her, slimy, revolting, disgusting! She presses it, cupping the bulge, sliding it under herself, and dragging the sludge back. Slime slithers between her fingers, drips to the floor – she’s closed her eyes – listening to the sound of clods of bean mush hitting the floor. Beans slide down her legs, helped by rivers of slimy wet glue that fill her shoes and spread tiny lakes from them. She bends forward, a little more each second, sinking as she mushes at the sludge in the front of her panties, digging, pulling, pushing it against herself, under, collecting more from between her legs, under, and adding in front. Beans and clods of stuff slither down her legs and fall to the floor – it’s fucking EROTIC feeling, and it dawns on her that she won't be getting nooky tonight!
Tiffany digs her hand into the filled briefs, pushing a clear space in the orangey looking sludge, and digs her finger inside herself, then two. She’s standing, knees wide apart, the skirt pulled up and over to the side, and she stiffens, lolling her head back, sort of wavering on the heels, licking her lips, as she pulls and pushes slowly, then more forcefully. She drops her head forward, her heals come up from the shoes as she stiffens, widening her knees even further apart, pulling and pushing more rapidly inside. Beans and sludge slide around her fingers as she’s digging, eyes open now, moaning blissfully, a bit of a whimper, bending further forward, looking down herself (the veil becoming bothersome as it slides forward a bit), and looking up from the hideously awful view – “oh fuck, this is awesome” – she’s thinking as beans dribble down her legs and a caramel looking slimy stuff drips from the panties “she’d might as well fuck this dress really good now, but - ”. And just like that, she remembered how repulsive the clothing felt after messy sex with him. She withdrew the fingers from herself, cleaning her hands on the stockings and re-composing herself as she remembered the chiffon prom dress - covered in spaghetti sauce, salad dressing, butter, oil and all that barbeque sauce, the panties filled to bulging with that orange peel loaded marmalade – sex had been exquisite, and then just lying there only thirty seconds afterwards she desperately wanted to get out of the fucking dress and shower (long, and hard). That realization made her decide not to finish finger fucking herself to climax - no, she wants to fuck this wedding gown up bad. Really hideously, disgustingly, treacherously awfully bad.
She first makes a scan of the neighborhood, going over to the white chiffon curtains, peeking out through them, she can’t see anyone who’d immediately ruin her fun, so she returns to the refrigerator. Still looking entirely resplendently bridal, the skirt pulls back from her, smearing around the little mounds and dollops of stuff on the kitchen floor, but not really marking the end of the skirt all that badly yet (just a little bit of muddy wet staining that could be explained – if necessary). She removes the heavy bowl, puts it on the counter, selects the biggest pot, and pours the entire glop into it. Now going to the cupboards, she reaches up and selects another can of baked beans, now digging through the front of the skirt at the mess in her briefs, with the other hand. She parts her knees to get a better hold of the soggy gook inside there, and it takes five or six seconds for the white material to become a little orangey then brown, and then stuff to drip through her fingers to the white beneath – there’s really no thought to doing it, it just feels better.
Without any mind to the first stab of destruction against the gown, she opens the can of baked beans, and pours it over the porridge inside the pot, adds another can of the same stuff, and yet another. She selects some jam next, opens the jar, digs inside, and slawms the dark purple goo along the Basque waistline between the top, and the skirt, marking it terribly, dragging the stuff with tiny black seeds across (now) wet looking, purple material. Globs of jam press below her fingers, and fall to the skirt below, sliding and sticking there. She dugs into the jar again, stirring the contents, squats (with her knees together), pours and shakes the jam onto the narrow line of skirt between her legs, and (after putting the jar down) spreads the stuff up to the purple Basque waistline. With so much goo to spread, globs slide down the skirt on either side of her legs, and she collects more from jam reservoir over her legs, plastering the stuff up her front to her breasts, then shoulders, and cleans her hands on the arms. Purple ooze slithers down the skirt as she stands upright now, mashing jam into the little folds at the join between skirt and waistline. She admires her handiwork for a second or two - the dress is FUCKED! But not fucked enough for her liking.
That veil really is bothersome, billowing infinitely gently around her, she has to mash it against her back again with sticky fingers that pull it back (floating from her). The front of the gown glistens purple with black beads everywhere in the lace (taking the place of shiny sequins) – butterscotch, she desperately wants to use butterscotch next. Her hands shake a bit (excitedly) as she opens jar of Hershey’s Butterscotch Topping, digs into the resistant ooze within, mashes the load into her armpit, squeezing her arm there to separate stuff to the dress, and pulls the clean hand out. When she separates her arm from her side, the material pulls deliciously with terrible, sticky perfection. She digs into the jar again, and does the same for the other side. She digs into the jar and drags the stuff up her side, pulling it over defiant material that seems unwilling to take the stuff, but she smears it in, and does the same to the other side. Tiffany feels that the stuff isn’t right for the illusion material (just too hard to work with) so she reaches up for the plastic bottle of Hershey’s Special Dark chocolate syrup. She spends a couple of seconds reading it:
“Mildly sweet chocolate taste that’s unique to Hershey’s Special Dark products. Use in place of the traditional chocolate syrup for a richer, deeper flavor.”
Tiffany opens it, places it against the fine white mesh between her cleavage, and squeezes the bottle – hard. Wet, black gooey liquid quickly fills the void, then spreads up and out, along the line of dress at the illusion border, and pours over in two filthy black oil-slicks. Drizzling over her breasts to the dress below, she spreads a dark brown mess across the purple and white with her other hand. Inside, she feels the stuff trying to make its way down, but it filters through the material instead, as she’s smearing the stuff around. The smell is just so chocolate sweet that she smiles, emptying the bottle into the cleavage, and spreading the devastating chocolate smear around the front of the wedding dress, into the skirt, over the illusion, to her collar, and down the almost white arms of the dress. Chocolate drips slowly from chocolate covered places to white, leaving horrible passages here and there, and yet, more (so much more) has still to be done to this vile ruin.
