My client asked me to pour custard down his pants — what could possibly go wrong?

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

This doesn’t seem like the sort of hotel where they’d deign to provide a hairdryer, it’s a cheap find just off the A1.

My post-sploshing pint, which I’ve faithfully promised myself, and 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 – which is known in the kink world as ‘sploshing’ – is his greatest dream come true, the moment he’s been fantasising 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 litre down your pants. Please!’ he begs.

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

I’m wearing only my pants. I’ve sold Nathan my pants in the past – he’s a big fan of the humble knicker. 

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 undies despite their lack of lace.

When I mentioned on X I was having tea with a vicar chum, the cheeky bugger asked if he could buy her pants 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 aftershave.

I’ve requested £200 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 pants as a souvenir. They’re only Primark, and I don’t much fancy popping them back in my handbag after this.

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

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

Custarding myself, 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 the flesh.

‘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 thrush for this escapade, trying to pass it off as an enthusiastic grin.

There was a fad for ‘pussy pops’ a few years back, ie. penetrating yourself with a lolly before popping it in the post to an eager client, which upset my vaginal pH balance in a way I feared might be permanent. 

It seems to have recovered now, although I’m always careful to use Calpol rather than icing sugar for faked cum shots. I’d rather custard wasn’t my downfall.

Nathan has been fantasising about gunge since the age of 12, blaming Saturday morning kids’ TV shows. He watched Anthea Turner get covered in green goo one day and couldn’t stop considering 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 Splosh magazine on Ebay and realised 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 £100 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 girl 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. 

Saying that, I only have one other client like this, who also has a tummy fetish. He likes covering my gut in blue gunge he bulk buys from Amazon, then taking pictures of the effect.

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

Today though, it’s his first time ever sploshing with an actual girl in the flesh. 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 refused to believe the drippy yellowy features I showed 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 penis bulging and twitching as the slime hits. 

‘I’ve already cum three times today, imagining this moment,’ he says. ‘Not sure I can cum again.’

But he does. Semen mingles with pudding sauce, admittedly not a great deal. It’s the sensation of custard against his genitalia that he loves.

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

The last carton goes down his pants. Thank goodness. The smell of the Bird’s 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 bin liner 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 gent incredibly happy. 

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