(Coed/Husband+Wife Mess) Live, Love, But Whatever You Do, Don't Laugh: A What Would You Do? Story

I've written several What Would You Do tribute stories, envisioning a spinoff where a wilder, adult-oriented version of the show somehow finds its way to late night TV. This is the latest installment!

“Do you have any recommendations for fun things we can do tonight?”

Damien and his wife Alessandra – Allie, for short – had already been in Daytona Beach, Florida for the last several nights. The two 25-year-olds were on a 10-day honeymoon, fresh off tying the knot last week in their small town in Nebraska. When they wanted to pick a destination for their trip, they got a map, closed their eyes, and pointed to a spot, and lo and behold, they landed on this party town nestled on the Atlantic. They’d never seen the ocean before, so they were thrilled with their choice.

They had a simple life back home: he worked for an architecture firm, she in a high-powered, intense role as an analyst for an investment bank. They relished the chance to get away from all of that, to let loose for a while, and just spend quality time with each other.

But planning their wedding had taken so much out of them, Damien and Allie had no energy left to plan their honeymoon. So after a few days on the beach, hitting the city’s best restaurants, tiki bars, and happy hours, and having as much sex as they could handle, they were out of ideas, which led them to approach a kind middle-aged man named Rory, who was holding court at the front desk of The Sandcastle, the luxury hotel they’d booked for this trip.

“What kinds of things are you guys into?” Rory asked.

“I dunnoooo,” Damien said tentatively. He kissed Allie on the cheek sweetly. “We’re newlyweds, so it definitely needs to be fun. Bonus points if it’s something we can’t do back home!”

“How about being in the audience for a TV show?” he replied.

Allie slapped the front desk with her palm. “Wait, seriously? We can do that here?”

“Absolutely,” the gentleman said. “There’s a studio just off the boardwalk, and I think they’ve got a taping tonight. I’ve heard lots of great things. Really fun, lots of surprises. I’ve been meaning to go myself, just haven’t had the chance yet.”

“Done!” Damien said. “How do we get in?”

“They do a lineup around 6,” Rory said. “Just be at the Ocean Center around that time and they get you right in!”

Rory didn’t even get a chance to tell them the name of the show; Allie and Damien were already halfway out the hotel’s double doors. They were beaming. No TV shows worth a damn were shot in Nebraska. This was going to be awesome.

They killed time at the pool, hit a happy hour, came back to dress presentably in case they were on camera, and before they knew it, they were taking their seats for the taping.

The couple was thrown off by the gaudy colors, in awe at all of the studio equipment, and gobsmacked by all of the zany set pieces. A frickin’ dunk tank set up on the stage? A set of roller coaster tracks leading straight into what looked like a giant fake pie turned on its side?

“Is this what all TV show tapings are like?” Allie asked Damien incredulously.

Before he could even try to answer, the show’s theme song hit.

Wha-w-w-w-w-w-w-what would you? Wha-wha-what would you do?

A stagehand called for applause, and seemingly out of nowhere popped Marc Summers, skipping on stage like he hadn’t lost a beat in 30 years.

“Welcome everyone, to another episode of What Would You Do, how are you today?”

Applause rings out from the mostly young adults comprising the audience, a little punchier today due to the lateness of the hour. Many of them seemed to have done exactly what Allie and Damien did: imbibed a few before checking out the show. It seemed like everyone in the audience was young, fit, and attractive. Damien looked around and felt a little intimidated, but also superior, as he knew he’d married the most beautiful woman in the room.

“We’re the show that plays all kinds of wacky games, puts contestants in wild situations, just so we can ask them, ‘What Would You Do?’”

“And today, we really are gonna challenge our contestants to figure out what they’ll do, or how far they’ll go, to win a magnificent prize. I’m looking for two volunteers; anyone want to help us out?”

Did someone say magnificent prize? So many hands shoot up. These people came to have fun at the beach, why not do that in front of viewers across the country? Stick a middle finger at ‘em and say, “haha, this could’ve been you!”

Marc meandered around the stands, trying to find two gems among a sea of outstretched arms. “I’m looking for a couple of friends, maybeeeee a couple, like ahhhhh husband and wife–”

He spots one man in particular with his hand not raised, but instead, pointing his index fingers straight down at himself and the woman seated next to him. It’s Damien.

“You, sir, what’s your name?”

“Damien.”

Allie is seated immediately to his left, her hands covering her mouth, her head shaking incredulously. Is this really happening?!

“And who are you with?” Marc asks.

“This is my wife, Allie. We just got married last week and we’re on our honeymoon!”

Jackpot, Marc thinks to himself. “Oh, that’s fantastic. Would you two join me on stage, please?”

The audience applauds heartily as Damien pops to his feet. Allie is still seated, her hands still over her mouth, until finally she caves to the crowd’s adoration and offers her right hand to Damien’s outstretched arm. He takes it in his, and gently pulls her to her feet. Marc ushers them both down to center stage, where a large easel with squares marked 1 through 16 has been set up, alongside two whiteboards, each with one of their names on it, and what appears to be a very tall box with a sheet draped over it.

