The Mud and the Muck

Ashley and I stood on the side porch of the large house. We were watching the clouds roll in, darkening.

“Getting to the property line will only be a few minutes—give or take. And all I need to do is mark the property line. That’ll take a second. Then we’ll be back,” Ashley said.

I glanced up once more and shook my head. I wasn’t sold on how quick and easy she said it would be, especially with how expansive the property was.

“The rain is almost here. It’s not just a few minutes away. It’s a lot closer,” I countered. “Look at those clouds. And the wind is picking up. Plus, the property line is, what, two acres out. I can tell you that shooting pictures in the rain is only for artsy, social media crap, not for real estate.”

But she pointed to a red utility vehicle on the gravel driveway. It sat next to a long metal garage. The thing looked as if it was waiting for us, hoping we’d jump in.

 It was a high-end, all-terrain UTV with side-by-side seating, roll bars and a lot of handles.

“That,” she said confidently, “is our way out and back quick.”

She hopped off the porch onto a stone pathway that led to the vehicle.

She hollered back. “The owner lets me use it all the time. Check out the tread on those tires. I’ve already had some fun.”

“You’ve been out on that thing?”

“What, you think I live in cashmere and heels?”

I shrugged. “Well, I have made some such assumptions in the past. And I’d say they are very accurate.”

“Look what I’m wearing right now. A track suit and these Wellington boots should disprove your assumptions.”

She looked nice in that matching outfit and the wobbly rubber boots. But I had known her for years, and she, in fact, loved her cashmere and heels. Name brand, overtly expensive, and fit to show off. She wore tight skirts that hugged her hips and bared her toned legs. Her blouses were amazing no matter the style. As the finishing touch, her jewelry—earrings, necklaces, bracelets, and rings—were her highlights, even though she needed none.

“Those tires can get us through anything,” she was saying.

Ashley got into the driver seat and gripped the steering wheel, like a race-car driver. “It goes everywhere. Up hills, down hills. Always spitting up mud.”

She turned on the engine. It grumbled to life, happily awake.

I hopped off the porch. “I think you mean ‘spittin’’ up mud.”

Ashley revved the engine and gave a devilish laugh.

She barely gave me a chance to settle in before taking off.

The front tires ripped up the green grass. The rear tires dug into gravel. The rocks pelted the metal garage, sounding like distant machine-gun fire.

She jolted us forward. My head shot back, straining my neck. I gripped the grab handle with one hand while cuddling my precious camera in the other. We bounced and hopped. She jerked us to the right, and then we slung to the left. She sped up hills and into the property’s marshy lowlands. I think we took flight several times.

She finally stopped and put the brake on.

“I need to put the post just over there.”

With it in hand, she stepped into the muddiness and walked, daintily, to an orange tag nailed to a tree. As if angling her sights with the tag, she jammed the post into the ground.

She looked at me and gave a thumbs-up.

“Done,” she shouted. “And before the rain. You better get some pictures before I leave you behind.”

I took a few pictures of the woodland edge with the marshland. There was no need for more. I might not even use any of them.

Then there was a horrible sight.

Dainty Ashley slipped.

In a moment, the manicured woman in her fashionable track suit was face-down in the mud. Her hands were covered in the muck, and the outfit was soaking wet and chocolate-brown.

Worst, Ashley’s face looked like she had wolfed down a whole German chocolate cake at an eating contest.

When on her knees, she stared ahead completely bewildered. She was shocked at what just happened. In disbelief.

“Fuck,” she muttered simply.

She slowly got to her feet—slipping twice more—before I could reach her to help. She flung the goo from her hands and brushed the gunk from the front of her suit. It, more so, just smeared the mud down the front of her.

I kept silent.

“I just ruined … my outfit, it’s … fuck!” She grunted in disgust. Suddenly I glimpsed her glaring eyes.

“Got your pictures?” she asked angrily.

“Um, yes,” I chirped.

“Then we’re leaving.”

“Want me to drive?” I asked timidly, fearing a nuclear explosion.

“No.”

She plopped into the seat. Her muddy hands grabbed the steering wheel. She slammed her foot on the gas pedal. There, the tires really flung up the mud, as she headed up a steep hill.

