Color Me Kinky: Sploshing (Food Fetish)

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This piece is part of a new series in which Ravishly editor Katie Tandy explores the psychology behind a fetish, and writer Jetta Rae DoubleCakes writes a piece of erotic fiction that reveals how it would manifest in a sexual encounter. Color Me Kinky refers to the "hanky code," a system in which certain colors connote one's sexual interests and proclivities in public spaces. Previously we've written about Foot Fetish (coral), Mommy Play (mint green), and Armpit Worship (magenta). Stay tuned for more science-smut next week, but right now? Savor the sploshing (lime green).

Sploshing—also known as Wet And Messy (WAM)—is a fetish nothing short of a multisensory extravaganza. We're talking a bona fide kaleidoscope of bodily stimulation. As with any kink, it manifests itself in all kinds of wonderful, panty-tingling ways, but at its essential self, sploshing is all about getting covered—or covering someone else—in some sort of delectable substance. Often it's eatable—talk about having your cake and eating it too—but often it's just about the sheer bliss of being immersed, mentally and physically, in whipped cream, peanut butter, chocolate, beer, pudding, pickle juice, slime, paint, lotion . . . or just about any other substance your sweetly-twisted mind can conjure. 

Sploshing is alternatively sensual and silly, humiliating and worship-inducing, deftly stimulating every sense—although most agree that the tactile sensation usually tops the list.

As with most kinks, the scientific and psychological research surrounding its permutations and motivations are decidedly Swiss cheese-like: delicious but chock full of gaping holes. One theory is that sploshing is a holdover from the childish rapture of squishing, smooshing, slurping, and splashing. "Messy play theory" is believed to be part and parcel of rearing a well-rounded human; in fact it's even been linked to accelerated rates of verbal communication and the ability to recognize different objects and substances. 

The sexualized manifestation of messy play is considered to be a two-fold psychological phenomenon (if we're buying the whole neo-Freudian paradigm): Sploshing fetishists may have been children with an extra penchant for finger-painting, spaghetti-hurling, whathaveyou. Their brains and bodies deeply dug the sensation of substances being all over their body which, when puberty reared its pubic-haired head, became conflated with their sexual arousal.

There is also the theory that the elation of "breaking taboos"—smearing yourself and others in sticky, rainbow-ed goo (for example)—is a source of liberation, a proverbial screw you to every mother, teacher, and oppressive jerk who ever told you to "stop playing with your food," "wipe your mouth," or "don't talk when you chew."

Others believe that some WAM-heads may be drawn to sploshing due to low tactile sensitivity, or sensory processing disorder; those that suffer from this relatively rare malady have a dampened response to a particular sensory experience. From taking a scalding hot shower to slipping on warm slippers, sipping cheap whiskey, sniffing questionable milk, or basking in the string section of a symphony, we're all experiencing "sensory integration," rendering messages from our senses into "appropriate" motor and behavioral responses." It's conceivable that some sploshers are drawn to intense friction, pressure, slipperiness, etc. because "regular sensations" aren't enough to induce the kind of sensory feedback their brain and bodies are craving.

But in truth, I think most sploshers are just good old fashioned kink-sters who simply love a good mess. So let's move on to the good stuff. The nitty gritty of goo-induced orgasms.

Sploshing is often made synonymous with sitophilia—sexual arousal from food—and according to Dr. Mark Griffiths, can exhibit itself in a wide-reaching wonderland of ways:

1. Manja, manja! Eating food or a whole damn meal off of someone else's naked body. (Like the Japanese practice of nyotaimori—ya know, the whole naughty sushi thing.)

2. As a means of sadomasochism and erotic humiliation—like pelting someone with eggs, whipping their bottoms with celery stalks, forcing them to eat their meal off the floor, controlling their intake of food as a means of sex play, or having them lick your entire body clean of honey.