Damien and Allie are dressed like a power couple on vacation. Damien is a striking 5’11” with a square jaw and a build that is muscular yet somehow approachable. He’s in pristine white Converse sneakers with black ankle socks, casual canary yellow shorts and a light blue seersucker button-down shirt. His medium-length dark brown hair looks bleached by the sun and sits like a nest atop his head. It’s luscious and impeccably styled.

Allie is effortlessly radiant. She’s 5’6” and her body, to put it frankly, is bangin’. She’s in incredible shape from her rigorous five-times-per-week workout regimen, and works as a brand ambassador for a high-end athleisure brand in addition to her full-time job. She’s in her off-duty outfit today: sand-colored Tory Burch platform sandals, cutoff jean shorts that flatter her long, powerful legs, and a sporty-looking light green halter top that shows off her toned arms and her luscious D-cup breasts, which are trying their hardest to burst out from the top, the cleft between them both in-your-face and oh-so-inviting. It’s a sexy look, but she’s the type that would look just as gorgeous in a t-shirt and sweatpants, beer in hand.

Tragically, today was the day when she decided to doll herself up, guessing correctly that she might be on camera. She ran her long, flowing brown hair through a curling iron to make it ever so slightly wavy, used her best mascara and eye shadow, and even curled her eyelashes for the occasion. As the cameras focused in on her, other audience members who just a second ago were hoping to get picked themselves conceded that she was the perfect contestant.

“So you’re Damien and Allie,” Marc says. “First of all, congratulations on your wedding, and thank you for spending part of your honeymoon with us! Where are you visiting from?”

“Right outside Omaha, Nebraska,” Damien says. He’s taking the lead since Allie is still speechless. Her right hand may be holding Damien’s left, but she’s still covering her mouth with her other hand. She’s giggling in disbelief.

“Oh wow, so you’ve come a long way,” Marc says. “Well, we want to make this a trip you’ll remember forever, so we’re gonna have you play a game today. And the good news is, you two have already won, so congratulations on that as well!”

Damien and Allie look at each other and smile. For doing absolutely nothing, they get to go home with a prize!

“Now Damien, do you have any hobbies? What do you like to do in your spare time?”

“Yeah, absolutely! I love to restore old cars and collect baseball memorabilia.”

“And you, Allie? We haven’t heard much from you yet. What kinds of things do you like to do?”

Allie finally removes her hand from her mouth. “I really love sketching and painting with some of my Kappa Delta sorority sisters from college!” She makes the Kappa Delta sign, raising her middle finger, index finger and thumb, on her right hand, and meeting the latter two with upward-facing index and middle fingers on her left, forming a delta symbol as they touch.

“Let me ask you another question,” Marc says. “Which of you is the funnier person in this marriage?”

They look at each other, and point directly at themselves. As if proving their point, the audience laughs.

“Well,” Marc says, “In that case, we’re gonna settle this once and for all with a little game I’d like to play! Do you remember the game Hangman? You might’ve played it in class when you were younger.”

They both nod yes.

“Our version of Hangman is pretty similar. In this game, you’ll take turns. In each round, you’ll have 15 seconds to make your soulmate laugh. You can say something, do something, sing, dance, whatever. But you only have 15 seconds to do it. And then we’ll switch roles, and the other person will go.

“Your goal is to avoid your Hangman – head, body, two arms, two legs – from being completed. If you make your spouse laugh, you win that round, and we’ll add a body part to their Hangman. And as a penalty for laughing, they have to pick a number off our penalty board over here.” Marc gestures at the grid with the 16 envelopes.

“Whatever is inside the envelope you pick, they then have to do it. But if you truly, genuinely do not want to do what’s in the envelope, then all you have to do is say so. But if you do that, the game is over, you lose, and your partner is going to have a decision to make.”

“So like I said, if you can make your partner laugh, they have to pick an envelope. But if you can’t, guess what happens then, Allie?” He holds the microphone up to her.

“I guess I have to pick an envelope?”

“That’s exactly right!” Marc exclaims.

“So the game ends when the first Hangman is completed, or when one of you no longer wishes to continue, okay?”

After some serious hesitation, they nod to confirm their understanding of the rules.

“I mentioned you’ve already won. You probably want to know what the prizes are. Well, thanks to our wonderful sponsors, we’re able to hook whoever wins up with a gift card for the hobby of their choice!

“Damien, if you win, we’ve got a $250 gift card for you courtesy of eBay Motors, so you can pursue more of the car restoration that you like!” The audience applauds heartily.

“And Allie, if you win, you get a $250 gift card, this one from Blick Art Materials!” Allie is thrilled. This wedding has taken a huge chunk out of her savings, and this could help with some new canvases she’s had her eye on.

“This is all very exciting and probably overwhelming,” Marc says. “Any questions?”

“What’s in the envelopes?” Damien asks.

Marc guffaws. “Huh, well! I’m glad you asked, Damien! Take a look at our video monitors here to see what prizes we’ve got in store for you.

The screens in the studio all display a facsimile of the 4x4 grid. The audience groans, then starts to applaud, as they see that six of the squares have “Strip!” written inside them, and two have “Strip your opponent!” written inside them. Damien and Allie go bug-eyed.

Marc approaches Allie. “Allie, tell me, did you ever play any stripping games back in your sorority days?”

“Oh my god, n-n-no!” she stammers in fear.

Both newlyweds wonder just how far they’re willing to go to claim bragging rights over their partner and a much-needed cash infusion for their hobby.