Tiffany returns to the cupboards, the skirt still gracefully pulling so pristinely white behind her, yet the front of the dress pressing against the imitation wood cupboards below (a light colored ash) spread smears and drips to the cupboards. In the space between the counter and the top cupboards, a mirror reflects the nasty looking bride that she’s become, and she takes a bit of time to pose for the mirror (getting a good look at what has yet to be accomplished). The dainty little white flowerets in the coronet dance happily, the front of the dress glows a caramel brown purple with smears and horrible looking yucky – feeling so wet and sticky now, and yet, inside, it mostly still slides easily over the satin slip (except for the wetness between and under her breast). It’s weird that the mess hasn’t soaked through to her yet, even the butterscotch at her armpits and sides is horribly sticky on the surface, but for just a little discomfort directly at her armpits, the stuff hasn’t filtered through. It’s a testament to the heavy material used in making the dress, and she thinks (as she’s reaching up for the messy ingredients), that it must have cost a lot when it was new. Tiffany selects the next two bottles of Hershey’s caramel, another jar of jam, and a couple of boxes of cake batter mix. She puts the cake batter mix aside (for a moment) as she wrestles with the reluctant lid on the jar. The butterscotch is really sticky at her sides, she has to forcefully pull when arms meet sides, and only then does she remember why they don’t separate from her when she expects them to – it’s really weird. With the jar opened, she sqooshes her fingers around in there, and empties the stuff over the beans inside the pot of porridge, next, she squirts the first bottle of caramel over that, but leaves the second one.
The beans in her panties are really fucking obnoxious feeling. The bride in the mirror digs through the sticky brown-purple streaked and smeared skirt at the hanging bulge, dangling heavily between her legs, collecting, and sliding the mush against her, up, in front, and pinches through the material to find the elastic top to the filled feminine garment. The face of the shiny brown bride (in the mirror) looks really repulsed as she slawms and digs at the goo inside there, reaches back, spreading her knees, she digs back as well as in front. Her arms ooze over the butterscotch at her sides, sliding the whole dress around as she digs and pulls, then parts from the vile job (with sticky sounds) and she arranges the gown on her a little more comfortably. The stuff in her panties has mostly dried to a mushy, globular feeling gunk that’s really disgusting – Tiffany decides to moisten it up, grabbing the caramel, opening the top and bundling up the front of the skirt pulling it to one side to reveal the intended target. Those panties bulged horrifyingly, and the stockings looked disgusting, even though all the beans were now on the floor (somewhere) it was just brown, and yucky between her legs, with long, brown, river-like streaks through silvery white, down to her sticky, wet shoes.
Tiffany: “oh fuck”
She lifted out the elastic, revealing an orange mash that cracked apart from her like old mashed potatoes. She pushed the bottle into the stuff inside there, let the elastic close around it, and squeezed the bottle with both hands. Within seconds, she felt the stuff, wet, against her, then dribbling down her legs, and she pulled the bottle out, then massaged the slick undergarment, smooshing and squishing at it. Now for the backside. With her legs squeezing in tight together, caramel dribbled from the panties, running down her legs, she slid her arm under the skirt to the back, pressed the bottle in and squeezed. Instantly, caramel drifted down the backs of her legs, and she pulled the bottle a bit further up to fill the panties instead of pressing it all through. She reached back with the other hand, and squished the mess inside there, poked it up her butt-crack, and slathered it under herself and back, still squeezing the bottle. She parted her feet and spread her knees wide so she could look under herself, seeing lines and drips hanging from her ass, connecting back there to a muddy little lake in the bundle of beautiful white satin skirt behind her. Tiffany pulled the bottle out, but continued mushing and sliding the squishy goo inside her panties, and now she was aware of a bothersome lock of hair trying to blind her.
She lets the skirt drop haphazardly (around her legs) to the floor, and mashes back the hair with some caramel goo. Tiffany pulls back the veil again (the butterscotch just tugging at her sides as her arms come in contact) and she pulls out the skirt from her legs so she doesn’t get tripped up by all that fabric. When she turns to the counter again, the picture she sees in the wall mirror is gruesome (to say the least), but so much porridge filth lay entirely untouched – it just HAD to be used – didn’t it? She turns to the island where the pot sits, pulls out the skirt again, and takes the one step forward to it. She opens the drawer under the counter, takes the long spoon, and sinks it into the muck, stirring it now to a homogenously awful lightly purplish-grey glop. “oh yes – chocolate” she thinks, looking at the wrong colored stuff, and she turns for the 2 boxes on the kitchen surface behind her. Betty Crocker’s SuperMoist Tripple Chocolate Fudge cake batters should do a magnificent job (she decides).
Both boxes get emptied into the bowl that the porridge was in, but instead of following all the directions for oil and eggs and such, she decides just to use eggs, and began hand beating the stuff to the consistency she knows makes good cakes. Her butterscotch sides being so incredibly sticky, it’s just easier to lay her beating arm against her side and do all the work from the elbow and wrist, while the other hand is free to turn the bowl. Fuck if those panties haven’t sagged between her legs again – the elastic must be giving out with so much weight in there, or maybe her movement causes them to slide down (whatever the reason, she pinches through the skirt at her sides and hoists them back up into place). Bean glop splatters her right leg and catches inside the shoe, she flicks her foot, but it isn’t coming out from between her foot and the shoe. The cake batter’s finished.
