The Girl (Part 1): Angela's Passion

[JSample]

THE GIRL (or, Angela’s Story: A Side-quel to “The Kid”)

by Jason Sample
December 2018–April 2019

Last November I posted my multi-part "monster-piece" story "The Kid," my semi-autobiographical, somewhat tongue-in-cheek journey of self-discovery in which the characters of Jason and "the Kid," the mental projection and embodiment of Jason's combined quicksand fetish and sex drive, argue and debate with one another over how (or even if) to rescue Angela, a beautiful damsel in distress sinking to her doom in quicksand. Because of the way in which I envisioned and developed that story and its characters, the scenes in which Angela enters the mudflat and ends up sinking helplessly in quicksand necessarily take place "off stage." After I had posted the final part of "The Kid," I commented that I was thinking of writing a parallel story or "side-quel" entitled "The Girl," in which I would explore in detail Angela's character, background, and motivation for stepping into the mud pit in the first place and her subsequent fright and despair over becoming trapped in quicksand before help arrives. At first I had planned to end "The Girl" at the point where Jason comes to her rescue, but then I realized that in order to explore and express Angela's story in full I would need to retell the entire narrative sequence of events found in "The Kid," only this time from her perspective, not Jason's. The result is a completely new story that in places overlaps the narrative of my previous one.

In Part One of "The Girl," we meet Angela, a physically fit, twenty-year-old college student who bears a deep secret in her heart: a fascination for deep mud and quicksand, which heretofore she has only indulged in her private fantasies. One summer day while sunbathing at her favorite spot downstream from her riverfront home, she becomes aware of an expansive, recently-formed mudflat nearby, the presence of which leads her to contemplate her complicated, years-long attraction to mud. Through a series of recollections and extended flashbacks, Angela revisits the pivotal moments and experiences of her past that have led her as an adult to understand that she has a sexual fetish for deep mud and quicksand... to embrace it... and to decide that the time has finally come for her to indulge her fetish to the fullest.

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The Girl (Part 1): Angela’s Passion


Angela awoke with a start at the sound of a bird’s call as it flew overhead where she was lying on the soft, grassy bank of the river. The one-mile swim to her favorite sunbathing spot from the dock on her family’s waterfront property in the valley that bordered the Appalachian state park was always a challenge to the physically fit, twenty-year-old college student, but today the quiet sounds of the water’s lazy current and the light breeze in the trees had conspired with the warmth of the late-summer day to lull her to sleep while she had been lying in the glare of the early afternoon sun, and as she sat up she worried that her skin might have burned during her unplanned siesta instead of merely tanning. Her auburn-haired, fair complexion made her especially susceptible to sunburns, she had learned painfully as a child during a family trip to the beach one year, necessitating the use of copious amounts of sunscreen whenever she was outdoors on bright, sunny days such as this one. As she removed a spray bottle of sunblock from the small mesh swim bag that she had brought with her, she considered that no level of SPF ever seemed to be enough if she lay out too long in the sun’s rays, making her annual quest for a healthy tan a tightrope balancing act that required close attention on her part.

She examined her upper chest and the exposed flesh of her breasts, pulling the fabric of her bright red bikini top away from her skin to see the line of demarcation where the material concealed the fuller parts of her bosom from the sun. She sighed in relief to see that the contrast wasn’t yet sharp enough to indicate a burn, an observation borne out by the lack of pain when she touched the darker areas. The smooth skin of her abdomen, thighs, and lower legs also responded painlessly to her touch, and she concluded that however long she may have been dozing by the water, she wouldn’t spend the next several days paying for it.

Angela turned over in the grass to expose her back to the sun, holding the bottle in her right hand and bending her arm at an angle behind her head as she sprayed a good amount of protectant on her neck, shoulders, and back before twisting around to apply the sunblock to her thighs and calves as well before returning the bottle to her bag. Supporting herself on her elbows as she lay with her feet pointing toward the water, she gazed out before her toward a dense hedge of tall vegetation a dozen yards or so away that blocked her view of the mountain path that eventually led up to the summit. The greenery stretched all the way from the river’s edge well off to her left and over toward a second path off to her right that led up to a parking lot a couple hundred yards away at the top of an uphill trail. The lush overgrowth hadn’t always been there, she reflected as she gazed at it; as she remembered, it had sprung up over the past two summers following a pair of back-to-back, five-hundred-year storms that had ravaged this area of the Appalachian park a couple of years before and had badly blocked the hiking trail from the mountaintop with fallen trees and boulders, not all of which had yet been cleared away. As a result, foot traffic down the path to the river had effectively ceased, which, combined with the new plant life, afforded her a private spot for sunbathing.