“But you’ll notice that these are only half of the penalties on the board,” Marc says. “Robin, could you show them what the rest of them are?”

In one dramatic swoop, Robin Marrella, Marc’s longtime, trusted sidekick, flings the sheet off the very tall box to reveal that it’s actually a baker’s cart, and it’s filled with multiple trays of large whipped cream pies. There’s even one enormous, rectangular sheet cake on one of the trays, a severe penalty for one especially unlucky contestant. Allie and Damien know exactly what this means: the cost of losing even a single round is going to be very, very high, and most likely, they’re both going home very messy, without their clothes, or both. They are no longer best friends, but sworn enemies.

The audience is going crazy. This show never disappoints with the losers’ punishments.

Marc shouts over the audience’s noise. “Any other questions?”

They tentatively nod no. Their hearts are beating through their chests. This was originally going to be a fun, carefree night out. Suddenly, there’s so much more at stake.

“Alright, Allie, ladies first! Your 15 seconds starts… now.”

Allie’s Turn #1

Marc puts the microphone to Allie’s mouth. She doesn’t need much to get him to crack.

“Dodgeball!” she yells. Damien busts out laughing.

A buzzer sounds to signal the end of the round. Robin draws a head on Damien’s Hangman, while Marc steps over and puts his arms around Damien’s shoulder.

“Damien, you’re in trouble if you’re gonna break that quickly! What’s the story behind ‘dodgeball?’”

“Well,” Damien says, “We met playing in an adult dodgeball league. She was on another team and she actually hit me right in the nuts, so hard they had to stop the game. I was rolling around in pain, she came over and gave me the saddest puppy eyes I’d ever seen, apologized, and then pointed at me and said, ‘You’re out!’ And it immediately broke the ice. Now we’re married!”

The cameras cut back to Allie, and she’s giving the very same puppy eyes right back at him. The audience cheers their painful meet-cute.

“Alright,” Marc says. “Pick an envelope, 1 through 16!”

Damien winces as he makes his choice. “Four.”

“Robin picks the envelope off the board, opens it, and reveals its contents to the camera.

STRIP!

Damien sighs. He takes a couple of seconds to compose himself, giving the audience ample time to reach a crescendo. He grabs the neckline of his seersucker shirt and raises it up over his head to raucous cheers, as he reveals his impeccably hairless body, his sculpted pecs, his muscular torso. The ladies in the crowd are fawning, jealous of Allie.

Damien’s Turn #1

“Alright,” Marc says. “You’re up, Damien! Your 15 seconds start now!”

An introvert by nature, Damien is so stunned from having to strip on camera that he doesn’t even hear Marc’s cue. He wastes precious seconds before snapping back to reality, but without a strategy in place, he squanders the rest of his time. He makes a halfhearted attempt to make faces at her, but she is unmoved. The buzzer sounds to end Damien’s time. Robin draws a body on Damien’s Hangman.

“What was THAT?!” Marc exclaims. “Damien, that was just sad!”

“I guess I just blanked.”

“Alright, well I’m gonna need a number, what’s it gonna be?”

“Let’s try lucky number seven.”

Robin grabs the envelope and dramatically reveals its message.

PIE YOUR OPPONENT!

OHHHHH, the crowd jeers. A reversal of fortune! Allie’s mouth drops wide open. She fully expected to see her husband lose some more clothes, or maybe get to throw a pie in his face, not to get one herself!

But alas, Robin selects a massive cream pie from the cart and delicately hands it to Damien’s waiting hands. The pie looks super sloppy, piled high with extra whipped cream. Damien even has to dodge some of the excess cream that drops to the floor at his feet. He sticks his index finger in it and sneaks a taste.

“So Allie,” Marc says sardonically, “Has Damien ever given you a cream pie before?”

“OH MY GOD, EWWW!”

“Something tells me I’m about to hear you say the exact same thing in about 5 seconds!”

Damien sizes up his wife with a devilish look on his face. He takes a couple of steps in her direction.

“Alright then! On the count of three, Damien, take away her pie virginity!”

The audience makes their presence heard.

ONE! TWO! THREE!

Allie takes a few tentative steps backward, her hands out in front of her to communicate how badly she doesn’t want to get pied. She spent 20 minutes doing her makeup, and all that work is about to be erased in violent fashion.

“Sweetheart, no, ple–”

PLOONK!

OHHHHH! The crowd yells in unison.

Allie’s plea is replaced with a muffled scream as Damien nails her right between the eyes. Allie’s body shudders, her shoulders scrunch, and her hands fly up toward her face. Her beautifully wavy hair flings backwards, acting as a curtain for the mess that misses her face. She’s been baptized with a necklace of white whipped cream and red cherry filling across her collarbone.

Damien rubs the pie tin up and down Allie’s face before sliding it into her hair, where it finally comes to rest. Allie’s face is demolished, her makeup buried under mounds of pie crust, cherries, and cream, the last of which is already melting all over her body. Her vibrant green halter top is pristine no longer, stained white and red as pie remnants slide inside it. It feels so uncomfortable that she takes a second to scoop some out from between her breasts. She removes the mangled pie tin from atop her head and drops it to the floor, where it clatters loudly. Globs of mess splatter at her feet, some even landing on her toes, her pink toenails disappearing under the cream, the leather straps of her designer sandals smothered beyond repair.

