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It’s my job Part 1 The sticky substance rolled down my back and over the ultra-tight, thin white plastic pants I was wearing. The gloopy mass had slowly slid from my head and, with the aid of gravity, eventually collected in a pool by my feet; it was that gradual descent that turned Bob on so much. He would watch fascinated as the yellow goo trickled and pooled, then, like a wave of lava, carry on its way to the final destination. My arse is one of my best features so that the thin, almost transparent, slippery material emphasised my hard-as-nails globes to their best effect. When the flow of the shiny, semi-liquid concoction completely covered my arse, I had to admit that the effect of my reflected image in the main mirror, which completely covered an entire wall, was quite stunning. Once he’d enjoyed the glossy sheen and appreciated that initial visual experience (there was also a lot of touching and stroking involved), armed with yet another bowl of custard, Bob would empty that over my head and watch yet another cavalcade of the sticky dessert drip onto my chest and slowly gather around the front of my bulging plastic shield. The wave of custard would separate around that projecting mound and rivulets of the sticky splurge would split up and trickle down each leg. He’d pour more custard so that the glossy bulge was covered and then position himself to let the occasional drip of the stuff fall into his waiting mouth; his tongue flicking wildly about in eager expectation. All the while, he’d be massaging custard into his erect cock barely hidden behind his own yellow, gloop-stained, diaper. Bob is one of my regulars. Once a month, for the past 9 months, he’d book me to indulge in his sticky fetish and, I have to say, I thoroughly enjoyed these sessions. Some clients just want me naked and to get the deed over and done with as soon as possible. Some were guilty about what they were doing; some ashamed of hiring a rent boy to fulfil their needs, while others were on a deadline and just wanted a quick, no-nonsense shag. That is what I do and I am happy to do it while I can. I don’t moralise about what people want or ask me to do. In the main, they are the customer and what they want, and pay for, is what they get. Bob is quite well off. I believe he made loads of money when he was quite young and now, in his early 40s, lives off the proceeds. His penthouse apartment has an ultra-modern kitchen, two bedrooms and a huge living room that opens up onto a balcony, which overlooks the city. He has also converted his third bedroom into a ‘playroom’ and that’s where we get messy once a month. Kid’s TV would be proud of the amount of slimy sticky stuff he’s poured over the both of us in the times we’ve done this together. I am well paid for being the target of his slippery needs and it is great fun. He likes me to appear at his door dressed in suit and tie (and I’ve recently added a briefcase to complete the respectable young businessman look). He greets me dressed the same, it’s as if we are about to go into a high-powered business meeting, but that image only lasts a few moments as it is the removal of clothes, which are always neatly folded outside the play area, and the transformation into ‘sloshboys’(that is, guys who love messy fun), that gets him going. He supplies what he wants me to wear; sometimes I’m naked, other times I’ve had gumboots, a plastic apron, rubber shorts, a divers wet suit, although he mainly likes me in a tight-fitting diaper and plastic pants. Whatever he has a sudden thought about, he gets me to try and I love not knowing what it’s going to be next. He’ll also have all the substances he wants to use stacked around the room; I supply the body, a smile and no attitude. We laugh a lot as plates of food, tubs of mud, buckets of foam, paint, oil, porridge and his favourite… custard - you name it and it is probably in his repertoire of stuff that we launch over one and other. Sometimes he’ll walk up to me, pull at my shorts or underpants or diaper and drip a gallon of some sticky treacle or greasy gloop all over my arse, cock and balls. The stuff gets everywhere but at the end, and especially if the goo covering my arse is still slick and liquidy, he likes to rub himself off against my slippery butt cheeks. His cock has inevitably been hard from the moment I arrive, so when he does cum his copious orgasm is a flood, which is then rubbed into whatever it is he’s covered me in. He seems to derive as much fun from our sloshy antics as he does from cumming and he’s deliriously happy from start to finish. Afterwards we often sit facing each other, dressed in just our messy diapers, or sometimes pretty plastic pants and throw dollops of stuff to get us both even more plastered with it all. We giggle like big kids and perhaps strangely, we hug a lot and it has become something of a release for me, a release I didn’t know I needed, and always makes me feel better about… well, life. He always pays me more than we’ve agreed so, after we both take an innocent shower (the messy and sexy business is kept strictly for the fun room), I leave his place dressed in my suit and with no tell-tale signs of what we’ve just done and always a lot better off than when I arrived. He never asks me to clean up, he never demands anything other than messy fun, and the memory of this monthly event actually keeps me happy until the next time he calls. In fact, that one session with Bob could mean that I don’t have to work for the rest of the week… but I do… you can’t let your clients down can you? *tbc*