As she lowered her eyes she observed something else that also hadn’t been there before the storms, an expansive mudflat extending from the bank where she lay over to the wall of vegetation, which apparently drew its sustaining moisture from the miry area that it bordered. The flooding from the storms had eroded the shore of the river in various places along its winding course through the valley, creating many calm, backwater areas in its wake, but this one spot had been on the receiving end of a massive inflow of fine river-bottom silt as the force of the water had carved out the earth, and the topography of the riverbank combined with the constant current conspired to keep this hollowed-out cove filled and saturated with thick, wet mud even on the hottest and driest days of summer.

Angela smiled as she rested her chin on her hands and gazed out across the mudflat, the surface of which lay about a foot or so lower than her sunbathing spot. As a child she along with her younger sister Amy had enjoyed playing in muddy spots on the shore near their riverfront home, sitting in the shallow muck at the water’s edge while kicking and splashing their legs, laughing and screaming as they would throw handfuls of glop at each other before finally washing up in the river under the watchful eye of their mother. Sometimes Angela would press her feet and legs as deep as she could into the mud while she sat in it, testing her strength as she strained her muscles to pull herself free, the momentary sensation of being trapped producing an odd thrill in her prepubescent mind, though of course at the time she had had no idea why that would be so.

But several summers ago, she remembered with an impish chuckle as she lay her head on her hands and closed her eyes under the warmth of the sun’s rays, she had gotten an inkling of why being stuck in mud should have such an effect on her. She and her sister had traveled to spend a month at their grandparents’ farm in the country after their parents’ divorce earlier that year, and on the girls’ first afternoon there, while they were exploring the open acreage surrounding the farmhouse, they had become caught in a sudden thunderstorm. As they raced back to the safety of the house, they took the most direct path across an empty, fallow field where the ground dipped toward a wide, sloughy depression before rising again as it began the long approach to the main buildings on the property. Angela had gotten a head start on her sister, and as she ran through the pouring rain toward shelter, she stumbled into the low spot in the field and immediately plunged waist-deep into a bog of thick, sticky mud.

Angela fell forward from her momentum, muddying the front of her tee-shirt as she cried out in surprise to find herself suddenly trapped so deeply and unexpectedly in the miry spot, while behind her Amy screamed at the sight of her sister abruptly sinking into the earth. “Oh, my god!” the younger girl shouted as she slowed to a halt, “What is that stuff?!”

“It’s just… mud, I think,” Angela answered her sister as she straightened up in the rain, glancing around herself while assessing her depth in the pit, “really deep mud.”

“Oh, thank god!” Amy replied laughingly. “I was afraid it was manure!”

“Ugh. Fortunately, no,” Angela responded with a nervous laugh herself, noting that while the bog had an earthy scent about it, it didn’t stink the way manure would. “It’s just mud.”

“Can you get out?” Amy asked, stepping gingerly around the miry area to see if she there was any way that she could reach her older sibling, while the rain continued falling heavily around them.

“I’m not sure,” Angela replied, trying to pull her right leg upward through the gooey muck, “but don’t come any closer!” she added, holding her left palm outward to discourage her younger sister’s approach. “I don’t know how deep it is, but I’m really stuck, and it won’t do us any good if you get stuck too.”

“What should I do?” Amy asked worriedly, the prospect of her becoming trapped along with her sister giving her as much of a chill as was the afternoon storm raging around them.

“Go get Grandpa,” Angela answered her younger sister over the pounding rain. “He’ll know what to do. He’s bound to have a long rope or something, maybe in the barn.”

“Okay,” Amy said as she started backing away from the pit, “as long as you’re okay with me leaving you here like this.”

“Yes, go, go!” Angela replied insistently, gesturing emphatically toward the direction of their grandparents’ house as Amy turned and began running to get help. The young girl raced along in a somewhat sideways manner, glancing back and forth repeatedly between her destination a couple hundred yards before her on the high point of the property and the muddy spot where her older sister was caught in the low part of the field behind her, afraid that if she took her eyes off her sibling for too long she would vanish forever from sight.

