The day was warmer than expected, and Tiffany Newcash nee Wampton was thoroughly bored. As heiress of a large fortune and wife to a businessman with an even larger fortune, Tiffany never gave a thought to what people had to do to make a living. But for some reason, her husband had insisted on taking a tour of a chocolate factory for their second wedding anniversary. So now she stood there, sweating through her perfectly composed early-spring outfit, crowded with her husband and 10 other men while the tour guide, a short, chubby woman with mousy brown hair, droned on about the workings of the factory.

Tiffany didn’t even eat much chocolate. Her primary concerns were on appearances and social status. Regarding the former, she counted herself lucky to be a tall, blonde woman in her mid-20s, but she always felt insecure about her bust. Her breasts barely filled a B-cup bra, and weren’t even that perky. So she did her best to compensate with strict dieting and exercise. She was sure that even if she couldn’t compete with other women’s boobs, at least her slim waist and slender thighs would make her figure the most striking in the room. And besides, she told herself, large tits were vulgar.

Regarding social status, Tiffany always sought to be #1, and she usually succeeded. Her habit of wearing short skirts drew the eyes of every man, and her designer clothes and expensive jewelry put the other women in their place. She would never be so gauche as to say it aloud, but she considered herself far better than everyone else on this tour. The other tourists were all male. Probably a bunch of losers who couldn’t get dates, she thought. They all probably worked menial labor jobs, paid by the hour. She ran through words for them in her mind: plebs, rednecks, grunts. She had to admit, some were kind of attractive and muscular, but others had large potbellies. Probably from a diet of fast food and soda, she thought to herself. They all smelled vaguely unwashed. The tour guide was little better. Stout and frumpy, she looked like the kind of girl that Tiffany would bully in college.

Perhaps Tiffany wouldn’t admit it, even to herself, but her need to be superior was somehow tied into a desire to be humiliated. Every act of cruelty she had committed pleased her when she did it, but then she had found herself furiously masturbating in the nights and days after, imagining herself as the object of humiliation. She remembered when she had locked one of her sorority sisters out of the house during a torrential downfall. After seeing the poor girl’s drenched clothing, she replayed the image in her mind every night for a week, rubbing her clit to climax after climax. When she “accidentally” pushed another student head-first into a mud puddle, the memories of the muddy figure trying to stand in soiled clothes made Tiffany go through three sets of batteries for her vibrator over the course of the following month. But her biggest triumph during college was when she was invited to a birthday party and managed to sneakily trip the birthday girl, causing her to land face-first in her own cake. Tiffany had immediately leapt to clean up her friend and pretended to act concerned, but was so distracted by her own arousal that she snuck off as soon as possible to relieve her throbbing clit. And in each case, she didn’t just recall the event as she had seen it, but tried to imagine it as if she had been the victim: her nice clothes soaked and clinging, or ruined with mud, or her own face plastered with cake while everyone watched. Tiffany felt a secret, taboo desire to be humiliated.

Ever since settling down with her husband, Norman, Tiffany hadn’t had much occasion to humiliate others. But after telling her husband about her kink, he had been happy to discreetly indulge her appetites. Private sessions at home--jumping into the swimming pool fully clothed, sploshing in the mud in their backyard--satisfied her most of the time. But sometimes Norman escalated things. She loved his little surprises. Like the time he had invited one of his friends from the country club to come over and make her into a banana split. She had ended up on all fours in the kitchen in front of them, a banana stuck up her pussy, her body covered with chocolate sauce and her hair sticky with scoops of slowly-melting ice cream. A hat of whipped cream, topped with a cherry of course, completed the look. “Now watch how well she can suck cock,” said Norma. Tiffany had always considered giving blowjobs to be degrading, so naturally she latched onto his cock with gusto. As her head bobbed on her husband’s penis, she felt the banana being removed and replaced with something else. “Don’t worry, he’s using a condom,” her husband reassured her. Covered in mess and being used by two men, Tiffany came right then and there, her moans stimulating her husband to squirt in her mouth as his friend filled up his condom in her pulsing vagina.

That threesome was probably the sluttiest thing she had done, Tiffany reflected. Well, perhaps it had been matched by her husband’s first anniversary gift to her. Norman had driven her into the rough part of town for a “surprise.” He led her into a tattoo parlor and instructed her to bend over. Half an hour later, a mirror was held up so she could see the tattooist’s handiwork. The words DUMB BLONDE had been tattooed on her butt cheeks. Seeing what her husband had tricked her into, Tiffany had blushed a bright red with both embarrassment and arousal. “That’s so trashy,” she hissed, quickly pulling up her panties to avoid dripping juices all over the floor. Norman drove home at a maniac pace, and she spent the night riding his cock in the reverse cowgirl position, showing off her vandalized ass and demonstrating just how much of a slut his “dumb blonde” wife could be. To Tiffany, the tattoo had been the perfect gift. Although she usually wore short skirts, and exclusively bikinis at the beach, she would never wear anything as cheap and vulgar as a thong, so the trashy tattoo would remain a thrilling secret that her haughty demeanor betrayed no hint of.

Now, however, Norman’s imagination seemed to have failed him. The romantic weekend getaway he had promised for their second anniversary had resulted in her going through this tourist trap for dimwitted yokels. What’s more, Tiffany wasn’t just bored, she was uncomfortable. Anticipating a warm spring day, she had first laid out an elegant outfit of a white tank top and pleated white skirt, stopping at mid-thigh. White high heels completed the look. And white cotton panties, of course, not that anyone would see them but her husband. After her morning shower, a quick glance at the weather report told her that the day would be unseasonably chilly, so she quickly added a garter belt with white stockings and a cute white sweater. She got dressed so quickly, that she forgot to put on her bra. Realizing the mistake in the car on the way to the factory, Tiffany just buttoned her sweater. Being so small in the chest meant she didn’t need the support, and the sweater would cover her nipples. Nothing to worry about.