3. A masturbatory aid! You can hollow out gourds to plunge your penis into or get frisky with phallic veggies. Get thee to a zucchini!

4. Sex enhancer! Put a slit-plum over your penis-tip and hump your way to fruit-filled ecstasy. Or try some "figging"—inserting ginger into your rectum!—on for size.

5. A frothy finger-licking meal! Add semen or your pussy-gruel to, well, just about anything! Blend it, mash it, slurp it, savor it.

Oh. Lastly? Sploshing can also cleverly overlap with salirophilia, in which individuals get aroused from sullying the object of their desire. From tangling hair and ruining clothes to dunking somebody like a naughty pig into a trough of mud, salirophilists are all about the glory of the mess— the fall from grace into the glory of the O-face.

So without further ado, I give you some fantastically dirty filth.

"Now, there's nothing wrong with starting with dessert."

The soft, menacing "come hither, little one" of her nails along the inside of my thigh. And so we begin. On dates previous, when the blindfold didn't suit her whim, she would compel me to describe, in lurid detail, the hue and gloss of her manicure as she would scrape and scratch and flay. But tonight I wasn't meant to watch.

"Well, I mean, we'll have actual desserts. Nice, goopy puddings and cold, slimy fruits. I was thinking they could live here—oohh, a little ticklish today, aren't we, my pet?"

It was perhaps a kindness that she chose the metal restraints for me tonight. Though a little rougher on the flesh, their clanging against the table would offer me some semblance of sensory anchoring. I wasn't to watch. I wasn't to taste. But I could listen.

"We'll put the desserts over here and the entrees . . . here, I think. Awww, you're all goose-bumpy. Here—let me set some candles next to you. I promise not to spill them on you if you can lay very, very still."

We'd spent an afternoon affixing the eyehooks to the table legs. The actual drilling and placement took maybe 15 minutes. But there was minding the record player and the occasional "bend over, fucktoy" field test to be considered. I did such a good job helping to build the furniture that I could now be a part of it.

A tiny, happy laceration of my breast—I could hear her biting her lip. She dug her nails in deeper.

"I have a bet with the other girls—they don't think you can stay hard the whole meal. They will probably try to cheat and spill their cold drinks on your cock. You just have to concentrate very hard."

A malicious coo filled my ear. Her breath was the warmest when she was given to cruelty. Her claws—calling them for what they really are—flitting along the base of my cock. Some nights she plays with it for so long that just cutting the whole fucking thing off would seem a greater release than maybe getting to come.

"I'll give you one lick now—yeah, you like that? You like it when your Miss puts your dirty little cock in her mouth? Ah ah ah, hold still—you don't want to spill these candles on you. It'd make it hard to eat dinner off you. And after all that time spent waxing and lotioning your pretty, pretty skin. Waste not want not, my little meatbag."

Her hand clasps my desperate fuckstick and for just a second it feels like I'm held tight by the whole world.

"If you can stay hard for us throughout dinner and dessert—maybe I'll give you two licks. Later. Joanie brought her strap-on. Maybe we can just have a quiet night in after, have some win—-and I can show her how to milk a prostate? Here—we'll call this an appetizer."

A very careful, deliberate smear of my lips. The taste of her pussy sliding underneath my ball gag—now a wallflower in my watering mouth, on the verge of a sob.

"Oh, are you hungry, too?"

The clattering in the kitchen becoming louder.

"Dinner's almost ready, Delia!"

"Okay. I really want to win this bet. Don't get used to this, meatbag. This is a special occasion. I'm gonna climb on the table. Just try not to jerk."

Eager pussy lips parting. A slick warmth slowly cascading down my strained flesh. So hard; it hurts. She thrusts, bouncing on bound hips, writhing. It should feel like a victory, but after such sustained teasing it's all salt in the wound from here. I could chew through this gag, but there'd be nothing to cradle my spittling screams from escape.

"Delia, can you come here and help me plate this?"

"Not now. I'm setting the table."

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