Despite the discomfort of her being stuck in the mud while being drenched by the storm, Angela couldn’t suppress a momentary smile. Grandpa will know what to do, she reassured herself as she watched her sister run toward the house. Their grandparents, and especially their grandfather, had always been a rock of stability in the girls’ lives amid the chaos of their tumultuous homelife. Their mother loved her daughters, of course, but that love had been filtered through a rigidly religious morality that she had long ago embraced as the foundation of her adult life, although it hadn’t seemed to bring her the happiness and contentment that it once promised, and in fact in recent years she had become quite cynical and distrustful of others. Their father had been quite the opposite of their mother, though not in a healthy way; he had always been a ladies’ man, having affair after affair both while dating their mother and after marrying her, and despite his repeated promises to change, he couldn’t (or wouldn’t) stop pursuing his dalliances other women, with the result that over the years his ongoing infidelities had fed into their mother’s increasing negativity and ultimately led to their divorce. The girls often wondered how their parents had ever gotten together in the first place, much less why they had stayed together despite their mutual unhappiness and dissatisfaction with each other. Maybe each had thought that they could somehow change the other.

By contrast, the girls’ grandparents had married after high school and had been together for decades, and if there had ever been a hint of tension between them, neither Angela nor Amy had ever seen it. Their grandmother had contented herself with domestic duties in the homestead, while their grandfather was a man of the land, cultivating the fields and harvesting their produce while maintaining a small herd of cattle. But despite the traditional roles that they had willingly embraced in their life and marriage, or perhaps because of those roles, each exhibited a mutual trust, respect, and tenderness for the other, and the girls had never heard either raise a voice in anger during their occasional visits to the farm. Angela had always known her grandfather to be especially sharp-minded despite his advancing age, and whenever a problem would come up on the farm or some piece of equipment needed to be repaired, he could be counted on to know what needed to be done and to have the right tool with which to fix it. Oh, yeah, Angela said to herself again as she waited patiently in the mud pit, Grandpa will know what to do; he always does.

By now Amy had disappeared over the rise, and as the cold rain intensified Angela wrapped her arms around herself while she shivered under the downpour, wondering if she were going to sink any deeper into the muck. Her predicament reminded her of the times in her childhood when she and Amy would play in the mud on the shore of the river by their home, but the depth of this pit brought a new worry to her mind, a peril that occasionally featured in the late-night horror movies that she and her sister would surreptitiously watch on TV in their bedroom when their parents were asleep and the girls were supposed to be as well. This isn’t… quicksand, is it? Angela pondered nervously as she glanced down at her rippling reflection in the rainwater pooling around her. She had no idea how common quicksand was in real life, how it formed, or where it occurred, but the movies always portrayed it as an insidious, mortal threat to any unlucky soul who happened to fall into its clutches. In her present circumstance, however, while she had certainly sunk quickly enough when she first stumbled into the mire, she noted that she hadn’t descended any further in the time since, B-movie images of a helpless victim being sucked down to a suffocating doom notwithstanding. For that matter, the muddy bottom beneath her feet seemed to be relatively stable compared to the rest of the bog encompassing her, and even though her every attempt to pull one leg free only seemed to push the other a bit deeper into the muck, she concluded with relief that the mudhole was in fact no deeper than her waist and that she wasn’t at any risk of sinking below the surface. Even so, while she knew that she wasn’t going to go under, she also knew that she wasn’t going to get out of the pit without assistance.

As she stood alone in the mire, shielding her eyes as she looked through the driving rain in the direction of the farmhouse while waiting for her sister to return with their grandfather, Angela became aware that, while she faced no greater danger than that of catching cold from the elements, the sensation of being stuck in the bog recalled the odd, fleeting thrill that she had experienced in her younger years when she would force her feet and legs into the mud as she played in it, and as she now continued trying to free first one leg and then the other from the depths of the pit, that same familiar exhilaration reasserted itself within her mind more strongly than ever before. She had no idea what it meant or why she was feeling this way, but it resonated deeply within her, and she sensed that it signified something important… something intensely personal and private about herself, something that she was certain that no one else ever could or would understand, something that she instinctively knew had to be kept a secret, even from her sister, with whom she normally shared everything. Although she was years away from having the words to describe it, she knew in her heart that what she was feeling somehow embodied the truth about herself… the very deepest truth.