Just one pie, and she’s been absolutely wrecked.

Allie’s Turn #2

Like Damien before her, she didn’t even hear Marc’s cue to go next. The next thing she hears is Marc yelling, “Five seconds!”

She responds, “What?!”

She can’t think of anything else to do, so she slides another finger between her breasts, scoops up some more pie, and sexily puts it in her mouth, sucking down its contents like she did in the hotel room when…

BUZZ! Time is up!

Robin draws the head on Allie’s Hangman, while Marc puts his hand delicately on her mid-back. “I forgot to ask. Did you enjoy getting that pie in your face?”

“My makeup is ruined!” shouted the former sorority girl. The glamorous look she made for herself just a couple of hours ago is long gone.

“I’m sure Damien found that extremely hot, but it didn’t work! So for the first time, I’m gonna need a number from you!”

“Fine,” she snaps. “Two.”

Robin opens envelope #2.

STRIP!

Without even blinking an eye, she kicks off her pie-splattered Tory Burch flip-flops. These were almost $150, she thinks to herself. Now they’re ruined. I have to win this game.

Damien’s Turn #2

It’s once again Damien’s turn. He might be blessed with a great body of his own, but he wasn’t blessed with any dancing ability whatsoever. He knows that Allie knows it, and as his time starts, he breaks out some of his worst dance moves, channeling his inner Elaine from Seinfeld.

Allie is so disgusted by the feeling of pie melting all over her body that she hardly even cracks a smile. She always made fun of him for his lack of skill, and all she can do right now is purse her lips and shake her head to say no, you’re not getting me with this!

Damien tries hard, but the buzzer sounds. His Hangman grows an arm.

“Well that sure was… something!” Marc says. “But it didn’t work, so what square is it gonna be, Damien?”

Damien hangs his head dejectedly. This was the one thing that he thought for sure would work.

“Eleven.”

Robin opens it.

STRIP YOUR OPPONENT!

“FUCK!” is head off-mic as Allie reacts to her second reverse punishment. She’s won three rounds, but in two of them she’s had to serve a penalty.

“Oh, this is gonna be fun!” Marc says. “Damien, it's the dealer's choice! What’s it gonna be?”

The crowd rises to its feet, angling to get a better view. They cheer him on, and in this moment, Allie feels like she’s in a Roman colosseum, just waiting for the lion to get her.

Damien walks up behind her and whispers in her ear, “I love you. Sorry, I have to.”

His hands move to her waist, where he unclasps the button on her jean shorts. He saw her get dressed earlier, so he knows full well what’s underneath them: not much.

With the button undone, he yanks her shorts down with a flourish, revealing a skimpy, lacy pink thong underneath. A camera operator swiftly runs behind her and focuses its gaze right on her ass, plump and tan from several days in the Florida sun.

This stripping bit was meant to happen later, in the privacy of their hotel suite, not in front of a huge studio audience and all these cameras! Down to just a thong, her skintight halter top and with pie splattered all over her face, Allie hangs her head in embarrassment.

But unlike last time, when she was too stunned to take her turn, she is ready.

Allie’s Turn #3

Allie draws upon the belly dancing classes she took in her early 20s. This immediately grabs Damien’s attention – everyone’s attention, really, as she confidently sways her hips – and without missing a beat, she switches straight to a striptease, dropping to a squat and straddling an invisible pole between her legs.

Damien is stunned by the transition and momentarily forgets his objective. He chuckles to himself, but that’s all it takes.

BUZZ. She wins again. Damien’s Hangman gets his second arm, putting him just two losses away from losing the game and whatever punishment awaits the loser.

Damien is left shaking his head as Marc solicits his next envelope choice. Can he dodge a punishment for a third time?!

“Six.”

There is a drumroll as Robin takes the envelope and opens it.

PIE!

“FUCK YEAH!” Allie shouts and punches the air. Damien dangles his arms at his sides in dejection. The crowd shouts their adoration. They dearly want to see her get some much deserved retribution.

Robin takes another pie and gleefully hands it to Allie.

“So Allie,” Marc says, “Are you ready to get some payback?”

She can’t hide her excitement. “I would rather strip his ass, but he’s gonna get it good!”

“Well, don’t let me stop you! On the count of three, let him have it!”

Damien looks up at the sky, shakes his head in disbelief, and locks eyes with his wife. Knowing he’s already gotten lucky and dodged a couple of bullets, he elects to give her a wide open target. He hooks his index fingers behind his back and accepts his fate.

ONE! TWO! THREE!

GLOOP!

This time, the corny sound effect is for him. Allie braces her left hand on Damien’s broad right shoulder, rears back and cleans his clock. Cream, crust, and chocolate pudding explode in all directions, blasting his full-bodied dark brown hair backwards and coating his broad, muscular, shirtless chest. The hit was so hard, even some unlucky audience members in the front row got showered with cream.

Like his wife, Damien loses his pie virginity instantly and violently. His hands hang helplessly at his waist. Allie doesn’t let him off easy, crumpling the pie tin around his face and swirling it in circles before sliding it down his hairless chest. Pie slop gets smeared all over his bare pecs and his stomach, the coldness of the cream causing his body to tense up and shiver.