Tiffany takes the bowl to the pot, and slathers her hand around inside the bowl as she pours, getting all the chocolate stuff into the pot, then just plunges her hands into the sludge, and turns it and churns it. She soon realizes it’s not quite as effective as stirring with a spoon, but it’s so much more filthy feeling like this – it’s wonderful! The chocolate glop that results is exactly the muddy kind of color she wants, just such a hideously slimy, chunky, gooey, plaster-like slop that coats and slides and flops from her hand as she holds it above the pot – perfect! She reaches back, behind herself, to the zipper, but it won’t budge. Her fingers are just so slimy feeling, reaching back, up, trying to find that hook to pull from the eyelet that clasps the zipper in place “there”. The butterscotch pulls, and tugs mighty sticky sounds at her sides, and under-arms as she unzips the back of the gown, down behind to the lovely, large, silk butterfly bow, but returning to the satin covered buttons in the illusion is both easier and harder to do. The veil fights her, catching her hands, pulling a bit, and she dumps the whole thing forward, over her head, dropping her hair over her shoulders to get at the couple of buttons in the collar, then the four down her back.
She cups both hands into the porridge, but realizes she’ll have to transfer it to one hand to pour down her back – she needs a mug, or measuring cup, and with the back of the dress flapping, she finds the measuring cup in a lower cupboard to the left of the sink. Just as she was returning to the pot, she remembers that dickless wonder’s words – “…I couldn’t marry you – your breasts are just too damn small.”, which suddenly infuriates her. She bundles the skirt around her legs (to hold the stuff inside her panties from falling on the rug) and returns to the bedroom vanity. She opens the drawer full of bras, and pulls out the frilly satin one the jerk got her without asking measurements first – a Valmont 30C when she took an A (asshole) and she pulls her arms from the gown, drops the spaghetti straps of the slip from her shoulders, and puts on the almost empty looking bra, fastening it behind her. Pulling the slip back on, digging into the sleeves and feeling the sticky yuck re-connect with her armpits, she returns to the kitchen.
Angrily, the bride in the mirror digs into the pot, retrieves a full and dripping container, and lifts up the top of her gown from her right shoulder, leans forward a bit, and pours the entire chocolate flow inside, over the bra and slip straps, sliding against her it descends within the gown, between the bra’s cups, coming to rest in a mound below the bra. She sinks the measuring cup again, and pours inside the left, pinching through to pull out the slip from her this time – its just so fucking delicious feeling! So unbelievably naughty. She adds yet another full 2-cup measure to the bulging dress, and smears through the front, collecting it, pinching the point of the bra cup out and smearing the mass of goop inside, filling the breast size with a wet mash. The gown was just so unbefuckingleavabley slimy feeling now, bulging filth inside it slurps and sucks as she’s collecting the next bulge from the front, pulling out the deflated bra cup, and packing it full of that sludge – she feels almost violated as she’s lightly smearing the slimy ooze that’s filtered through the front of the gown to those fake breasts – the asshole wanted big boobs, so she’s made some! Fuck him!
Her back feels cold, and Tiffany thinks about all that pure white dress back there - she sinks the 2 cup measuring device into the muck, reaches back, and pours down her back. At the last moment, as she feels it sliding down her shoulder blades, she remembers the silvery satin slip, and pulls it back from herself to let the stuff slide over the bra clasps, and against her spine. Another 2 cups, and the stuff is settling against the crook of her ass. She’s reaching back now, pushing against the wet at the base of her spine, sliding it across her ass, but she’s more interested to see the stuff squeezing through the front of the dress from those fake boobs – sort of oozing (squishing) through the front of the gown. Now interested to see what it looks like behind her, she turns away from the mirror, pulls the veil in a delicately swelling bundle to the side, and looks back – it’s chocolate staining bliss in there! Beautiful – and ghastly. She smiles and giggles a bit (how wonderful)!
Below the far more pronounced bulges at her chest (pressing far further out from her than she’s used to seeing), mounds of sludge inside the dress still need to be dealt with. She digs through the front, collecting the stuff, spreading it to the fake peaks jutting from her chest, and building out what is already as full a bra as it will hold. The slime is just obnoxious covering the front of the gown now – a light chocolate creamy ooze, which she leaves ever changing finger paintings in, every time she slides her hands across. Her front is a slippery, creamy-brown, with a dark purpley-brownish lace trim, the illusion is clear – a wet window through to a mass of creamy ooze between that silly pronounced bra, the soggy lace from the slip laying over the ooze – but the skirt is heavy and purple still, with multiple purple lines dragging globs down to the lacy hem that drifts across her toes as she turns again for the pot. More has to go inside!
She pulls down the shoulders of the gown to her elbows, the soft white collar flops forward and dangles below her breasts, hanging from wet illusion, and the whole gown is sagging now, slipping from where she wants it – she has to try this again. Pulling it back (sort of into place), she reaches back and zips up to the tightest point in her waist, surprisingly finding a hook and eye there, and fastening that too. She slides the sleeves back to her elbows again so the gown hangs from her waist, and droops from her arms. What she can see of the bra (under the soggy slip) is a slimy brownish color, with paste covering it, and plaster above. Some dryish creamy plaster parts from the wet slip, and falls to the skirt and then the floor – the slip is just so sticky, wet, and wrinkled looking.