After a few more minutes of gusting wind and rumbling thunder the storm subsided as quickly as it had begun, and as the clouds began parting overhead and the sun again reclaimed its place of prominence in the clearing sky, Angela’s reflective reverie in the mud pit was interrupted by the approaching sputter of a two-stroke gas engine that had clearly known better days. The sound grew louder and closer until at last her eyes were greeted by the sight of her grandfather driving his old, faded green, rusty-but-trusty John Deere tractor over the rise toward her, her sister Amy seated on the right rear fender and hanging on tightly to the seat as the antique machine bumped and shuddered over the uneven ground toward the low spot in the field. The machine looked to be as old as their grandfather himself, but it got the job done, as he had told the girls earlier that day when they had seen it parked in the shed to the side of the house and had asked him why he still drove the ancient implement.

The old farmer let out the clutch and brought the tractor to a halt about thirty feet away from where Angela was stuck, and once the brake was secure he and Amy dismounted the idling beast and approached the boggy area until they were near the edge of the muddy earth but still on solid ground.

The old man stood with his hands on his hips as he looked out toward his trapped granddaughter, a bemused expression on his face. “You know, Angie-girl,” he said to her, shaking his head and chuckling lightly, “I was telling your sister on the way over here that it’s usually a wayward cow I have to rescue from this mud pit.”

“Sorry, Grandpa,” Angela replied sheepishly from the middle of the miry area, wishing that he wouldn’t keep using the diminutive nickname that he had given her a decade earlier when she had first visited the farm. “Amy and I were just trying to get back to the house after the rain started and I ran right into it. I was really worried at first about how I was gonna get out, but I feel better now that you’re here,” she added, smiling gratefully.

“You know I’m always here for you, Angie-girl,” he said in a kind, reassuring voice as he nodded his head gently, “you and your sister.”

“I told Grandpa and Gramma you were stuck in a mudhole!” Amy piped up excitedly. “I was afraid it was gonna swallow you up, like in the movies!”

“And I told you that wasn’t gonna happen, kiddo,” the girls’ grandfather said laughingly to Angela’s sister. “You can see it’s only a few feet deep at most, not enough to ‘swallow her up,’ but deep enough to catch a dumb animal… or a young girl who’s not watching where she’s going,” he added, winking toward Angela as he turned and started walking back toward the tractor.

“Okay, okay, I get it,” Angela said with mild exasperation, feeling that both her granddad and her sister had already had enough fun at her expense. “Can you go ahead and get me out?” she then asked in more of a pleading tone. “Please? I’m really stuck and I’m cold.”

“Don’t you go fretting about that, Angie-girl; I promise I’ll have you out of there in a jiffy,” the old man replied with a chuckle as he rummaged through a large metal box mounted on the rear of the tractor, “and your gramma’s fixin’ a pot of chicken noodle soup to warm you up once we get back to the house.” Despite her discomfort, Angela smiled at hearing her grandfather’s words, buoyed by the prospect of a hot bowl of soup and by the knowledge that, unlike her philandering father, her grandfather was a man of his word; when he made a promise, he could be counted on to keep it.

After a few seconds the old farmer stepped from behind the tractor with a length of rope in his hands, one end of it already tied in a loop about two feet across. “I keep this loop of rope handy for whenever I have to pull a cow or a calf out of this mudhole,” he announced as he approached the edge of the pit again. “‘Course, they’re pretty poor at following directions, so sometimes it takes some doing to get ‘em out safely. Reckon I won’t have the same problem with you.”

“No, I ‘reckon’ not, Grandpa,” Angela replied with a shake of her head, rolling her eyes and wishing that her grandfather would show a bit more urgency in freeing her from the mud. Even though the sun was back out at full strength, she was still soaking wet from the rain, and her feet and lower legs were growing uncomfortably cold below the surface.

“Here, Angie-girl,” he said as he tossed the looped end of the rope toward his granddaughter, “put this around your chest and under your arms and then hold on to the rope at the knot. I’m gonna pull the tractor forward till the rope goes taut, but after that we’ve got to be careful. That mud is pretty thick, and if I try to pull you out too fast I could pull your legs out of joint.” He turned and began heading back toward the idling machine. “Go ahead and start wiggling your feet and legs to loosen up the mud around ‘em,” he called back to her, raising his hand and rotating his wrist in a stirring motion, “and then keep doing that while I ease forward. It may take a couple of minutes to get you out, so just be patient.”

