Mud Stomp Weekend

We had never met, but that was a minor detail. We jokingly thought about doing something different a few weeks before, but decided to follow through as we grew familiar. Something base, primordial and dirty. Cracks and crevices, orifices and pores introduced to a different landscape.

We wanted it in mud.

Mud Fest 2008 (image by Flickr user Stinkie_Pinkie)

Meeting at the May Land Bridge, our pictures and profiles supplied enough background. We trusted each other, and it was understood that this was for experience’s sake only. You spoke of Venezuelan women you fucked while working there. You said I had that same earthiness and raw honesty. We got to know each other as friends—the best compromise—with knowledge and clarity about why this was happening.

We struck out to find a spot along the riverbanks allowing for pure screwing, with no audience, please. Picking our way down the edges, the mud was claustrophobic, and ominously sensual. This thing could eat us, literally. The intense mid-morning heat was a contrast to the mud’s slick coolness filling in around my calves, up to my mid-thighs. Where we were putting our feet, the dark mucky waters and the uneven terrain slowed us down. But we both saw the spot and said “Yes!” simultaneously.

The climbing and wading was build up, foreplay calling on strength and sense of adventure. We wanted it, the grind of releasing everything in the pinkish clay mud with evidence carried away.

It was sheltered, with a steady soft flow below the bank. By the time we had worked our way along the edge the sun had risen higher; the sky was intensely blue, and the clouds hyper-white. We slumped down into our dirty playground.

You were not shy or self-conscious, peeling mud encrusted clothes off, throwing them against the bank, stickiness holding them fast. Your brown wiry frame held a full, still-growing cock in a glistening brown tangle of hair.

I started to wiggle my bathing suit off, a puddle of fabric; and stuck my flip-flops into the goo. I painted my face in slashes and dots. You had flecks of mud stuck to your hair and face, cock jerking up, hungry for attention.

I cupped your scrotum in my hand, hot against the cool mud. Your cock was still swelling, florid pink. I splashed some of the cool water on it and followed it with my mouth and cradling tongue. Your hips swayed and twitched forward, pushing your need deeper into my mouth. A slight tinge of clay-like grit rose against my tongue. I slid my mouth off of you and spit.

I returned to your cock, working tongue back and forth, around and down, spit washing you off. You sighed, frame giving into pleasure from the mud and my mouth. A subtle grinding and shifting told me to continue with the exploration of your sweet folds and texture, the blending of clean male musk with the dark earth smell of the riverbank. A cicada sawed a lazy song against the air, the heat bugs ticking and whining in the tall grass behind us.

Mud Fest 2008 (photo by Flickr user stinkie_pinkie)

Your body had settled and you looked as if you were either coming out of the earth or being called back. You brought my face to yours and you kissed me deeply, a hot, soft set of lips and a strong prodding tongue. As I sat back, I slowly, deliberately raised my hips and then positioned my swollen sex over your cock, dragging myself back and forth over the tip. Your soft and deliberate hook-fingering brought me to the verge of cumming, repeatedly.

I wanted to feel you, buried. I positioned myself, digging the balls of my feet into the mud as I enveloped your greedy dick with my pussy. Sitting still, we rested to take all of this in. Enshrouded, as if we had grown from this bank, showing off for no one.

Next to my right foot a baby eel, electric green, was writhing to get free from the mud trap, forming the letter S over and over again. I bent over and picked him up, placing him on your chest as cars stopped at the intersection just meters from where we were fucking, lost in the reeds.

I moved faster upon your dick, feeling it reaching and probing, finding each other’s cadence. We rode out a building orgasm, the mud making drawing and sucking sounds, as we rolled and thrust.

I felt a subtle shift in temperature, your cock stiffening and swelling. The mud melted away from our bodies as we touched and pulled away from each other’s sweat in a quick fast suction. You grabbed and twisted my breasts, I leaned forward as you sucked, drew and caught my nipples in your teeth. I reached back and massaged your nuts; you lifted and twitched deeper. The fucking became more intense us as we dug and pounded against each other. You began a soft and low moan as I caught my breath. You clasped my hips and released into me.

Lying still, we looked at each other. I did not want to move. This mud felt like home.

We stood up, the mud trying to suck us back. We looked like monsters covered in cum, sweat and mud. I drew my arm across my mouth and then wiped the mud from my eyes. Both of us ducked into the river and rinsed off. Each dip and rolling motion removed more of our brown cover. We retraced the watery mucky path; dug our legs into the bank and worked our way back to the car.

We didn’t say much. Stopping at a local general store, we bought some water. A poster on a bulletin board said “Mud Stomp Weekend, August 2-4: Get ready for some dirty fun! Mud bogging, mud slides, BBQ, games and more!”

We walked out to your car, got in and drove to the overpass. I leaned over and gave you a quick kiss, collected my purse and towel, and opened the door.

“Happy Birthday,” you said.

I nodded thanks, smiled, and walked to my car, my windshield flashing gold in the afternoon sun.

XXX

Deb Johnson‘s first bit of writing started at age nine in a red diary (with lock). Since then she’s been gathering degrees (her latest is in Journalism), being a mom, and living life as fully as possible. A Nova Scotia native, she’s both a freelance writer and photographer, and is currently working on a novel about a mental illness and sexuality. You can find more of her writing online at thistlefluff.blogspot.com.