Grabbing the measuring cup again, she just pours a solid slop inside the cold, slimy dress, hearing the last stuff flop within, feeling it all welling around her guts, and spreading a bit. She reaches forward, holding the edge of the pot with one hand, digging in with the other, and stands upright again as she pours another measured 2 cups full inside the wretched clothing. It’s a hollow kind of glopping sound as the stuff falls over the bra to the lake of gook inside there – another measured cup of the stuff drops over the dress like a chocolate colored puke, cold, wet, horrible, and she puts the thick glass container onto the counter, lifting the heavily soiled gown back up her front, pulling the shoulders back and settling the cold feeling thing where it should be. Entirely down her front, the disgusting chocolate puke slithers and drips in two main slides through the skirt to the floor. As an after-thought she pulls her hands up the mess and mashes it into the soft satin collar.
Getting the collar completely wet with the stuff, she thickly plasters inside to it, reaches back and fastens the cold, slimy thing to the back of her neck, pushing the buttons into the holes. She collects the artificial gut in front, hoisting the mass of liquid sludge up – it all just slides around her hands, returning back to the waistline, with so much brown liquid glue just oozing through soggy material, coating shiny down the entire front of the skirt. Stuff slithered and dribbled down her legs – the entire front of the gown was just so damned heavy with it all, compared to the light feeling back. She turned to look back at the mirror, the flaps still waving at her back like white triangular wings on either side of a wet, chocolate slip. She reached back, and began zipping up the back, instantly creating a hiss of air from the (now) tight front of the soggy ruin coating her. The bra continued to hold all the mash, but she felt individual flakes of stuff squeeze, trying to escape against her from the crushing bra. Liquid ooze just flowed from the brown fabric as she slithered the zipper up (getting caught on the slip, tugging it back down, and trying again), until it met the top of its course. She fastened the hook into the eyelet, and began fastening the buttons as the skirt swayed wetly between her legs, sagging so obnoxiously awfully – just so terribly ruined.
The revolting brown bride looked at herself in the two foot slit of mirror above the counter, below the cupboards, tugging up those loaded panties again, and adjusting the destroyed wedding gown as comfortably as she could. That bulge looked like a beer-gut, sagging over the Basque waistline, dribbling ooze in irregular glawms to the shining skirt below, and she smeared the stuff up, coating over the fake breasts to her shoulders, pulling more up her sides, moving the stuff around inside the gown, against her, dragging cupped handfuls between the breasts to her neck – just so fucking slimy (appalling). She smeared the stuff around her chin, and plastered back her hair with it, cleaning off her hands at her sides, the stuff just oozed inside the dress, settling back to her waist again, just so much (too much).
Tiffany dug through the back of the silky soft skirt at the filth in the panties, twisting, standing entirely on her left side, the dress wrinkling up her side as she reached back, squishing her fingers up her butt-crack, and pushing stuff under herself, pulling it back, pushing in front through that slippery wet garment in front with the other hand, cupping, and squishing and sliding that most exquisitely feminine zone with round feeling globs (beans) and mashed sludge. NO! She thought, she couldn’t do that yet. There was just too fucking much stuff to use on this dress yet. She pulled out the skirt again (always the princess) and returned to the pot.
Instead of digging back into the pot again, she picks up the weighty thing by both handles, seeing the stuff ooze heavily towards her as she lifted it, and she sinks a bit (so not to have to raise the pot quite so high) carefully beginning the pour down her back. She could feel the stuff pulling on the veil first, weighting it down, then, heavily, a pile of the material swings off to the right, twisting her head that way as well. She pulls her head back as the veil lets go of mounds of chocolate, and down her back, she feels the weighty stuff traveling over all the pure virgin white like sunlight giving way to darkness. The pot is still so damned heavy, so she pours a little more, feeling the clods of stuff sliding over her, and seeing stuff coming around the front, from her sides, dripping to the skirt. Her arms are getting tired holding this pot like this, so she turns the pot even more, now feeling the stuff really gain momentum with drips, splots, and sliding slurpy sounds, and the other side of the veil swings out like a heavy towel, hanging there, dripping chunks of beans and chocolate slop. To finish off, she lifts the almost empty pot to the height her arms could reach, and pours the remainder in the crown of her head, letting the stuff slide over her hair, cover her ears, pouring either side of her face and shoulders in a lava-like flow to her front and back. She stands upright, instantly feeling all that stuff gain momentum, slipping over the dress, entirely coating it. Hearing slapping, slurpy, slithering sounds, of the stuff falling down her back, she puts the pot on the counter, where still more stuff (inside) settles to coat the bottom.
The “gut” at her waist looks really, really beer-belly-like now, but she’s more concerned with the stuff drifting down her back, and that twenty pound skirt dragging her down behind. She reaches back, and smears the stuff down, settling to a squat where here knees almost touch her chin, spreading the stuff to the lake of chocolate filth around the back of her, and she stands. She pulls out the skirt, taking a look at the thing, and the lake transfers to the floor, spreading only a little out – so thick. Amazingly, sharp shards of dazzlingly pure white reach up almost to the soggy bundle of chocolate cloth tacked to her ass, that used to be the butterfly bow. The lake looks inviting!
The veil is way too heavy now, but by slapping it down her back, it feels almost like it’s not there. She drags out the skirt as she settles to kneel on the splattered floor, sliding around to face the lake behind her, and lays forward in the chocolate. Stuff presses up around inside the dress, and the lake squelches out from her. She smears the stuff up her front (beside her) to the dress, her front, her sagging collar, and she rolls to her back, pulling the sloppy skirt to her abdomen. The stuff in her panties squishes from her butt around her legs as she sits upright, and drags the mulch to her legs – surprisingly still showing a few areas of white. Just a few minutes slithering and sliding gook to the dress, and she stands up on the slippery kitchen floor. The skirt flops wetly to her legs, sucking to them, now entirely drenched chocolate brown (inside and out). Tiffany stands there for a second, unbelievably funked out by the treacherously destroyed clothing she’s wearing, and still, she’s thinking “it still need more!”. She catches a glimpse of herself in the long, floor-length kitchen mirror beside the refrigerator – just an entirely chocolate coated bride, dripping, filthy, slimy, utterly disgusting in that veil (still showing one mutant white floweret bouncing gaily at the end of a tiny stalk), and she tugs her legs apart with the slimy skirt trying the suck them together, making her way to the cupboards again for the large milk carton size of the most black looking, thick molasses.