“Okay,” Angela said, putting the rope around herself as she began moving her feet and legs as well as she could beneath the surface, restless to be free from the muddy trap. “I’m ready.”

“What can I do to help?” Amy asked her grandfather as he knelt behind the tractor to secure the other end of the rope to the rear hitch.

“You walk along beside me and keep an eye on your sister,” he replied as he stood up and began climbing back into the seat. “If it looks like she’s in any pain while I’m pulling her out, you tell me so I can stop the tractor. We want to get her out without hurting her.”

Angela looked on from the middle of the boggy area, the loop at her end of the rope encircling her chest, unable to hear what her sister and grandfather were saying to one another over the noise of the engine. She held on to the rope and continued shifting her legs in the mud, waiting for the tractor to start moving forward, anxious to get out of the pit and warm up at the house with a bowl of her grandmother’s soup.

After a few seconds the aged John Deere lurched forward and began advancing haltingly up the rise, the length of rope lifting off the ground and growing taut as, little by little, the distance between the machine and the bog gradually increased. Angela gripped the rope and continued moving her legs and feet in the mud as the loop around her chest began pulling her torso forward, causing her to bend at her waist as the mire tried to hold on to its prize. For long moments the tug of war between tractor and mudhole pulled her upper body progressively lower into the ooze and until she was almost horizontal over the surface before her feet finally came free from the sticky bottom and she began to slide forward slowly through the muck toward freedom. She felt relieved to be finally escaping the bog’s grip, but as she wriggled her legs to keep them loose, Angela realized to her dismay that her shorts were beginning to slide off her hips as she moved forward through the thick mud. However, there was little that she could do about it while holding on to the rope with both hands as the tractor pulled her along.

Amy walked backward alongside the rattling tractor as it made its way uphill, watching Angela’s face for any sign of pain or difficulty while their grandfather slowly dragged her out of the bog. For a moment Amy thought she saw a flash of… something… in her older sister’s expression, not distress or discomfort but what instead looked like… astonishment… as the rope pulled her forward through the mud. Angela’s head abruptly dropped downward toward the bog, as if she were trying to see something beneath the surface, but by the time she looked up again toward Amy a few seconds later her face had gone completely blank. Amy felt puzzled by what she had seen, but since her sister hadn’t appeared to be in any pain, she said nothing to her grandfather about it.

After another minute or so Angela at last reached the edge of the mudhole, and she began struggling to pull her legs free from the muck, gripping the rope for leverage. Her grandfather put on the brake and began to dismount the tractor, while Amy ran over to where her sister was trying to free herself to help her to solid ground.

“Here,” Amy said as she offered her hand to her sister, “let me help you out.”

“Thanks,” Angela replied, taking Amy’s hand as she began lifting her right leg out of the miry earth.

“Hey,” Amy then said, a little more quietly this time while her sister continued extracting herself from the pit, “are you okay?”

“Yeah,” Angela answered her, pulling her left leg free from the mud and then slowly standing up, breathing heavily from her efforts as she looked down at her mud-coated form, “safe and sound, all in one piece.”

“No,” her sister said in a near-whisper, “what I mean is, did something happen while the tractor was pulling you out of the mud?”

“Um… no,” Angela answered her sister hesitantly. “Why do you ask?”

“I dunno,” Amy replied, shaking her head. “For a moment you had a really weird look on your face.”

“Oh… that…” Angela stammered, her face growing slightly red in the afternoon sunlight, “that was… um… because… the mud was so thick that it… started pulling my shorts off.” Both she and Amy looked down toward Angela’s short pants, which were indeed several inches lower on her body than they usually were. Amy giggled as Angela quickly pulled her muddy shorts back up to her waist just in time for their grandfather to walk up.

“I’ll bet you’re ready for that hot bowl of soup now,” he said chucklingly, unaware of the embarrassment that he would have caused to his oldest granddaughter had he arrived a few seconds earlier.

“Sure am, Grandpa,” Angela replied smilingly, betraying nothing of her wardrobe malfunction while he had been freeing her from the bog. “And thanks for getting me out of that mudhole.”

“Sure thing, Angie-girl,” he said kindly as he motioned toward the waiting tractor. “You two want a ride back to the house or you want to walk?”