Despite the tires’ mud tread, the UTV lost traction, swerving in the slick mud. But the tires caught traction, by chance, and jolted us forward. The hill, however, was steeper than she must have expected, particularly in her infuriation.

The front tires lifted off the ground. The vehicle seemed to become as angry as she was. It teetered back. I recalled having the same sensation, when I was nine years old, sitting at the peak of a terrifying roller coaster ride.

Thankfully, the front tires landed on the ground, with a bound and a screech of the shocks. But her foot was still heavy on the gas pedal. All four wheels went wild as she jerked the steering wheel.

“Oh, shit!” Ashley yelped. She let go of the steering wheel, but, yet, her foot hadn’t let off the pedal.

All over again, the UTV raised up again and slammed down and bounced.

“Foot off the gas pedal!” I shouted.

When she did, all went still, except for the excited engine.

She and I were stunned. We only stared ahead, breathing again.

Ashley broke the silence. “I was not … uh, not expecting that.”

She patted her chest.

I put my forehead on the dashboard and took in a deep breath, exactly as I did when that roller coaster ride ended. I was sick.

Cautiously, she touched the gas pedal. The tires spun and dug deeper into the slippery grooves of mud. After more revs and spinning tires, the vehicle was not getting out of the marshland. She finally realized what she had done. The sludge had only further dragged down the tires with the spinning.

“What is going on with this damn thing?” she asked with a growl—not actually wanting an answer.

She was frustrated and, as much, concerned. She revved the engine to spin the tires, paused, and then hit the gas pedal again.

“Stop!” I shouted. I grabbed the steering wheel. “Stop spinning the tires. You’re making it worse.”

She cast an evil stare, and her mouth was pursed tight. The mud still covered the lower part of her face.

“We need to get some traction on our back tires to get out.” I climbed from my seat to leave her fuming. She stared forward.

From the woodland edge, I yanked a branch from tangled brush and tugged it to the rear tires. I jammed the branch as best as I could against the tread.

“Okay, Ashley, press the gas pedal,” I hollered, and then added, “Gently!”

She wasn’t gentle.

The tires spit mud all over me, spewing it the entire time that the tires spun. Instantly, I was as muddy as she was. My jeans and jacket were covered, and my face was splattered brown. I had mud in my mouth.

“Fuck, Ashley! Didn’t you hear me? I said ‘gently’!”

She glanced through the rearview mirror. Her angry face suddenly transformed. The anger melted. She began to laugh.

She scrambled from the UTV.

“My god, I am so sorry.”

With no one in the seats, the UTV rolled backward onto the branch but stopped.

Ashley hugged me, as I stood stiff, my arms spread wide, dripping with mud. She laughed. “I really didn’t hear you. I would never have … Really, I wouldn’t’ve.”

She then wiped a chunk of mud off my lips and smeared it on her pants.

I was about to say something when I felt the first few raindrops. The air had cooled, and the clouds were sullen gray. They looked mean.

She glanced up, shielding her eyes.

The drops hit harder. “I can’t believe it. This is so not our day.”

“I warned you.”

She hugged me again. “You were right.” She slid her thumbs over my eyebrows to wipe off more mud.

“Did I hear you admit that you were—”

“Yes, but you will never hear it again.” She patted my muddy cheek arrogantly and turned toward the UTV.

I removed a glop of goo from my chin.

“Wait.”

She turned back.

“We need a picture together—artsy for social media.”

I smeared mud below her eyes, like a baseball player.

“The hell was that for?”

“Remembering the time we hit a homerun all the way to the edge of the field.”

We took the picture.

Suddenly, there was a downpour. The raindrops were cold.

Ashley sat in the driver seat. Before she touched anything, I urged her.

“This time, be easy with the gas pedal.”

She winked.

With several light touches and short jolts, the tread and the branch together lodged us free from the muck and marsh.

We arrived at the house, soaking wet and covered in mud. She drove into the garage bay.

She tugged at her outfit and looked herself over.

“These clothes are ruined. This mud won’t come out.”

“There some place to get out of these clothes?” I asked. “I suppose there’s nowhere out here to dry them off. Inside though?” I raised my eyebrows to urge her on.

“No one’s home,” she said. “And the owners said they’d be gone to give me a couple hours to shoot pictures.”