She tears the carton, pulling, and opening it, then drags the veil from her head, pulling pins and everything from the matted, slimy rat-tails that her hair’s become. Tiffany reaches up and pours. The stuff slowly oozes forward, and from the carton, heavily dragging back her hair, and pouring down her back, she moves the carton forward, to pour down her shoulder and front. The black paint covers her chest, sliding down her front, and pouring everywhere down her. The stuff drizzles and drips from her elbows, just entirely coating the chocolate with a heavy black that slowly turns the darkest chocolate. Amazingly, she doesn’t even notice the gunk hanging between her legs in the panties – it’s just so wet and revolting everywhere else. With the carton emptied over her, just a black lake spreading from her, the skirt sucked in tight to her legs and filthy oil dripping and sliding everywhere from her, she figures it’s finally time to enjoy some self pleasuring sex. Tiffany grabs the heavy slime skirt, squishing the material to drag it up to the side, and reaches in to the briefs, drags them down (with slaps and splatters from gunk inside them hitting the floor), pulling the twisted knot of material to her knees. She smears the gunk from her, and digs inside (gritting her teeth, and bending a bit forward).
Tiffany: “Oh fuck.”
She digs and pulls, digs and pulls, faster, slower (her knees wide apart) she’s bending further forward now, really getting off as slimy gunge drips everywhere from her, her hair slides to the side of her face and sways there, dripping goo.
Tiffany: “Oh fuck.”
She moans and whimpers, louder and more pronounced as she digs – just so much filth dripping from the destroyed blackened wedding gown, she’s getting so fucking hot now. Straining and whimpering, she straightens in jerks, pulling and digging, licking her lips, moaning, fucking herself – it just felt so exquisitely, deliciously kinky like this. The black slip hung either side of her hand, coating the tops of her legs, as the black skirt behind her dangles in columns from her ass to the floor, and she digs moaning, leaning forward again, and pulling back up in jerks, straining, gritting her teeth and whimpering more and more loudly. She begins digging faster, more determined, and finally, probably more than five minutes, she climaxes – and ebbs, slowly, so relaxed, and blissful. She pulls fingers from herself, and lays both hands on her legs above her knees, just catching her breath.
Tiffany: “Oh fuck that was good.”
She pulls upright, and straightens the gown on her body, dragging the liquid black skirt around more pleasingly. She’s just so fucking messy! Her heart’s beating so damn fast. It’s time to clean up.
She reaches back for the buttons and zipper, dragging the buttons from the dress, tearing the hooks from eyes, and just ripping the zipper apart. Yeah, this dress was coming off now. She dragged the thing from her, letting it flop in a pile around her feet, and she steps out from it all. The filled bra was next. Gunk was just stuck to her skin, and she reached back, unfastened the bra and pulled the black feminine garment from her, revealing the fake breast plaster stuck to her. She smears the goo from her body, and reaches down to unfasten the shoes, slides the stockings from her legs, and looks at the horrible mess around her, standing there, naked. Tiffany kneels, and drags the panties over the mass of chocolate blackness coating the floor, pulling the lake to the mounded pile of black wedding gown.
Only about an hour ago, she’d been the most beautiful blonde bride any guy would have had an instant hard on for, and now she’s on all fours, pulling the glop to a treacherously destroyed mound of material that was once that silky white wedding gown. Yeah, she gets up, and takes the cleaning stuff from the lower cupboard, and the bucket. Tiffany drags the thirty pounds of black wedding gown to the big, hefty garbage bag, and drops it inside, with the bra, stockings and panties, pours water over the floor, and sponges to the bucket (still she’s just a sticky, slimy coated naked woman of 22 years with too flat a chest for that asshole she thought she’d be marrying today) – well fuck him! She cleaned the cupboards, washed the counter, the pot, and figured she’d be smart to make another bowlful of porridge – for the hockey team. As a last afterthought, before going to the shower for about four hours, she phoned the corner store to re-supply (jam, butterscotch, chocolate cake batter, chocolate sauce, several cans of baked beans and another bag of porridge).
Tiffany went down the hallway to the bathroom, turned the hot water on, cold, and stepped into the warm shower, where water parted clods of gunk from her hair, her body, and ass, between her legs, and everywhere – it was the most wonderfully relaxing shower she believed she’d ever had. Glorious.
It was a while before she felt she was clean enough to turn the shower off, and step out, towel off, and blow-dry her silky hair to the perfection it had been before all of this. She walked past the kitchen, and saw the bag of groceries beside the door (no curtains were actually open, even though glorious sunshine still glowed through those chiffon curtains), so walked over the slightly sticky, but clean looking floor, and put the stuff from the bag into the cupboards – jams, butterscotch, chocolate cake batter, bottles sauce, and a bag of oatmeal. Still naked, and getting cold now, the phone rang – it was him!
Tiffany: “Yes? WHAT? Oh bullshit – it you had any idea what – you really do? Then what about the… it was your BROTHER? Oh bullshit. They’re all waiting still? The wedding’s on? REALLY?”