“I’ll walk,” Amy replied. “That first trip over was really bumpy.”

“I feel okay to walk, too,” Angela answered him. “Besides, I don’t want to get your tractor all muddy.”

The old farmer chuckled as he turned and started heading back toward the ancient machine. “You see my rusty ol’ John Deere over there, and you’re worried about getting it ‘all muddy’?” he called back to her. “‘All muddy’ is the natural state of things on a farm, so you fit right in!”

The three of them laughed as the old man climbed back onto the idling tractor and prepared to head back over the fields to the farmhouse. The two sisters walked together side by side behind him, each looking forward to a bowl of their grandmother’s chicken noodle soup once they had returned to the warmth of the kitchen, while Angela quietly reflected on everything that had happened in the short time since she and her sister had become caught in the storm, on what she had realized about herself while she had been stuck in the bog… and on what had happened while she was being pulled out of it.


Angela smiled and chuckled as she lifted her head and opened her eyes where she lay under the sun on the grassy riverbank and again gazed out over the mudflat before her, the memory of that fateful afternoon at her grandparents’ farm so many years before still vivid in her mind. She hadn’t told Amy everything that had happened while their grandfather was pulling her out of the mudhole in the middle of the empty field, neither later that day nor in the time since; for that matter, she had never told anyone what had really happened, for the thick, sticky mud had done far more than just to pull her shorts down around her legs while the tractor was hauling her out of the bog. Although it would require a few more years of her developing and maturing both physically and emotionally as she blossomed toward womanhood for her to finally figure it out, she had in fact experienced her very first orgasm while she was being dragged through the mud that day, the unexpected moment having sent shockwaves coursing through her startled body as she held on to the rope. (Thank god Grandpa was driving his noisy tractor and facing the other way, she remembered thinking with relief once she understood what had happened.) That had been the reason for the astonished look that Amy had seen on her sister’s face while the tractor was pulling her out of the pit, a reaction that Angela had tried unsuccessfully to hide from her younger sibling and, for a time, even from herself.

But as the years had passed and she had learned more about herself and her own body as she grew into young adulthood, her initial reticence to admit what had happened to her in the mud on that long-ago day had eventually yielded to an acceptance of its reality and finally to a tentative willingness to embrace it. From watching certain movies and reading certain romance novels to which her morally-minded mother would have surely objected had she known that her oldest daughter was stealthily availing herself of them, Angela had pieced together why even in her childhood she had relished the sensation of being stuck in mud and trying to free herself from it, and by her eighteenth birthday the now sexually aware young woman had at last understood that she had a fascination, a fetish, for deep mud and especially for its viscous variant, quicksand. Something about the idea of sinking helplessly to her “doom” in the clutches of a bottomless quagmire, as would happen to hapless victims in the old horror movies that she and her sister used to watch, she now found especially arousing, so much so that occasionally in the privacy of her room when no one else was at home she would lie naked on her bed, wrap her sheets and comforter tightly around her body, and begin stroking herself while pretending to be caught in quicksand. She would envision herself struggling against its relentless grip as she sank deeper and deeper, holding her breath for as long as she could and fantasizing that the combination of increasing lightheadedness and dimming vision that would overtake her as she approached the edge of unconsciousness was the sucking mire itself closing over her face as it enveloped her, swallowing her into blackness until at last she would climax convulsively in its clinging depths, her body spasming uncontrollably and her bosom heaving breathlessly as her tortured lungs gasped for air while she writhed within the constricting bonds of her bedding. La petite mort, the French called it, the “little death”… however, while Angela derived her most intense pleasure from imagining that she was sinking inexorably to her doom, at its heart her fetish was merely for the fantasy of being trapped in quicksand while she enjoyed herself in it, not to go under for real and actually die in the stuff.

Not that she’d ever had an opportunity to indulge her “mud bondage” fascination in real life, she reflected regretfully as the sun continued bronzing her back. The topography of the shore near her riverfront home had changed in the years since she and Amy had played there as children and especially so after the back-to-back storms, submerging their old mud puddles beneath the water’s surface. Not only that, but during her family’s trip to the farm after her grandfather’s death two years ago she had discovered on a clandestine visit to the empty field that the mud pit had dried up in the time since her boggy adventure there years before. Too bad, she had thought wistfully at the time, even though she had known that there would have been no way that she could have gotten away with any “playtime” in the mud while her family and other relatives were present following the funeral. Besides, who would drive Grandpa’s old tractor to pull me out again?