Without waiting, I wrestled my drenched t-shirt over my head. “So they’ve got to have a washer and a dryer, unless they’re cavemen.”

Ashley unzipped her browned track jacket.

“They aren’t cavemen. They even have running water.”

“And a shower?”

“Several,” she said.

“Then no more waiting out here. Get inside.”

We dashed through the rain to the porch.

At the door, Ashley slapped my chest to stop me from rushing in.

“Shoes off,” she said, wagging her finger. “I don’t want them to know we did this—dragging in mud. They like a clean house.”

“So no mud in the mudroom, huh?” I said.

“Not when they don’t know. And I am not going to mop the floor for you.” She pulled off her Wellingtons.

She kept me outside for a moment. 

“Wait, let me take off my shirt and pants,” she said.

“No objections there. I always let a woman go first.”

She left me on the porch. I got cold as the winds continued to blow. I listened to raindrops slap against the overhang. I got out of my shoes and struggled with my sloppy, soaked socks.

When inside, I saw the mudroom was clean. There was a straight row of women’s work boots, Crocs, garden shoes, and a pair of flashy pink running shoes. Next to them was the line of corresponding men’s shoes.

The floor had a freshly glistening shine. There were no coats hanging on the hooks. Instead, a small vintage washboard hung there as country home-craft art.

By then, Ashley was somewhere else in the house. The lid of the washer was open. Inside were Ashley’s track suit, her socks, and panties the color of lilacs. I dug around the clothes but found no bra.

“Mostly nude.” I grinned fiendishly as I grabbed my camera. “Time to get some, he-he, pictures.”

I tossed my shirt, pants and underwear into the washer with her clothes.

I began to explore the house naked. The mudroom led to the open kitchen with a heightened ceiling and a top-of-the-line stove and an expanse of speckled pearl granite countertops. The floor was cold on my bare feet, and the cool temperature indoors made the rest of me chilly, which affected certain parts.

I could have called for Ashley but sneaking around would be more fun. It might let my body acclimate to the temperature before I found her while I was shriveled.

There was a breakfast nook. The view from the window was blurred with the rivulets of rain. I grinned at the trouble Ashley and I had had out there—somewhere. And it was not actually trouble per se. I mean, because of it, she was roaming around this house with barely any clothes on—if any.

I took a few pictures—for the sake of real estate.

The dining room was nice with its modern lighting fixture over the table and coupled, oddly, with an aged grandfather clock, ticking steadily.

The view through the room’s window stretched only as far as the roof of the front porch.

There was no sound in the house other than rain pattering on the windows and that grandfather clock’s ticking.

I honestly hoped, by now, to have heard a woman’s desirous call.

The den was formal with a huntsmen allure. Lush couches and high-backed chairs were set beneath large game—a twelve-point buck high on one wall with a boar’s head on the opposite wall. The deer looked proud, regal. The boar was angry, baring its ugly tusks. Mounted above the stone fireplace was a ram with its curved horns.

Both first-floor bedrooms were orderly, with blankets flat and pillows set on the bed in balance. But no Ashley.

I began down the stairs into the den on the floor below. Halfway down, a chilly breeze swept around my naked body. I shriveled up.

I could clearly hear the patter of dripping rain and then the deep rumbling of thunder.

Stepping onto the plush carpet of the den, I saw a patio door opened. It was opened on purpose, because a small bra dangled from the door handle.

Walking to the bra, I heard the bubbly-boiling of a hot tub. I nodded, knowing where she was.

I plucked the bra off the handle as I stepped through the doorway.

However, no one was in the tub or on the porch. Such a disappointment. 

She wouldn’t be under the water, would she? I wondered. Maybe to get back at me for something.

“Ashley?” I said calmly, albeit cautiously.

There was no answer. I paused for a moment knowing the water was too hot to stay under long and she would need to breathe.

A moment later, still nothing.

“Where is she?” I muttered.

I had been getting excited in my search for this naked woman. Maybe it was time she came to me. Plus, hot water on a chilly day would be good.

I set aside my camera—away from the rain.

Touching the water, I had to pull my foot out of the super-heated water and slide it in slowly to get acclimated.

