18+)Tidal mud around a woods with a buddy

One fateful, warm morning, I woke to the sound of birds chirping—a gentle reminder that another good day awaited. Living in a wooden cabin deep in the woods had its perks: the golden sunrise painting the sky, the earthy scent of fresh clay and mud lingering in the air, and, best of all, having my buddy Alexis as my roommate.

Alexis was still asleep on the couch, exhausted from working late into the night. Thank goodness it’s the weekend, I thought, letting him rest a little longer while I prepped breakfast. As I tidied up, my gaze landed on his shoes—a pair of jet-black canvas Converse high-tops, still nearly brand new after his old ones had been destroyed by work. Without thinking, I picked one up, pressing it to my nose for a quick sniff. The scent—worn canvas, faint salt from dried sweat, and that unmistakable musk of his feet—sent a dizzying rush through me. Flustered, I set it back on the shoe rack beside my own identical pair. (What can I say? We both had a thing for Converse.)

The crisp sound of toast popping up drew Alexis from sleep just as I finished pouring juice into a jug. He rubbed his eyes, blinking at the morning light filtering through the windows. "Did it rain last night?" he asked, voice rough with sleep. "I was so out of it after my shift, I didn’t even notice."

"Just some light showers," I said, sliding a plate of toast his way.

As usual, we spent our weekend planning an adventure. The woods around our cabin held our favorite spot—a secluded clearing surrounded by dense trees, patches of smooth clay as a tidal mudflat that made for the perfect exploration ground..

As Alexis finishes his breakfast. The morning air was thick with the promise of adventure—and something else, unspoken but electric. As I laced up my XXHI Converse, I glanced at Alexis.

While Alexis washed the dishes, I got ready, pulling on a black-and-white hoodie, black camo pants, and my trusty XXHI Converse. Alexis, meanwhile, opted for a tracksuit and his AF1s—unusual for him, but then again, he had been acting a little… hornier than usual.

"Think we can explore longer today?" I asked, trying to sound casual. "It’s the perfect kind of day to get… really stuck in the mud."

Alexis paused, his fingers fumbling with the drawstring of his tracksuit pants. I didn’t miss the way his breath hitched or the way his bulge strained noticeably against the fabric, thicker and harder by the second. "Y-yeah," he murmured, his voice low and tinged with a blush. "Sounds good."

I smirked, pretending not to notice—but then he caught me staring.

From the living room, Alexis had stripped down to change, and for a split second, I saw it: the tense outline of his cock, stiff and eager, before he yanked up his tracksuit bottoms. Our eyes locked.

"Looks like you’re already in the mood too," he teased, nodding at the obvious tent in my camo pants.

"N-no I’m not," I lied, my face burning as I jerked my gaze away and aggressively tied my last shoelace. The denial was pathetic, and we both knew it.

By the time we finished prepping, the tension between us was thick enough to cut with a knife. We stood by the door, staring at each other like two idiots who’d just signed up for their own undoing. Alexis’s pupils were blown wide, his lips parted just slightly. I could feel the heat radiating off him.

"Ready?" I asked, voice dripping with false innocence as I swung the door open.

Alexis exhaled sharply, his blush deepening. "You’re such a fucking tease."

And with that, we stepped into the woods—both painfully hard, both refusing to admit it, and both knowing exactly where this was headed.

Before heading out, I grabbed a bag of supplies—ropes, water bottles, extra clothes for both of us—and snatched a couple of long sticks propped near the cabin. We knew these woods well enough to expect sticky situations, but that was half the fun.

The journey began with an odd discovery. Just before the tree line, a brand-new warning sign stood planted in the dirt, its yellow paint glaring under the sunlight:

“BEWARE: QUICKSAND/QUICKMUD AREA. DO NOT ENTER.”

Alexis and I stared at it, then at each other, and shrugged. We’d been here a dozen times before. The sign was probably just some overzealous ranger’s work. Without another thought, we stepped past it, the crunch of dry leaves underfoot marking our defiance.