No, the extent of her exploration of her fetish for deep mud and quicksand had remained hidden within her private fantasies, a secret between herself and her bedsheets, known only to herself and certainly understandable to no one but herself… until one day a year ago while sitting in her bedroom and doing an Internet search on her laptop for a summer college assignment, Angela had followed a link to a page that contained a link to another page concerning female sexual response — hmm, interesting, she had thought — which in turn led to another page about sexual fetishes — ooh, kinky, she had chuckled — which led to a subreddit that featured a picture of a topless woman sunk to her breasts in what looked for all the world to be quicksand — wait… what? — which linked to the Twitter account for an entertainment company called “Mud Puddle Visuals” — what on earth? — which ultimately led to an online forum entitled, “Quicksand Fans: The Home for Quicksand Fetishism on the Internet.”

Oh. My. God.

Angela stared at her laptop screen for half a minute or so, her mouth agape in disbelief. Till that moment she had believed that her private “kink” was so unusual, so inexplicable, so beyond the pale of what was “normal,” that it hadn’t even occurred to her to search for anything about it on the Internet. My quicksand fetish is a thing? she asked herself incredulously. And other people have it too? And they talk about it here, on this site? Oh, my god…

She slammed the lid of her laptop shut, terrified that someone might see what she was looking at and thereby divine her secret… and then had a laugh at her own expense as she remembered that she was alone in her bedroom. She tentatively lifted the lid again, slowly scrolling down the page as she read through the entries. The site was divided into two main sections, a “producer area” — What’s a “producer”? she wondered — and a “public area”; clicking on a link in the first section for the company name that had brought her to the site prompted her for a username and password, which of course she lacked. To her pleasant surprise, however, she found that she was able to access the subject headings in the second area unhindered, and she proceeded to spend the next hour perusing various topics that caught her eye.

Forum rules… “mud maps”… safety tips… member introductions… Angela browsed through the “general” entries with increasing amazement, still unwilling to believe that other people had the same attraction to mud and quicksand that she did. She then clicked on a “submissions” link and spent even more time exploring site members’ photos, drawings, and stories –– Boy, I’d sure have quite a story to tell about my “first time” in the mud, she thought with a chuckle –– along with numerous other entries that people had posted for others to read and comment on. Hmm… she thought as she read one member’s posting, this middle-aged guy calls his quicksand fetish a “monster” in his brain… weird. After reading a particularly erotic story about a beautiful, voluptuous woman stepping into a bottomless pit of quicksand and then sensually pleasuring herself to orgasm, climaxing repeatedly as she sank willingly to her doom, Angela realized that she had been imagining herself in the woman’s place while she read the story, and she impulsively clicked the “post reply” button at its end, only to be prompted again for a username and password.

Angela stared at the screen for several seconds, momentarily at a loss as to what her next action should be. Was she really going to do this? Up till now she had kept her fetish a strict secret, telling no one, not even her sister, about her fascination with mud and quicksand. Joining this site would be her first public acknowledgement in any way of what she had for so long indulged only in her private fantasies, and she knew that once she had registered, there would be no turning back. After a few more seconds of uncertainty, she decided what she would do. She would indeed join up, but she would do so under a username that was so far removed from her real life that no one would ever guess that it was hers. And to further ensure her privacy, she would create a brand new, secret e-mail address that she would use only for this site.

After a few clicks to open a new browser tab and to create and verify a new Gmail account, Angela returned to the forum’s registration screen. She thought for a moment, rejecting several possibilities for a username before finally settling on one that meant something special to her. After then creating an appropriately complex password, clicking some language and time zone options, and answering an unexpected question about a monkey’s name(?), she moved her mouse pointer over the “submit” button and, after a final hesitation, clicked it.