She actually looks excited! Surprisingly, she actually believes the asshole this time! She smothers the receiver, cuddling it, loving the person at the other end, and hangs up so excitedly now. She jumps a little on the spot, reveling in the moment of delirious joyfulness, and runs to the bedroom. She grabs the next high sheer lace accented stockings, runs to the bed, and carefully drifts the first up her leg, then the other, and excitedly grabs inside the cupboard for the next identical wedding gown, tears off the plastic, unzips it, unbuttons and unfastens it, then returns to the vanity for the next pair of those frilly panties she owns so many pairs of.
Her fairly small breasts wiggle as she reaches under, steps into, and pulls up the bridal high-cut briefs into place - those expensive, cream satin, form hugging things with dangling satin accent frills adorning the leg openings. She strides to the vanity, and sits on the pink satin cushioned chair, applying blush, smearing on a finger of blue cream eye shadow. Next, the lipstick. She stands to drop the silvery satin lace accent slip over her head, and slides it into place.
Max: “CUT – That’s a wrap folks!”
A short fire-siren ring sounded, sunlight through the curtains snapped to darkness, the flashing lights on the manned couple of video cameras stopped blinking, the guy with the sound boom lifted it out of the way and walked off. Behind the cameras, blue-white lights snapped on, and a general hub-ub ensued as this messy video shoot wrapped up.
Max: “You did brilliantly as usual Tiffany – we’ll loop the video so they never stop watching it – for instructions how to keep a Newfie interested for hours, please turn paper over – for instructions how to keep a Newfie interested for hours, please turn paper over – for instructions”
Tiffany: “Lovely. Did I do it all? I didn’t miss any of that crap Mr.Messmaster2000 wrote into that exhaustive story did I?”
Max: “Well, come to think about it, I think you left the shit out.”
Tiffany: “I wonder why. So are we done here?”
Max: “Everything except the money – go see Peggy for your five hundred – oh, but, wait a minute…”
Tiffany watched, waiting for her cue to go as Max’s finger slid over the last couple of paragraphs, mumbling “…straining, pushing… …hands slide to her breasts as she winces, catches her breath and pushes again… …fucking awful, so warm, sticky, weighting down the panties, pushing them out from her so much more obnoxiously than the baked bean mush… …yada, yada”. Tiffany has one of those looks on her face, with the stance to match that says “fuck you – no way – never happening”, standing there in that silver satin slip, bare-foot in shiny, white stockings, and that silky hair glowing. Max had to see that part of the video – to know whether to cut it, or keep it, he had to see it first. It was irresistible.
Max: “I’ll give you another hundred?”
Tiffany: “Not fucking likely”
Tiffany: “Nnnn – nn – n.”
Tiffany looks upset, like she’s fighting with the bills on one side, and the awful way she’s going to have to earn the money to pay them – but she could even get the shoes she wanted if –
Tiffany: “Two fifty final offer”
Max: “Done baby. Go get the wreck back on, we’ll have to fix it a bit with some stitching, and spread the stuff out again, but this time you wont’ have to clean it.”
Tiffany rolls a fold of the slip in her fingers as she drops her head, turning towards the set, and steps back up onto the bedroom side of the sound stage. She slides the slip off, dropping it to the carpet, takes off the panties (for everyone to see) and the stockings, just leaving them there. She’s been seen naked so many times by these folks it’s just part of the job now – but this – this thing she’d going to do now – this is different to anything she’d done before. It’s just fucking nasty. She’s really not looking forward to this at all.
In the kitchen, one of the guys dragged the forty of fifty pound bag of sludge and sloppy fabric to the open area of floor that most of the action took place (out from the center island, in front of the refrigerator), and rolled the bag over to let all the contents pour out. He grabbed the corners of the bottom, and let the final bits and pieces drip onto the black island of a quickly expanding lake, and walked off. Tiffany entered the kitchen set, cross-armed (hiding her breasts) from the adjoining “hallway”, and looked at the foul pile with the most sour look on her face. She approached the pile, stepping gingerly into the slimy blackness, and dragged out the heavy, sodden clothing pinched in thumb and forefinger. Her face looked nauseated as (behind her) the cameras’ red lights showed they were recording this obvious “out-take”. The clothing splotted as she dropped it into the foul sludge, and she recognized a shoe. She was just so clean now – what was she doing this for? She pulled at the pile a bit more forcefully, finding the slightly more grey looking slip by it’s underarm lace border and the strap, dragging out the still partially full bra as well, and dropping them both onto the clean surface of the floor, away from the slowly expanding lake. Her toes squooshed in the stuff, squatting like this (over the terrible wreckage), her hair hung loosely down her back and shoulders – she really, really didn’t want to be doing this.
Tiffany found the shoulders of the thing, and dragged it from the muck, sending the other shoe and so much heavy muck to the floor, seeing the tight bundle (that had to be panties) in a pile of glop beside the skirt. Somewhere, there was still the stockings to find. She slapped the gown against her body, instantly making her feel wet and awful – she still had to wear this fucking thing (all of it)! She dropped the gown back to the floor with such a wet slopping sound, dug into the pile of goo with the panties in it, and rescued the things, opened them, and stepped in, dragging them up herself and into place. Next, she settled into the muck, sitting, and felt around for the other missing stocking, found it easily, and carefully slid both of them on. Stuff squished around her ass, she flipped her soft hair back and got to all fours (where her hair slid forward to either side of her face) making her way over the extremely slippery floor to the slip and bra. She dragged the bra to her, dug it into pile of muck on the floor, to fill it, and settled it over her breasts, then dragged it back and fastened it. Hooks were bent where she’d pulled, and one of the eyes was dangling un-usable, but the effect would look the same. She stood, pulled out the slip from the shoulder straps, stepped in, and pulled the wet thing up her body. It was just so wet, vile, dark grey and ugly. She only had the gown to go, and the shoes, but the seamstress was arguing with Max about doing this kind of job.