However, I was straddling the edge of the tub—one foot in, one foot out—when the porch door slammed closed.

I froze, shocked in my position.

“Ashley?” I said. “What are you doing?”

Without an answer, I pulled my foot from the water and went to the door. It was locked.

I pressed my forehead and nose against the door window to see in. No one.

I knocked. “Hello?”

I expected to see Ashley taunting me. There was only an indistinct conversation. I could not hear exactly what was being said.

Ashley, wrapped in a teal bath towel, appeared first from the stairs into the den, followed by a tall man.

I was confused why her bra was on this door when she was upstairs.

Their talking was muffled by both the door and the bubbling water. All I knew was that the conversation kept on.

I climbed into the hot tub to keep out of sight. People are often surprised by a naked man on their porch.

The steaming water was up to my chin, as I planned to dip out of sight when needed.

The voices got nearer and somewhat discernible.

“Nothing under that towel?” the man laughed heartedly.

Some of what Ashley said was, “The rain caught me … drove out to … got soaked.”

 In spite of the bubbling water, I think the man talked about the land and acreage.

He became easier to hear.

“Large property but that marshland on the edge is problem after a heavy rain.”

Then the door opened. I heaved a breath and ducked under water. I pressed my hands and feet to each side of the tub to stay under water. I let go of some air to help in sinking.

“Close that door. I’m cold,” Ashley said.

The door closed.

I came into the air. Luckily, he didn’t notice my small camera.

Then I heard the door lock.

In the tub, I could see the two talking in the den. With a quick glance, they were near the steps.

“Come on,” I urged aloud, “leave.”

But the homeowner didn’t. In fact, he started to the door by the hot tub.

I scrambled out of the water fast, like a wet cat. I leapt off the porch and jogged along the side of the house to a short fir tree.

The fir tickled and poked me, but it was the best hiding I could find.

The winds swirled, and the rain pelted my chest and arms. I turned to let the drops hit my bare back. All this cold torture was exacerbated because I had just soaked in the hot bath.

I heard the man ask, “The place could be sold in the next month or two?”

Ashley agreed. I could have listened more, but whatever they said was not worth hearing. I needed to get warm. I had shriveled up all over—nipples to my nuts.

I had to leave my camera behind. Explaining why it was there would be easier than explaining a naked man on the porch.

I scurried around the corner of the house and then hustled to my truck. Thankfully, I hadn’t locked it, but I didn’t have the keys to start it.

All I could do was listen to the rain tap the roof of my truck and wait for the homeowner to leave.

He and Ashley must have talked for a long time.

Slowly, my mind warmed, and so did my body, when I let thoughts hover over the image of that towel falling to the floor and the man’s surprise. It helped to take my mind from the immediate circumstance.

I had been in the truck for about a half-hour when the owner jogged from the mudroom to the garage where Ashley had parked the UTV.

Despite leaving the house, he was still here and, worse, my clothes were likely not dry. Unable to get them or my keys and get out. I plopped my forehead on the steering wheel. This was terrible, no-good. A cold, rainy day. Naked. Stuck in a truck. No keys.

But the dining room curtains split and there was a wild wave. Ashley looked to be on her phone. I searched for mine, but it was in my camera bag, which was in the mudroom where I left it before our excursion on the UTV.

I shrugged, hoping to show her I had no phone.

Then, in a flurry, she pointed to the side of the house, the direction I had just come.

I jogged back to the side of the house. The wind and rain chilled my bare body.

Around the corner, she was hanging on a porch post.

“Get in here. Go to the storage room. It’s on this floor.”

A single, plain door was across the den.

I turned on a light in the storage room. It was packed—disorganized—with big boxes and snap-top plastic containers. 

I ducked into the far back behind a clothing rack of suit jackets and long dresses. I caught sight of a long woolen business coat. I slid it off the hanger and soon was getting warm.

“I know this guy would hate to know a naked man was wearing his coat.” I snickered. “The things he’ll never know.”

So unexpectedly, the storage door opened.

“What is this light doing on? I hate when Marsha forgets to turn off the lights,” the homeowner grumbled. 

I curled into a ball.

I heard the guy say, “I would offer better-fitting clothes, but, um, my wife, she’s a bit bigger than you.”