The woods swallowed us whole. Sunlight fractured through the canopy, dappling the ground like a scene straight out of Pokémon—as if Ash and Misty might burst through the ferns any second. The wind hummed through the branches, leaves whispering secrets, while distant cracks of falling twigs kept us alert.

After a few minutes, the air shifted. The earthy tang of tidal mud and wet clay seeped into my nostrils. “This way,” I murmured, nodding toward the scent. Alexis, a few steps ahead, scanned the trees for landmarks—this place was vast, and we couldn’t always pinpoint the exact mud patches.

As we trudged deeper, I noticed it: Alexis’s AF1s, once pristine, now smudged with blotches of clay, their iconic circular treads leaving soft impressions in the damp earth. I glanced down at my own XXHI Converse—same fate. Behind us, a trail of footprints unfolded: his AF1 circles and my star-crossed sole patterns, pressed into the ground like a secret language. The sight sent a hot prickle down my spine, and I adjusted my stance, suddenly hyperaware of the tightness in my pants.

“You good?” Alexis asked, glancing back.

“Yeah,” I lied, shaking my head as if to dislodge the thoughts. “Just… mapping the route.”

He smirked, unconvinced, but didn’t press further. We kept walking.

The woods opened up into a wide, sun-scorched clearing—patches of yellowed clay, half-wilted trees, and the thick, tidal mud that shimmered under the morning light. In the distance, the abandoned hut leaned precariously, its weathered frame somehow still standing against time. Alexis pointed, grinning. “Still holding up. Wanna check it out?”

Trudging through the uneven terrain, we made our way toward the hut without issue—though the closer we got, the more the ground softened underfoot, a quiet warning of the danger (or fun) that awaited.

Inside, the air was heavy with the scent of damp wood and old earth. Alexis dropped onto a rotted wooden chair that groaned under his weight but held firm, his eyes already dark with anticipation. I smirked, stepping closer. “Tired already?” I teased, trailing a finger along his shoulder. His breath hitched—just the reaction I wanted.

Before things escalated, I crouched down to check my XXHI Converse, yanking the laces tight. No way was I losing a shoe in the mud. Then, without warning, I grabbed his AF1’s, tightening the knots with deliberate slowness, my fingers brushing against his ankles. A layer of dried clay clung to the soles; I scraped some off, then—before he could react—smudged it across his cheek.

“Oh, you’re dead,” he growled, lunging for me.

I twisted away, bolting outside before his fingers could close around my arm. The yellow clay stretched before us, its crusted surface seemingly solid—until my first step betrayed me. The ground split open with a wet schlick, swallowing my Converse inch by inch. The mud surged over the tongue, then the All-Star logo, glazing the white canvas in thick, oozing filth.

Every step was a battle. The mud sucked at my shoes with obscene, greedy noises, each pull sending vibrations straight to my groin. My pants tightened, my bulge undeniable as I struggled—not just to escape, but to savor the filthy, relentless drag of it. Alexis wasn’t faring much better, his own AF1’s sinking as he lurched toward me, his breath ragged.

“You’re trapped,” he panted, eyes locked on my hips.

I grinned, sinking deeper. “Or maybe right where I wanna be.”

The moment I muttered, “Right where I wanna be,” the earth beneath me gave way. The clay mud split open like a hungry maw, revealing a thick, gooey yellow slick—peanut-butter smooth but far more treacherous. My XXHI Converse plunged in, already half-caked in mud, and within seconds, the suction locked my legs in place.

I struggled—a mistake. The more I fought, the deeper I sank. The mud climbed past my knees, my thighs, then my waist, its cold, sticky weight pressing against my stomach. Panic set in as I clawed at the surface, my hands digging frantically into the tidal muck, only to come away slicked in briny, ocean-scented sludge. The smell was overpowering—salt, earth, and something primal.

Then I turned to Alexis.

He was trapped too, but his lighter frame gave him an advantage. With animalistic determination, he wrenched himself free, wallowing on all fours through the morass. His once-pristine black tracksuit was now a shiny, dripping amber, the fabric clinging to his body like a second skin. His AF1s—the iconic sneakers now unrecognizable—were buried under layers of muck, globs of it sliding off him as he moved.