After a brief delay, during which time she nervously folded some laundry and took some dishes back to the kitchen while she waited — They wouldn’t reject my membership, would they? she worried; after all, I am old enough — Angela checked her new Gmail account and found a “welcome” message from the site. She logged in to the forum and spent the next few hours exploring every part of it, including the previously inaccessible “producer” area where she found topics, posts, and links to and about professional videos and photosets of female models sinking in mud and quicksand (So that’s what a “producer” is, she decided). As she continued looking around and familiarizing herself with the forum and its contents, she found herself coming to certain preliminary conclusions about the online community that she had just joined: the vast majority of the members appeared to be men (many of whom were apparently as old as her father, if not more so), their main topic of interest seemed to be women sinking in quicksand (either as sensual sirens of seduction or desperate damsels in distress, or, every now and then, as both at the same time, intriguingly enough), and, most importantly, the occasional woman who participated in the forum, whether she was a model who performed in the videos or simply another member of the site, was always shown the deepest respect and consideration by the male members, who seemed to be especially appreciative and grateful that any woman at all would understand and perhaps even share their fetish for mud and quicksand.


Angela sighed and smiled musingly under the summer sun, her thoughts returning to her grassy spot on the bank of the river as she rose up on her elbows and again cast her eyes over the mudflat that lay before her. All these memories — her childhood fascination with being stuck in mud, her unlikely “first time” in the bog at her grandparents’ farm so many summers ago, her several years’ journey to awareness and acceptance of her sexual fetish for mud and quicksand, and her unexpected discovery of an online community of like-minded enthusiasts for the viscous ooze — now swept through the twenty-year-old’s mind like an ocean wave as she continued gazing wistfully at the miry area in front of her. Many of the member submissions on the quicksand site, she recalled, were people’s first-hand accounts of their own experiences in deep mud or quicksand, an experience that, aside from her accidental moment in the mud years before, she had heretofore only imagined in her most private fantasies; perhaps, she wondered pensively, the time had finally arrived for her fantasy to become a reality.

She lay staring at the mud for several more seconds until, haltingly at first but then more deliberately, she rolled onto her left hip and elbow and then, after another moment’s hesitation, brought her right leg up beside herself. Planting her right hand in the soft grass, she placed her weight on her right knee as she brought her other leg forward before slowly straightening up and rising to her full five-foot-five height before the expanse of mud that stretched before her. Not since that long-ago day on her grandparents’ farm had she stood this close to a bog of any size, much less one that extended tens of feet across as did this one. Its unfathomed depths somehow beckoned her, she recognized, her breath momentarily catching in her throat as an overwhelming sense of anticipation coursed through her body. By the same intuition with which she had only begun to perceive it all those years ago while stuck waist-deep in a mudhole in the middle of a fallow field, she now understood that this was indeed her deepest truth, her deepest desire, and after years of cultivating and in turn being cultivated by this her deepest passion, she realized that she was at last ready to answer its quickening call.

“I’m gonna do this,” she whispered to herself, quietly and resolutely, as she looked out intently over the bed of mud that lay invitingly, beguilingly, before her.



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To be continued in Part 2: “Angela’s Pleasure.”

[QSMud]

Awesome. Can’t wait for the next chapter.

[Solrex]

This is really good, I hope that the rest of the story follows this level of quality and enjoyment that both this part and the other story written in November lived up to. This might inspire me to finish my part 2 to my Animusa story. I need to start writing the actual story rather than just the pre-story. Anyways, good luck with your story. Is it already all written up, with the delays just being the wait time for each part to go up sequentially, or do you just have your muse writing to you now, and you're writing these parts as we speak?

[JSample]

Awesome. Can’t wait for the next chapter.

Thank you, QSMud; Part Two is already up.

[JSample]

This is really good, I hope that the rest of the story follows this level of quality and enjoyment that both this part and the other story written in November lived up to. This might inspire me to finish my part 2 to my Animusa story. I need to start writing the actual story rather than just the pre-story. Anyways, good luck with your story. Is it already all written up, with the delays just being the wait time for each part to go up sequentially, or do you just have your muse writing to you now, and you're writing these parts as we speak?

Thank you, Solrex; I appreciate the compliment, and I hope you'll enjoy the rest of my story, the second part of which I posted yesterday. I strongly encourage you to keep working on your own story as well. "The Girl" is already completed; as it says in the header, I've been working on it since December, either actively writing or thinking about it a couple hours every day. I'm planning to post each following part every three or four days for the next few weeks until it's all online to give people a chance to read it in manageable chunks without my overloading the forum with a massive, multi-part story all at once (113 pages in Microsoft Word) and to give me a chance to read over and think about each part one last time before posting it to correct typos and any inconsistencies I might spot.