Allie smears it all the way down to Damien’s waist before he finally slaps the tin out of her hands. She’s satisfied after getting her pound of flesh, and gives her man a messy kiss on the cheek before playfully shoving him away and prancing back to her side of the stage.

Damien paws at his eyes to try to get the goo off of him, but the cream is too sticky. It won’t budge.

Damien’s Turn #3

Even still, he’s better prepared now to get his wife to laugh. When Marc says go, Damien breaks into the most awkward striptease a man could ever do. He starts by rubbing the pie mess all over his bare upper body. Allie smiles and bites her thumb in disbelief.

But she can’t hold out much longer. Damien clasps the waistband of his shorts and pulls them down ever so slightly, and as soon as she sees his hips start to thrust, she breaks.

BUZZ. The crowd cheers their appreciation at his attempt, and that it was actually successful. Robin draws a body on Allie’s hangman as the attention once again shifts back to the half-naked woman on stage.

Nervously, she picks her next envelope. “Eight?”

Robin pulls it down, opens it, and smirks. She knows Allie was right in showing her apprehension.

She turns the card to the camera and looks over to see Allie’s face drop in misery.

CAKE IN THE FACE!

The crowd voices their approval louder than ever. Damien rubs his hands together and happily accepts the massive sheet cake. It’s covered in thick pink frosting. Yellow, purple, orange and red flowers adorn the edges, with red hearts in the middle and the words “What Would You Do” written across it in blue ink. It looks like it was made to do serious damage, both to its recipient’s face and their clothes. And Allie, standing meekly in her light green halter top, is right in its crosshairs.

Marc again gently puts his hand on Allie’s mid-back as she prepares to take this latest punishment.

“So Allie,” he says. “On a scale of one to ten, how much are you going to enjoy getting this cake thrown right in your face?”

“Negative 100!” she squeals.

He then asks her husband the same question.

“A million!” he shouts.

“That’s what I like to hear! Allie, on the count of three, we’ve got a delicious cake, and it’s just for you. Audience, should we give this sorority girl some cake?”

The loudest scream of the night ensues.

“On three, Damien, you know what to do.”

ONE! TWO! THREE!

GLOONK!

Allie’s hands are clasped beneath her sizable chest as Damien launches the cake at her face. He throws it vertically, trying to get as much of it to slam into her body as possible, and he does it. Bullseye.

The two-foot long cake nails her from her head to her chest. The cake was less of a cake and more of a vehicle for whipped frosting, which blows up all over her perfect body upon impact. Allie’s world immediately goes pink: her face converted to nothing more than a blob of icing, her long brown hair matting to her shoulders, the tan skin of her exposed upper chest turning the same color as her halter top, which becomes saturated with food coloring and is now permanently stained. Her chest gets hit so hard that a shockwave ripples outward across her sumptuous breasts.

For its final act, the thick dessert slides down her body, smothering her entire front all the way down before releasing its hold and falling to the ground. Frosting-covered chunks of cake fall off her body at all angles to the floor at her feet.

If the pie did serious damage to her face, then this cake took care of the rest. Her entire upper half has been utterly demolished in the hue of her favorite color.

The crowd chants obnoxiously as if to mock her.

HO-LY SHIT! HO-LY SHIT! HO-LY SHIT! The censors in the production truck work desperately to stay on the right side of the FCC.

Allie’s Turn #4

Back on stage, Annie got blasted so hard and was so stunned from the hit that she can’t even move. Marc has restarted the timer on her, but she doesn’t even bother. She feels so, so gross. All she wanted to do was get cleaned up, but not even a flimsy paper towel is forthcoming.

The crowd chants the countdown.

THREE! TWO! ONE!

BUZZ. Robin adds the first arm to Annie’s Hangman.

She continues to paw at her body to try to remove cake remnants, her mouth still agape. Her gorgeous makeup is just a memory, her clothes either on the ground or in tatters.

Marc urges her to pick another envelope so they can keep the game moving. With her mind elsewhere, Allie just says the first number that comes to mind. She’s taken so many punishments that she’s resigned to another one. The only question is what it’ll be.

“Thirteen.”

The card is shown to the camera.

STRIP!

Is it possible for an entire audience to lose its collective voice? They’re certainly trying!

Allie is up against it now. All that’s left are her halter top and her thong. What kind of choice is this?

Her hands tentatively go to her waist. She grabs the hem of her shirt and lifts. The tightness of it gives her some resistance, but it finally relents. Up it goes, over her head. She tosses it to the ground in a heap.

She’s greeted with more cheers, whistles and catcalls as she has revealed a strapless, white, almost see-through lace bra, pristine and untouched by mess.

Allie thought she was being cheeky. She wanted to be a temptress while she and Damien were out and about. He saw her put it on, and he knew she wanted him to take it off when they got home later, but she wanted to make him live with that fantasy the entire night. Now, that fantasy has backfired, and Allie is staring down cameras that are looking right back at her basically exposed nipples.

Allie is a comical contrast, with her exposed skin covered in gooey pink frosting, a line of demarcation where her halter top used to be, a newly-exposed expanse of clean skin, then the white bra, her nipples perky and big, presenting a tantalizing new target.