Every slow, labored crawl sent fresh rivulets of mud sliding down his arms, his back, his thighs. The sight of him—filthy, primal, relentless—sent heat rushing to my face. I was blushing, breathless, and utterly helpless, waist-deep in the quagmire as he closed the distance.

Finally, he reached me, kneeling close enough that I could feel his breath on my cheek. The ground beneath him gurgled, fresh mud oozing up around his knees as he smirked.

“Who’s stuck now, huh?”

“Uh… me? I’m stuck. Could you… help me?”

The words came out awkward, but Alexis knew exactly what I meant. Help wasn’t about pulling free—it was our private language, a pact between us. After all, our adventures never ended like normal people’s. Out here, helping meant hands and mud and the slow, filthy relief of wringing out every pent-up frustration until we were both spent, gasping, and caked in the earth.

Alexis grinned, his eyes dark with understanding, and began wriggling deeper into the mud. He sank past his waist without hesitation, then arched his back, swimming his legs up until his body floated on the thick, glistening surface. Careless as a pig in a wallow, he sprawled onto the clay, dragging handfuls of mud over his tracksuit like he was slathering peanut butter on toast. The fabric clung, soaked through, and his bulge became unmistakable as the mud settled around it.

I watched, pulse thudding, as he scooped another handful and slicked it over his cock with a low groan—prepping himself for what was coming.

Meanwhile, I fought to mimic him, kicking my legs until the mud released its grip enough for me to roll onto my back beside him. My hoodie was streaked with yellow-brown filth, the tidal mud’s heavy, briny stink flooding my nose. It was disgusting. It was perfect. The thicker it clung, the harder I got, until my own bulge strained against my caked camo pants.

Looking down at my XXHI Converse—now utterly ruined, caked in thick, creamy mud with only the white tongue peeking through like a filthy secret—sent a fresh jolt of heat straight to my groin.

With a shaky breath, I plunged my hand into my waistband, fingers sinking through layers of mud and fabric until I could tug myself free. The air was cool, but the mud was warmer, slick as I grabbed a glob and worked it over my cock, coating myself in the same filthy lube Alexis had used.

“Help” was coming. And neither of us was leaving clean.

Alexis’s hands were suddenly everywhere—scooping up thick handfuls of wet clay and smearing it down my hoodie, my pants, my chest. The cold sludge seeped through the fabric, but the way his fingers lingered, dragging deliberately over my body, sent heat pooling low in my stomach. “Fuck,” I gasped, as his palm slid lower, cupping my cock through the mud-soaked camo pants. He rubbed slowly, the slippery clay acting as a filthy lube, and I could feel myself hardening under his touch. My once-black clothes were now a streaked, yellowish-brown, clinging to me like a second skin.

Alexis’s eyes locked onto mine—dark, demanding—as if waiting for me to return the favor. His other hand still gripped my shaft, stroking lazily, so I reached down and dug my fingers into the mud beside us. With a smirk, I dragged a handful up his tracksuit, smearing it across his thighs, his stomach, even dabbing a streak over his cheek. He shuddered, his breath hitching, and suddenly he was wiggling closer, his own cock—hot and rigid—pressing against my hip through the layers of mud and fabric.

The more we moved, the deeper we sank. Alexis shifted, straddling my thighs, his weight just enough to push me further into the sucking muck while he stayed perched above me. My XXHI Converse were nearly submerged, the mud swallowing the laces, and his AF1s had disappeared entirely into the sludge beside us. “Look at you,” he murmured, tightening his grip on my cock. “Sinking like a bad little mud-slut. Who’s gonna help you now?” His voice was teasing, rough with arousal, and it made my face burn.