“Don’t say that about her. She’s lovely,” Ashley answered.

“I didn’t say she was ugly. Just larger. Oh well, take what you can find. I don’t think she’ll miss one dress.”

“Never underestimate a woman. She knows what she has and when something goes missing.”

“Anyway, there are some clothes she won’t mind letting you have. I’ll let you be for a minute.”

I heard the door close.

Ashley spread apart the clothes. The hangars scratched along the metal rack. She glared down at me. “You better be quiet and stay put. You nearly got caught twice! And swimming in the hot tub. Better be glad I noticed.”

“Me? You got us in this jam with your bad driving.”

“Don’t get smart with me. Running around naked, like this is some sex romp.”

“Leaving your bra on the door handle! You’re the one in only a towel.”

“Because of you.”

“No way, not me. How did I know he’d show up? I’m just a photographer. You’re the agent.”

“Either way, stay put. I’ll get him to leave.”

There was a knock at the door.

“Found something yet?”

“Almost. One second.”

She continued her evil stare. She slipped a moo-moo over her head.

“His wife really is a large lady,” I said.

Ashley snarled and turned away.

The light went out. The door closed. All was quiet.

I was left alone for too long, so I turned on the light to look around.

An off-road bicycle with really fat tires, cross-country snow skis, a worn punching bag, a painting of Norway that hanged crookedly.

I also found under a bedsheet an odd kiddie-sized picnic table. However, it had cushioned seats and top. Too comfortable for kids to destroy.

“Must be for sensitive butts.” I sat on it.

I ran my hand along the seat. There were obvious worn spots—circle-like—on the benches.

Interestingly there were clamps on one end of the tabletop—the opposite end of from the worn spots. And leather bands on the beaches.

Underneath the picnic table was a storage bin. I popped it open. The kink of the house became known.

“Oh, man, wow.” I slapped my forehead. “How does Ashley find these clients?”

From the bin, I picked up a wooden paddle. I tightened my grip on it.

“My fault today? She needs a little discipline for this whole mess.”

I waited for what seemed like hours until finally the door opened.

“Some people just won’t leave!” she barged in, saying. “He had me talking about interest rates and selling trends and my percentage of the sale. Even asked about you—where’s my photographer, he was asking.”

“Did he?” I asked.

“Yes. And here I am lying for you. Madness. Oh, and your clothes are dry.”

She tossed them at me.

She shimmied the moo-moo over her head.

“Now let’s get this done, please.” She picked through her clothes, checking the mud stains.

“Get what done?”

“This shoot. I’ve wasted my whole day. I’ve got a life.”

“Ashley,” I said slowly, “I want a picnic.”

“A what? Today? We’ve done enough.” Without paying attention to me, she adjusted her breasts in the cups of her bra.

“No, not enough.” I patted the top of the picnic table. “Ashley.”

She stopped, confused. “What is that?”

I walked boldly to her. “I’ve been cold. I’ve been wet. I’ve been muddy, soaked, naked in the rain.”

“Terrible, right?”

“There needs to be consequences for it all. Paid for by you.”

She suddenly paused. Her cute panties dangled in her hand.

“Excuse me?”

“Come here.” I took her hand.

“A picnic in here?” she said with a hint of concern.

“Lay on the top, knees on the seats—one on each side.”

“Please not now,” she urged, despite stepping to the table.

I clamped her wrists and then restrained her ankles.

“Looks good,” I said.

I picked up the paddle. She glanced over her shoulder. Her eyes were wide, and her mouth was open.

“Please be kind. Please? I didn’t know all that—”

I swatted her butt. The spanked echoed.

She hissed. Her head fell.

“For all the mud.” I swatted.

She apologized, her head down.

“For your anger.” I spanked her.

Her head reared up this time. She bucked like a furious bronco at a rodeo.

“For the bra on the door handle, which began all of this.”

I gave her two hard spanks.

The metal clamps on each wrist rattled with her reactive jolt.

“Ow, ah, ow!” And she then whimpered.

Her fair backside ripened to peach-pink.