Hoshiko: “…clean – I do them clean… …not like this – I do them clean.”
But that was all Tiffany heard, because the sucking, slurping, gloppy sounds as she slid into the repulsively cold, ugly dress, and this utterly vile, slimy coldness was pretty gross. She stuffed her arms into the wet sleeves, and pulled the rest back onto her – the collar was almost too nasty to do, but she clasped it in her fingers, and dragged it back, buttoning it up behind her glossy, clean hair. The breasts were deflating a bit too quickly (so much liquid with the mush in there) and they guys pointed out that there was quite a bulging tire around her mid-section that needed to be replaced. She knelt in it, and collected more slop, pouring it inside the dress with her hands to her shoulders and leaning forward. More and more filled the dress, and she finally had a bit of help from the seamstress to button what could be, but the rest had to sewn up by hand (the zipper was entirely fucked, and so were the hooks). For several minutes, Hoshiko worked black thread into the flaps, pulling them together so it looked right, and Tiffany just stood there, dripping – just too fucking awful to think about it, then sat back on the floor, and put the shoes back on, fastening the straps that bound them to her feet. She lay back, and plastered back her hair in the stuff, slithered, and slid in it all, then onto her front, pulling forward and pushing back, over the floor, spread the mess over the dress again, and around the floor (sort of resembling what that used to look like). She sat, and slid the stuff over her legs – anywhere that looked clean was blackened again, except for her face, which mostly just had small drips and a line around to her chin, which someone duplicated from the tape.
Max: “Tiffany, sorry girl, but we’re going to have to use another angle for this scene – nothing behind you looks the same, the floor’s different – we’re opening up the counter side, sliding away the refrigerator, and dropping the door down. Just give us a few minutes. And we’re going to have to fill your panties again the way they looked.”
Tiffany: “I’m going to fill them – I’m doing that – not ‘someone’.”
Max wasn’t listening, and Tiffany just miserably looks at the director jerk, then the floor (for anything more to use in the panties) but it’s surprising how little actual “mush” is left – her “gut” mostly looks the same, the bra is pretty much pushing out the dress the same, but there’s just no more gunk left. A vacuum must have sucked it out of existence or something. She looks back at Max.
Tiffany: “There isn’t enough here to fill an egg-cup!”
Max: “So break open another can already – you’ve got enough of ‘em you know.”
Tiffany gulps, standing in the swirls of muck, squishing her fingers together, sucks slurps and slithers to the cupboard before the entire wall, gets pulled up flat against the ceiling, the cupboards above are unhooked from the beams above, and the lower ones (sink and all) was pushed away (with the refrigerator as well). She took just one of the cans, opened it, sucked the slimy skirt from her legs, and poured inside the front of the brown panties. She figures a lot of the second can was squished out during all that work fucking herself, so one can should be about right, and she swayed a little, then dug at the sludge. She knew she had to lay back in the muck, plaster herself entirely, and she began that process as cameras swung to the new position, the outside wall swung down, revealing the back door, some muddy boots and a door mat were dropped there, a dining room table was hauled into view by two more guys, chairs, white linen table-cloth dropped over, and the scene looked pretty much set.
Max: “OK Tiffany, we’re ready here – you remember how this part of the story goes?”
Max: “Not yet, but I’ll take that as a ‘yes’, and say – ROLL’EM!”
Max’s right index finger swirls the air, red lights on the cameras stay lit, bright sunlight suddenly streams through the curtains, the sound boom guy settles the device just out of sight of the camera’s view, but well inside it’s range to hear all the squishy squooshes, slurps, moaning, and whimpers. Tiffany knows what the mean fucker wrote in that disgusting story, and walks a little towards the dining room set, pulling chocolate filth behind the skirt, and stands there for a moment – deciding? She carefully peeks through the curtain to see if anyone will walk in on her now, and then turns to face the cameras, settling to the stance – knees apart under the skirt, squatting a bit, sort of like she’s sitting on the very edge of a really high toilet, and she grips the tops of her legs as she gives it the first push. Video renters would probably be going “what’s she doing?” right about now, as she catches her breath and pushes again, shaking her head and wincing in that negative way that tells everyone she really doesn’t want to be doing this.
The brown woman squats there, in the center of the picture, black lace marking the shoulders, front, and a Basque waistline above which a tire of sludge inside the dress presses out. The breasts on this shining, shimmering chocolate bride look nice, perfect, and she slides her hands from her thighs to them, cupping them, sliding her hands over them as the knees wiggle under the skirt, she grunts, and strains again, pushing. Tiffany drops her hands to her sides, and stands upright, looking at Max.
Tiffany: “Do I really HAVE to fucking take a dump? I mean can’t we just cut to an even more loaded pair of briefs? – Is this REALLY fucking necessary?”
Max: “Realism darling – you just can’t fake the realism.”
Tiffany snears, and settles to the stance again, pulls the skirt a bit over her knees so it cups more and pulls a ridge between them, now cupping the fake breasts again, and lolling her head back on her neck. She stands upright again and looks at Max once more.
Tiffany: “’Cus you know we could use a thick plastic hose, and pound it full of messy stuff, and squish it out – it’d look real authentic.”
Max: “CUT! Look – Dearest, most beautiful, most precious of my gorgeous looking girls – you’re all dressed up again. The story calls for this, the nasty prick paid us really good money for this, and now you’re fucking it all up. Can we PLEASE have you SHITTING yourself? Please?”
Tiffany looked nasty at him, slid her hands down the cold, slippery garment, and resumed the stance.