The game is tightening up, and now Damien has the chance to draw even. He looks over at his wife, half naked, all kinds of stuff covering her body. This is not how he expected this day to go, but his competitiveness has kicked in, and if Allie has to face the consequences because of it, then so be it.

Damien’s Turn #4

“Damien,” Marc says. “Your 15 seconds start now!”

Damien grabs the microphone. He knows exactly what he’s going to say.

In a nasally, Fran Drescher-style voice and a thick Southern accent, he gives his best imitation of his mother-in-law. “Alessandra, this is your motherrrr calling, are you drinking enough waterrrrr?”

Even as dehumanized as she feels, Allie can’t help but crack up at this impression. She knows her mother’s voice can be grating, and her constant nagging has been an inside joke in her relationship with Damien for years. He often does “the voice”, and the bit never gets old. She cackles loudly, before realizing her error and trying to cover up her error with her hands.

It’s too late. Robin is already drawing a second arm on Allie’s Hangman. BUZZ.

Allie has to pick an envelope for the third straight time. She picks the very last one, envelope 16.

Robin opens it. She smiles at both contestants.

PIE EACH OTHER!

With the tension and the animosity between them escalating, this is the perfect penalty. The crowd cheers heartily as Robin takes two heaping pies and hands one to each of the newlyweds.

Marc breaks the fourth wall and speaks directly to the camera. “Folks, you’re gonna want to put your phones down for this one.”

The couple size each other up and impatiently wait for the countdown. Damien takes in the sight of his wife, standing in bare feet in front of hundreds of people in just her bra and panties, armed with a pie he’s about to smash in her face.

Allie, meanwhile, sees the smug look on Damien’s face, and can’t wait to rid him of it. She’s more than ready to give it to him. Hard.

“On the count of three, let’s see this lucky couple show each other how they really feel!”

ONE! TWO! THREE!

Allie and Damien are naturals. Even with a pie headed toward their own faces, they connect with direct hits on each other!

Allie slams a banana cream in Damien’s face, splattering his top half once again with yellow and white. She smashes it so hard that it slides all the way to his left ear and gets lodged there, deafening him on one side. His eyes are glued shut, his face unrecognizable. Sloppy cream again starts melting down his smoking hot body.

For his part, Damien mashes a blueberry cream right between his wife’s eyes, mixing dark blue syrup into the pink already piled up on her face and in her hair. A shower of berries sprays out behind her, while a generous helping slides out of the pie and down her chest, sliding across her white bra and ruining it.

Allie was smiling with an open mouth as she both delivered and received her pie, causing it to fill up with cream. She ate some of it, sure, but such a massive quantity found its way in that a heaping helping came flooding out of her mouth, dribbling down onto her breasts.

For a moment, they break the sense of humiliation they each feel and are able to see themselves as they are: two newlyweds in a wacky situation, having a good time. They share a quick, knowing glance, the twinkle returns to Allie’s eyes, and they exchange a cute, messy kiss. The crowd laughs at the momentary release in tension.

The tension comes right back when Allie aggressively rubs her hand all over Damien’s face, pushing the pie deeper into his pores and into his hair. He desperately smacks her hands away, and they both stumble away laughing.

Allie’s Turn #5

Allie’s next 15 seconds commence. Though she has found this experience extremely degrading so far, she knew the game was tied and she was on the precipice of letting it get away if she didn’t step it up.

Without regard for decorum, she silently pantomimed their night in bed last night in vivid detail. Damien looked on in disbelief as she mimicked one thing after another. But he doesn’t break. His mouth drops wide open in shock at the sudden escalation, but he stays still as a statue until time runs out and the buzzer sounds.

Allie’s reward for her explicit gambit is the first leg of her Hangman. Her next loss means she loses the game.

But right now, she has a forfeit to pick.

“Wow!” Marc exclaims. “Nothing is off limits, apparently! Allie, I need a number. Give me a number, please!”

Brought low by her latest failure, she simply gives another random number.

“Five.”

Robin shows the result.

PIE!

Allie had been debating whether she could stomach removing her underwear to stay in the running for the grand prize. For at least one more round, she didn’t have to make that call.

However, she was staring at her husband, who was giving her another wry look, with yet another dessert in hand. This one was decorated with chocolate syrup swirls atop the cream.

“Allie,” Marc says. He wants to make her wait another agonizing couple of moments before receiving this latest punishment. “What do you think your Kappa Delta sisters will think when they see you like this? Anything you have to say for yourself?”

Allie can’t even speak. There might have been a swear in there, but it was indistinguishable from her agonizing groans.

“On the count of three, Damien, let’s see it!”

ONE! TWO! THREE!

Damien decides he’s rearranged his wife’s face enough. With his off hand, he spins her around, showing her bare ass to the cameras, “covered” only by her pink thong. He sizes up his target, cocks his arm back, and hears his beautiful wife shout “NO!!” in a last-ditch attempt to stop this brutal act.

He disregards Allie’s protest, and fires away.

GLOOMP!

Damien gives Allie’s gorgeous ass a devastating pie spanking. She screams to the high heavens when she feels its coldness. The cameras catch her butt cheeks rippling out from the impact. Semi-solid cherries, chocolate syrup, and whipped cream splatter in all directions, spraying her lower back, upper thighs, and calves, but leaving the most devastation for each of her muscular glutes.

