Glorious Mud

Glorious Mud

He was alone again. A last wave, a last honk as the car vanished around the corner and he was alone again. It had been a great visit. They were old friends who knew him as well as anyone. But they did not know about his mud and boot fetish. Yes, the house needed to be straightened out after four nights with guests, but that was not the first priority. The visitors had interrupted his normal routines. Getting off was the urgent requirement.

It would be mud of course, his boots nicely stuck and coated. What was that old music hall song his grandparents had liked? “Mud, glorious mud. Nothing so good for cooling the blood.” He wasn’t interested in cooling the blood but he was interested in raising the temperature, so to speak. The pleasure of anticipating a mudding session. The first steps and then the boots begin to sink. Old one-eye starts to flex and get aroused. The boots get deep enough that they are definitely stuck. The struggle with his foot coming out. Sometimes the pressure of the mud collapses the boot making it hard to put his foot back in. That always creates more intense excitement. His rock hard dick not constrained by underwear presses against his jeans, the outline clearly visible in the tight denim. Depending on the mudding location, groin grinding against a post, tree or something else, or hand action rubbing and caressing. The arousal getting more intense, as if it was possible. And then, maybe, a decision. Shoot for distance or cream his jeans? Sometimes “things just happened.” Always pleasurable, always a relief.

The anticipation began with getting ready. What jeans would he wear? A new pair that needed to be christened and broken in, or an old faded pair with frayed denim around the crotch that allowed his fingers in or let his prick escape. Fumble with buttons on 501s or the more sensuous lower rise of bootcut 527s? He always wore cowboy boots; which ones would they be? Good boots or older beat-up boots that might want a bit of mudding themselves? The black tall buckaroo cowboy boots he decided. Fitting the boot tops into the narrower leg opening of some old 501s and then pulling the jeans down as he rubbed the boot shafts had a sexual sensation he liked. He would take both rubber boots and hip waders. That gave him options depending on where he went, and might also play into a “stuck boot rescue.” And of course, a clean pair of jeans and a fresh T-shirt to change into. His cell phone to record it and binoculars for cover as a bird watcher, and he was ready to go.

Where? He was lucky as he had a good selection of mudding locations within about half an hour’s drive. Some had good groin grinding, some had better mud. But in late June mud was not such a problem. Streams were shrinking as the spring run-off receded, exposing soft sinking mud not yet baked hard. To start closer to home and work out enjoying several places, or start farther afield and come back in?

Today the car seemed to know where to go. It was where a wooden bridge with supporting posts and cross beams took a gravel country road over a small stream. The mud sloping down to the stream was mostly black clay, heavy and sticky. More than once in the past he had had to change his rubber boots for the waders to rescue the boots stuck in the concrete-like vice of the mud. He parked out of the way and changed his cowboy boots for the rubber boots. He put his rubber kitchen gloves in his back pockets, picked up the waders and walked down the grassy slope beside the bridge until there was the headroom to duck under it.

In the shade of the bridge grass did not grow; it was just mud. It got softer as he moved down towards the small creek. He turned on the cell phone camera to record. And then, a couple of feet from the water, his right foot sank. With a tug it came out, nicely caked with mud, but his left foot, with his weight on it while he had freed his right foot, had sunk deeper. He replaced his right boot and dropped the waders in easy reach. His cock stiffened. With his hand he traced the outline on his jeans. Shifting his weight back and forth his boots sank deeper until the tops were only an inch or two above the mud. No doubt about it, he was fully aroused. Then the fun began of trying first one foot, then the other, to free his boots while continuing to massage his crotch. His left foot seemed firmly trapped in the mud so he tried harder with his right leg to pull that boot free His foot came right out of the boot.

The tension and excitement levels exploded. Balancing with all his weight on his left foot, that boot began to sink further, the boot top getting submerged in the mud. Could he get his right foot back into the boot? He was close enough to the creek that the mud was both wet and heavy. About mid shaft on the right boot, several inches below the surface, the mud flowed slowly to constrict the empty boot. As he put his foot back in the top of the boot and tried to push his foot down, all he did was push the collapsing sides of the boot deeper into the mud. Time for a boot change.

Changing into waders and digging out the stuck boots would need both hands, not to mention the gloves, so he stopped recoding, pulled out the gloves and put the cell phone in a back pocket. Putting on the right wader was easy enough and he pulled the top up. He liked the way the tops of the waders highlighted his crotch and certainly his bulge presented something to look at, were anyone else around to admire it. He placed his right foot closer to the water beside the empty boot. Now the left foot. He could not see the top of the boot and the mud was climbing up his jeans. He decided to work his leg to see if he could lift the boot up at all. The digging out would be easier if he could see the top again. Of course that would mean all his weight on his right foot would sink the wader in the softer mud, creating the next problem, but that would be more fun.

As he worked his left leg back and forth he was able to raise the boot a bit, even as his wader sank to about the knee. When the top of the left boot was just breaking the surface of the mud, he let his foot come free. Balancing carefully, he got the left wader on and placed his foot alongside his right leg. With the now abandoned boots behind him, he had to get turned around to dig them out. But first his cock. Stimulation was always welcome. As he rubbed his crotch he worked the waders in the mud. It seemed to have more water content than the mud immediately behind him. What he called the “sink factor” seemed higher and the “stick factor” a bit less. Even so, both waders were in above the knee and he would have to dig them out. He dug channels in the mud from his waders to the edge of the water and let it flow in. As he excavated mud from around his waders, with tugging and working them back and forth one at a time he broke the suction and got them free. He turned around to dig out the rubber boots. He would change back into the boots to wash them off later. Now he had to do something about his hardon.

The wooden posts and trestle work supporting the midpoint of the bridge were perhaps two feet away. There were several inches of water over the mud, and there was a large cross member beam tying together the several posts. The beam’s flat surface was ideal for groin grinding and the end of the beam looked a good (crotch) height for humping. He moved to the cross beam and pressed against it. His cock stiffened at the pressure and his waders sinking in the mud added excitement. He played there for several minutes, enjoying all of it. Perhaps the mud could be a bit stickier. He enjoyed struggling in waders. He never used the strap to secure the wader tops to his jeans. That way his foot and leg could move freely, and the softer rubber of the wader tops collapsed beautifully so putting his foot back down was more of a challenge. He moved down to the end of the beam. Sometimes the mud built up there, and with less water it might be more fun. It was. His waders became locked in the mud and the end of the beam was perfect for mounting and rubbing. The conclusion was inevitable. How? he would shoot for distance. He pressed his balls against the end of the beam, thrusting back and forth against it, pushing his waders further into the mud. His left hand massaged his prick while with an increasing urgency his right hand fumbled with the fly buttons. He dug his hand in and pulled out his cock stroking it vigorously. And so he came. The pulsating overdrive of his orgasm erupted and shot the load of cum over the water and mud.

Spent, he paused to enjoy the moment and the release. Finally, slowly, he began the exit process to go back to the car, and then home. There would be another day and another visit.