Max: “And – ROLL’EM”
The chocolate brown bride slides her hands down the front of the dress, the cup of skirt sags between her knees as she brings them in a closer together, and she squeezes her fingers through to the panties, stroking, then groping (moaning almost blissfully), then, clearly pushes - for real now. Wavering on the high heels, straining, holding her breath, she gasps, and slides her hands to her knees, squatting a bit lower and parting the knees a bit wider a she leans into another straining push. The camera shows the shimmering chocolate bride’s face (close up) eyes closed blue eye shadow, lipstick, chocolate around her face, wincing (as with pain) straining, the collar sags at her neck, above a soaked net material, and she takes a breath, relaxing, licking her lips, opening her ice-blue eyes and looking at the camera, then closing then, and she strains again. Tiffany had never done this before – she’d figure it would be easy to foul an already destroyed thing such as this, but it was fucking hard. She wondered if she had anything to fill the panties with as she pressed down again, lifted up her heels from the shoes, and fucking tried really hard.
A wet little fart with something in it parted her butt-crack, and she reached back to pull up the sodden skirt for the close-up. Maybe it was diarrhea? Oh fuck! She pressed the thought from her mind, and pushed again, thankfully feeling something more substantial just begin. She wavered on the ends of her toes, trying to do this, but closing her butt-crack on the little glob that presses from her. In any polite society function, she’d have had a fucking startled look on her face, and be excusing herself mighty quickly for the bathroom, but her she was, really trying to do it for the camera. She could feel the cameraman’s lens in front of her capturing her every facial movement, and she thought she’d turn on the audience with an erotically turned on look - a bit of top teeth showing, head tilts back a bit, and the blissful moan of pleasure, then she winces, tightens up and pushes down again. From behind, the awful view showed the butterfly bow (a dangling mass of cloth) plastered to a parting mass of sticky looking folds that was the skirt, above the bride’s light grey satin panties, chocolate lace stuck under her legs that propped up a cavern of inside of dark, flowing material. She pushed again, and something dug out the back of the panties. Her face showed the extreme discomfort and revulsion, but she took another breath, lifted the soggy collar better over her neck with her fingers, and strained again with such a tortured, pained look. A squooshy sound punctuated with fart splats and more squooshing were the noises above her delicate little moan as the back of her panties filled. She slid her hands to the breasts, smearing the muck around her front, then down to her crotch, massaging as she pushed the final mess from herself.
The story told her the next step, and she followed it, squishing back at the mess with her fingers, tentatively at first, then violently digging up her butt crack. She stands almost upright, moaning, revolted –so fucking awful, and she mashes the stuff against herself, under, reaching under the front of the skirt, she collects hold of the mess, and slides it up in front. Stuff is dripping in chunks from the leg openings, sticking to her legs, unmoving from skin – nothing’s hitting the floor like she thought – it’s all just sticking to her ass, legs and the outside of the panties as she slides it around like any other kind of paste. And then the smell hits her.
Tiffany: “Oh fuck! Oh – eeeew – oh shit… eeeew.”
The violated, fucked, and shit bride doesn’t know what to do with the plaster filled hands she’s waving in front of her – not the dress, but where? She thinks, then just slides them down the skirt, and bends to clean them off in all that material. The panties slide as she stoops, and the phone rings at the same time. What comes next? She thinks, trying to think. Answer the phone – it’s all over when you answer the phone. Tiffany waddles to the phone, such an unbelievably gross, smelling, disgusting thing to do – FUCK.
Tiffany: “yes?” She sounds almost monotonic. Act damn you – she thinks – ACT! “Who is this? – YOU?! YOU FUCK! You fucking prick. You should see me you FUCKING ASS-HOLE… WHAT? Your brother? HE’S THE ASSHOLE? It was a practical joke? You want me at the church now? Oh shit. Oh shit. Oh shit. I mean… I mean… give me another hour. I think. Yeah. And I’ll be there!”
She’s almost breathless as she hangs up the phone. Shit slides from one butt-cheek to the other as she walks to the middle of the kitchen, and drops to kneeling on the grime covered chocolate smeared floor. She wrestles with the zipper, dragging, pulling, and tugging at the thing trying to wrench it off, but it’s just not coming off!
Max: “Cut – print – you’re fucking delicious Tiffany! I love you.”
Tiffany: “What’s wrong with this fucking dress?”
Outside, there’s a blaring horn, and almost instantly, everyone’s gone. Max yells to anyone else who’s left besides Tiffany that the much needed refreshments have arrived, and is the last to close the door.
Max: “Coffee truck’s here.”
Tiffany begins dragging at the front of the dress, pulling, tugging, trying to rip the ugly thing from her – all that shit in her panties, slimy, slick, squishing up her ass and legs, so much fucking filth, her hair in rat-tails, this horrible smell! It’s everywhere, FUCK! She sits on the floor, legs tucked under, wildly dragging at where the zipper should be, pulling back there, dragging, and returning to work on the front as shit on her hands smears the dress, trying desperately now to wrench the thing from herself, she’s swaying, pulling at it, she yells as loudly as she can manage.
Tiffany: “GET ME OUT OF THIS FUCKING DRESS!”
I'm interested to know how many of you would really, really like to see a website devoted only to wedding messes. Mud, and food mess - everything except the shit (which can be made to look real without being real). The site could be broken into mud, and mess, non-nude non-fuck messing, and all out nude fucking shitting wrestling everything messes. Prom gowns, bridal gowns, and bridesmaid gowns - sheath, mermaid, ball, princess, high collar, off the shoulder, satin, chiffon, silk, lace (everything really femininely pretty on the most lovely looking ladies). Would you want to see that? ONLY that? Let me know. I need your input to work out numbers.