If not for the flimsy ass floss she had on, she’d have a devil of a time trying to get this mess out in the shower later. Truthfully, she still might.

Damien swirls the pie around her ass a couple of times before letting the tin fall to the ground. Cherries are plastered to each of her cheeks, at least until gravity takes over, little bombs leaving a trail of goo down her privates until they each fall to the ground with tiny splats.

As horrifying as this felt, Allie still knows she can’t afford to lose any more clothes. She mentally recovers and braces herself for whatever Damien has in store for his next turn.

Damien’s Turn #5

Damien knows that Allie has a sweet spot for her stuffed animals. When they first shared her bed together, she had to guiltily shove a number of them to the floor to let him sleep in their place, and she’s told him ever since that they’ve held a grudge against him for that. With nothing off-limits anymore, he decides to bring the animals into it.

He mimicks her cherished stuffed bear William with a high-pitched voice.

“Allie, what are you doing? Why are you in your underwear? Is this because of Damien? You say the word, and I’ll beat him up! I’ll do it!”

Allie cracks a wry smile, but she’s somehow able to hold firm, at least until the buzzer sounds.

BUZZ. Almost instantly, Allie starts laughing hysterically.

Damien points directly at her, shouting, “SHE LAUGHED! SHE LAUGHED!” But Marc would have none of it. It came after the buzzer, so it doesn’t count.

Robin adds the first leg of Damien’s Hangman. Once more, the score is tied. Now, it was sudden death. The next person to lose would lose the game!

With his heart in his chest, he selects envelope #10.

Robin takes it off the wall and opens it.

STRIP YOUR OPPONENT!

Damien’s face turns from despair to joy, and Allie the exact opposite. For the third time, she won a round but had to take the punishment!

What kept her from laughing last round was a distraction: she continued to debate whether she was willing to take her bra or thong off, revealing to the entire world her privates meant only for Damien. The crowd again rises to its feet as they await her decision. Bra or panties? Bra or panties?

For Allie, it would be neither. She shakes her head no, and waves her arms from side to side, indicating that she’s gone as far as she would allow. Despite being just one step away from winning the game, she couldn’t stomach the idea of exposing herself for the mere chance at a couple hundred dollars.

Starting when she was a freshman in college, she was approached numerous times with offers to become a stripper. The offers got more lucrative as she filled out, especially when people learned she was all-natural. She declined every single one. She wasn’t going to start now.

“Are you giving up, Allie?” Marc asks. “Is that your final decision?”

She nods yes, leading to groans of disappointment, and even a few boos, from the audience.

“Now, now,” Marc chides, “Let’s not be mean! She made her decision, we need to respect that.”

Damien raises his arms above his head in victory. It’s a Pyrrhic victory, it came at great cost, but he won the $250 prize and bragging rights as well. With the game finally over, he comes over, a genuine smile on his face, and gives Allie a big hug. This is in part to congratulate her on a hard-fought battle, but also, selfishly, to feel those gorgeous D-cups press up against his body one more time.

“Congratulations, Damien!” Marc says. “You win a $250 gift card to eBay Motors courtesy of all of us here at What Would You Do!

“The prize is one thing. But I also said that the winner would have a decision to make. And here it is.

“Look around our studio. We have all these contraptions designed to get someone extremely messy, and as the winner, you get to choose which one we’ll send your lovely wife Allie to!”

The audience, previously let down because Allie wouldn’t take her underwear off, have seemingly been resuscitated.

“You’ve got the Torture Machine. The Pie Coaster. The Human Fondue. The Pie Slide. And several others. Which of these does Allie get the privilege of experiencing firsthand?”

The crowd shouts their opinions. Some are shouting the Dunk Tank, others the Torture Machine. There’s no consensus, so it all sounds like one giant cacophony.

Damien surveys the entire studio. He looks at his wife, who’s mouthing her protests. He sees how complicated the Torture Machine looks, how fun the Pie Coaster seems. But something about the Pie Slide speaks to him. Its simplicity. The guarantee of full body coverage. The squirt guns on either side of the track, aimed right at the path the victim would traverse.

With a flourish, he points directly at the Pie Slide. “SEND HER TO THE PIE SLIDE!!”

The crowd explodes in delight. Allie slumps her shoulders, recognizing that after all that – getting pied multiple times, getting caked, the pie spanking – she’s being subjected to one more devastating punishment to trump them all. Robin guides her over to the stepladder behind the slide, nudging her to climb it and sit in the seat at the top.

For the uninitiated, the Pie Slide has been reconfigured to terrorize its victims even more. Rather than pushing themselves down the slide, the victim now sits in a chair that glides down a track toward the gigantic pie. Blast guns have been installed along the glide path, set to fire their contents directly into the rider’s face and body as soon as she comes into their path.

The chair comes to a sudden stop when the wheels hit blocks at the end of the track, and the chair back is designed to lurch forward, forcing the victim to belly flop straight down into the pie, which has been garnished with a red beach ball to represent the “cherry on top”. Last time it was used, the pie itself was topped with cream, but filled with an ungodly amount of chocolate pudding.

This was the ending Allie was about to meet. When they walked into the studio, she figured she’d have a story to tell her friends and family, about the time she saw an actual TV show get filmed. Now, she just hoped those same people weren’t viewers of this show, and didn’t go looking for it on the Internet. She felt herself sliding around on the seat thanks to the pie mess slathered all over her butt.