Now, however, Tiffany yearned to unbutton her sweater. The factory was hot, and wearing a sweater made it stifling. Tiffany would have gladly taken it off, but she wasn’t going to let these pigs have even a chance of seeing her nipples through her shirt. Tiffany was beginning to sweat. She imagined drops of moisture sliding down her back, wetting her panties and making them transparent, revealing her ass tattoo. She soon stopped herself. Getting hot and bothered was the last thing she needed. How long was this tour going to take? It seemed like the tour guide had been explaining the same instrument panel for an hour.

“The chocolate release valve is crucial to the workings of the factory,” said the tour guide. “And before we go, one lucky volunteer will get to press the activation button today.” She gestured towards a big red button like it was the most exciting thing in the world. Oh please, thought Tiffany. Then she realized: pressing the button was probably the grand finale for the tour. Press the button, she thought, exit through the gift shop, and get out of this dump. Â “Before activating the device,” went on the tour guide, “it is important to ensure that the configur--”

“Yeah, yeah, let’s cut to the chase,” Tiffany interrupted her. “I could buy this place and everyone in it, so I’ll do the honors.” With that, she slammed her palm on the button.

For a moment, there was silence. And then, a torrent of chocolate fell from the ceiling onto Tiffany. It came all at once, like a waterfall had suddenly appeared over her, but it the substance was definitely not water. It had a thick, syrupy consistency and was lukewarm in temperature. The speed and weight of the liquid chocolate sent Tiffany into a state of temporary shock, but as it continued to fall on her for what seemed like forever, she had time to realize that her biggest nightmare and wildest fantasy were coming true at the same time. A wave of shame passed through her body, as she realized what a fool she had made of herself in front of all those people. But after it passed, she was left with a deep, burning arousal in her groin.

The chocolate continued to flow for several minutes, as the tour guide frantically pressed buttons on the control panel. It passed over Tiffany and flowed through the grate floor, leaving everyone else unscathed. Finally, the chocolate deluge slowed to a trickle, and everyone could see what had become of Tiffany.

Anyone who knew Tiffany--prim, immaculate Tiffany--would never have recognized the sloppy figure that now stood on the factory floor. Covered head to toe in chocolate, she was nothing but a brown humanoid lump with two blue eyes blinking out of it. As the mess slowly receded, it became possible to discern features, but they were a far cry from Tiffany’s normal appearance. Her hair, usually voluminous and golden, was a brown mass plastered to her head. Her clothes were sodden and wrecked. Her sweater hung heavily, saturated with chocolate. Tiffany knew it would never be white again. The force of the chocolate flow had popped all of its buttons, and the front gaped wide open. Her top and skirt clung to her figure, highlighting every curve. Her stockings were not even visible under the thick chocolate that continued to flow luridly down her legs. Tiffany could feel the chocolate pooling and overflowing her shoes.

The last of the chocolate coming from the ceiling was a thin stream, which suddenly turned ice-cold. Tiffany shuddered as she felt it flow from the top of her head, down her back, under her skirt and down her legs. It was uncomfortable and pleasurable at the same time. Finally, the chocolate stopped entirely.

Everyone stood, awkwardly gaping at Tiffany. For her part, Tiffany stood stock still. She felt that remaining motionless and stoic imparted at least a shred of dignity. Also, she realized that she was so aroused that even taking a single step might provide enough stimulation to make her involuntarily climax in front of everybody. Part of Tiffany wanted that, wanted to moan and gasp with pleasure in front of an audience. But another part of her knew that would be inappropriate. Tiffany’s exhibitionist and rational tendencies fought in her mind. Slowly, her lust began to subside, replaced with self-consciousness about her situation, and after a lengthy pause, Tiffany’s embarrassment and indecision were replace with another emotion. Anger. Anger at this dumb bitch tour guide who let her get into this predicament.

“You fucking cunt!” shouted Tiffany, lunging towards the tour guide. “Why didn’t you--” Tiffany halted, feeling her legs caught on something. Looking down, she saw her panties around her ankles. They had been pulled down by the force of the chocolate, and she had only noticed them now. Embarrassed beyond measure, Tiffany’s rage was broken. All she could do now was pull up her panties and try not to cry with humiliation as she felt every pair of eyes ogling her stained, sodden undergarments. Pulling her panties up to her crotch with an obscene squelch of chocolate, Tiffany looked forward to getting out of this place as soon as possible.

But still no one spoke. They continued to gawk at her. Their gaze was too high for her crotch, but too low for her eyes. What were they staring at now? The tour guide gestured towards her chest. Tiffany looked down at her own chest and then gasped in surprise. Her boobs were exposed. Her top, heavier now that it was soaked with chocolate, had sagged, letting her tits pop out and giving everyone a view of her chocolate-covered breasts. As Tiffany assessed the situation, a drop of chocolate gathered and fell from one of her nipples. Turning bright red, almost imperceptibly under her brown coating, Tiffany pulled up the top to conceal her breasts. She lamented that the clingy fabric probably still revealed the shapes of her breasts, nipples and all, but it was the best she could do. At least the tour was almost over, she thought.