“I’m … I’m sorry,” she said through quick breaths as she absorbed the lingering sting. “I didn’t know …”

I ran my fingernails lightly along her outer thighs and then veered up her backside. She was so attractive trapped onto that little bench. Her breasts were squeezed together as her wrists were cuffed so close. Her legs were spread wide. Her back swooped with the shape of a ski jump—from her head, down her back to her hips, and rounded by the obvious ass. 

Standing behind her, I could gaze at her pussy and her asshole. I pulled her cheeks wider, making the flesh stretch.

I let go of the asscheeks to let them fall back into place. I smacked with my hand. “I suffered a lot today. But you looked great in the mud.”

She peeked over her shoulder.

“Then it wasn’t a terrible day for—”

She blew her rumpled hair out of her face. “—for you.”

“It was for me. The mud and the muck.”

I paddled and paddled her ass. The table rocked, and she hissed and hissed from the searing pain.

The flesh of her ass transitioned from peach-pink to raspberry.

Ashley squealed when I touched her with spiked pinwheel, which had been in the bin with the paddle. I rolled it up one side of her butt, curving at the top of her ass and then down the other side. Her back tensed and her toes squeezed as the thin metal spikes on the wheel left a red trail along her skin.

While continuing to roll it, I brushed my forefinger against her gapping pussy. She was sloppy wet and warm.

She bucked at the dual touches—the one entering unexpectedly.

The restraints rattled and the table shook. I could only smile.

It was time. I dropped the pinwheel and aligned my hard cock with her open pussy.

Her pussy, so wet and slick, welcomed my cock. I slid easily into its warm slipperiness. I enjoyed the warmth, thrusting into her slowly at first.

“My god!” she howled with the deep thrusts. She immediately was rocking her hips to deepen my thrusts.

Her flesh bounced. The table shook too.

Her round butt had the shape of a heart.  The sexual goodness built deep inside of me. I gripped her hips to increase my speed.

“Your pussy is so good,” I said.

The sex was driving me to my edge in a racecar. My body slapped against her backside.

She was loving it too.

“Fu-fu-fuck!” Ashley shouted. Her head fell forward. She gritted and hissed.

The clamps around her wrists began to wrestle against the table. She tried to raise and shift her hips so my dick would hit certain spots. She stretched her back. Obviously, the always-sought-after and overly exhilarating goodness blanketed her body. She stretched. Her pussy tightened around me. She moaned.

Moments later, I pulled out. With quick strokes, I exploded over her backside. A load landed on her lower back and a second fell onto the peak of her ass crack. I slapped her ass with my dick.

I worked to slow my breathing.

Afterward, Ashley and I were tired at the least. We were silent. We didn’t want to move. The residue of orgasm in our bodies wafted away—mine before hers.

We cleaned up using the owner’s clothes—not his wife’s, as Ashley demanded.

With my clothes in hand, I looked at her and then patted the picnic table.

“I’ve got to ask, Ashley, how do you find these kinky clients?”

We heard heavy footsteps on the floor above.

Ashley paused with her mouth wide open.

“You said he left,” I said, trying to jump into my jockeys.

“He did.” She tried to get into her panties faster.

The steps thudded on each step down to the den.

“I’ll hide where I was. Find somewhere too,” I ordered.

I scrambled to the back of the room. I didn’t see where Ashley disappeared, but, wherever she went, she forgot to shut off the lights.

The storage room door opened, sending a swoosh of air throughout the room.

“Where is she?” the homeowner said. Then he gruffed his frustration. “Just leaves the light on—upping my power bill.”

Before he turned them off, he stepped to the picnic table we had just used. I could see him eye it, skeptically, wondering why it was uncovered. He picked up the pinwheel.

“Hmm.”

I held my breath. I feared the sight of Ashley standing up and admitting everything.

He slid a blanket over the tiny table. His eyes scanned the room once more. Then the room went dark, and the door closed.

In what seemed forever, the heavy footsteps went up the stairs and were gone.

“Psst.” I heard Ashley. She turned on the lights.

I stood up from behind the hanging clothes. She was putting on her clothes.

“I expected you to give up and come out,” I said.

“I wasn’t going to, no way.” She zipped up her track jacket. “I have a reputation to keep, so I can make money off this sale.”

“I think you’ll do fine in selling this place. Just find buyers who have their own kinks.”

 

Enjoy 20% off LELO.com with code EROTICA20