Marc and Damien have made their way to the base of the Pie Slide, next to an oversized lever.

Marc takes one last opportunity to drive the knife further. “Well folks, this is our lovely sorority girl, Allie. She lost our game of Hangman today, meaning she stripped to her underwear, and got caked and pied in the face all for nothing! And now it’s time to finish her off.

“Damien, on the count of three, I want you to pull this lever, and say goodbye to your beautiful wife!”

He looks up at his wife, seated 10 feet above the studio floor. She’s looking back at him nervously, her hands firmly in her lap.

“Ready, audience? Here we go!”

ONE! TWO! THREE!

Damien yanks the lever, and the seat rumbles to life. Allie feels herself moving, and shuts her eyes in fear. She opens them after a couple of seconds, and that’s when she sees them: the guns on either side. At that exact moment, they fire their contents directly into Allie’s face. She squeals as she receives two huge blasts of thick green slime all over her face and body. Her hair flies backward once again, her white bra soaked in goo and saturated in vivid green.

The blasts catch her by surprise, causing her to shudder in her seat, which causes her big breasts to bounce around, adding a titillating aspect to this absurd scene.

Her heart rate barely has a chance to come down from this before she hears the CLACK of the chair reaching the end of the line.

Next thing Allie knows, her back has been shoved forward, and she’s flying through the air. Her arms fly around, a desperate attempt to find something to prevent her fall. That effort is futile.

BLOOP!

She hits the pie hard, and much like Damien in bed last night, the pie is happy to receive her body. There is a huge splatter as she breaks the surface, practically disappears beneath the cream, and penetrates the filling underneath. This time, the pie is filled with blueberry pie filling. Her favorite fruit, but also the one substance that instantly stains everything it touches.

Her breasts are forced deep into the blueberries, notable because her see-through bra, stained slightly from the slime blasted into it just a moment ago, becomes totally enveloped by the pie filling and is now completely destroyed. The same could be said for her pink panties, the thong that Allie had hoped only Damien would pull off her body. Now, strangers across the country would see her in it and do that with their minds.

And then there’s her pretty face. Previously caked in her favorite makeup, then caked with pies and a literal birthday cake, now it gets caked once more with sweet whipped cream and blueberries.

The fake “cherry” atop the pie flies off into the ether as Allie’s body displaces cream and blueberries, sending them out of the pie and onto the stage floor. Her body finally comes to rest, leaving her face down in the middle of this pie, her shapely, pie-covered ass the only thing of note still visible. The camera zooms directly in on her messy cheeks and her body face down. This will surely go viral and make her a meme. They can see it already: in bold Impact font: “MONDAYS, AMIRITE?!”

Her messy prison is so sticky that Allie can barely find her way to her knees. When she does, she finds her way to a seat, sitting on what feels like a padded surface at the bottom of the pie, which is so deep and filled with so much stuff that when seated, the cream is all the way up to her stomach.

Allie’s ears are glued shut, but she can still hear a rapturous round of applause from the audience. She paws at her eyes, clears her hair from her face, and sees Marc facing her, talking into his microphone. She can’t hear a thing he’s saying, which makes the next bit all the more surprising.

As it turns out, Marc said, “consider this a wedding gift from all of us here at What Would You Do.”

And with that, the newest installation to the Pie Slide was unveiled – or rather, released – all over Allie. A massive deluge of green slime fell from the heavens, landing directly on her head and fanning out in all directions. The force of the slime falling from such a height blasted volumes of cream and blueberries right off her body, replacing them with another thick coating of the green stuff.

The audience goes ballistic.

Allie screams in agony, as she feels like this surprise punishment goes on forever. Finally, it slows to a trickle and stops, revealing a blast zone in the giant pie and poor Allie in the middle: the crater where her body smashed into the thing, blueberry filling where the top layer of cream got forced out, all around an expanse of white, and a green slime splatter pattern surrounding her.

Damien and Allie had been seeking a carefree night out. Instead, Allie sat in a comically large pie, humiliated from having taken off her clothes on camera and having gotten so, so messy against her will, often at the hands of her husband. Their marriage had gotten off to such a great start. But as she looked over at her husband, and saw him looking back at her half-amused and half pitying, all she could do was hope this experience didn’t ruin the rest of their honeymoon, or drive a wedge between them. Her entire outfit getting ruined was painful enough. Would she have to go home in her ruined clothes, smelling of pungent frosting and spoiled milk?

She had many more questions as the show went to break. From now on, she’d worry about the consequences of laughing. Is there a pie coming? A cake? Will I lose my clothes if I smile right now? Will I still enjoy undressing in front of my husband? **

Marc Summers and the staff of What Would You Do had claimed two more victims, delivering a double dose of physical and emotional humiliation. Their trademark. And still, people kept coming to their tapings.

Later that night, Rory, the front desk attendant, picked up the phone. It was a producer from the show.

“Rory, thanks a million for sending those two over. They were absolutely incredible. Can’t wait to see who you send our way next!”

** Narrator: yes, she will. They went back to their hotel later that night and had the best sex of their lives. Reader, you’re not the only satisfied customer in this story!