“I—I am,” I stammered, arching into his touch. “Just… don’t let me go under.” The words came out between ragged breaths as his strokes grew faster, the lewd squelch of mud-lubed skin filling the air. Every few seconds, he’d dip his hand back into the filth between us, re-coating my cock, making the friction slicker, hotter. I could feel my orgasm building, the mud and his fingers pushing me toward the edge—

Alexis kept teasing me, his voice low and taunting, each word sending a jolt through me. I squirmed under him, breath hitching as I begged, “Stop… please…”—but of course, he didn’t. If anything, my protests only spurred him on. His grip tightened, his movements growing faster, rougher, until I was writhing beneath him, torn between resistance and surrender.

I tried to push him off, but he pinned me effortlessly, his weight holding me down as he worked me relentlessly. My hips jerked, my muscles tensed—I couldn’t hold back anymore. With a choked gasp, I came hard, my release splattering across my hoodie in thick streaks.

For a second, everything was hazy, my body still trembling as Alexis loomed over me, his smirk sharp with satisfaction. One of his hands was slick with my cum, the other smearing a mess of mud—yellow clay from the tidal flats—into the sticky mess on my stomach.

“Look at that,” he murmured, dragging his fingers through the mixture, “Bad boy made a real mess of himself.” His voice was equal parts mocking and possessive, and I shuddered, still dazed from the force of my orgasm.

The mud was cool against my overheated skin, his touch leaving trails that felt filthy in the best way. I could only lie there, breathless and wrecked, as he kept talking, his words dirty enough to make my ears burn even now.

By the time he was done with me, I lay there gasping, my chest rising and falling as I tried to catch my breath. The air between us was thick with sweat and the damp, mineral scent of the mud clinging to our skin. Alexis hovered over me, his weight still pinning me down in the gooey mud, his breathing ragged.

"Now help me with this," he growled, guiding my mud-slicked hands—still glistening with a mix of sweat and earth—toward his cock, hard and aching against my stomach.

I didn’t hesitate. My fingers curled around him, stroking slowly at first, then faster as his hips jerked into my grip. The friction was filthy, primal—my palms gritty with dried clay, his skin hot and desperate under my touch.

"Fuck, you love this, don’t you?" I muttered, my voice rough, pitching lower as I watched his face twist with pleasure. "Bet you’ve been thinking about this all damn day—getting off like this, using me like this—"

He groaned, a broken sound, his fingers digging into my hips as I worked him harder. Every filthy word spilled from my lips seemed to coil tighter in his gut, pushing him closer. And God, he was close—I could feel it in the way his thighs tensed, in the choked-off curses he bit out between breaths.

He’d always been louder than me, more reckless with his hunger. But right now? I was the one unraveling him.

With a few final, desperate thrusts, Alexis shuddered against me, his breath ragged as he spilled himself in thick cum, pulsing cum ropes across my chest and stomach. Some of it splattered hot against my cheek, while the rest dripped messily down his mud-streaked tracksuit and onto my trembling fingers. A deep, guttural groan tore from his throat—pure, unfiltered relief—before his body went slack, collapsing backward into the gooey yellow clay with a wet plop.

The sound alone sent a fresh jolt of arousal through me, even though I was spent, my own release long since emptied. Mud oozed around us, splashing lazily over my hoodie and the worn canvas of my XXHI Converse, but I didn’t care. The sun beat down, warm and heavy, as we lay there—sticky, filthy, and utterly content.

For a while, neither of us moved. The only sounds were our slowing breaths and the distant rustle of the woods around us. Alexis’s arm flopped out, fingers brushing mine in the mud, as if to say, Yeah. That was worth it.

After a few minutes of struggling, the "adventure" had already drained us. What started as playful exploration turned into a desperate battle against the thick, glue-like mud swallowing us whole.

I couldn’t move.

Every shift of my weight only dragged me deeper, my XXHI Converse useless in the slick abyss. The iconic All-Star tread—designed for grip on solid ground—was no match for this suffocating, bottomless mud. Each panicked kick sent more ooze surging over my waist, the hole widening like a hungry mouth.

But Alexis? Somehow, he managed.

With a grunt, he wallowed forward, his tracksuit plastered in thick yellow sludge. His AF1s—now unrecognizable under the dripping muck—found just enough purchase to haul himself onto solid ground. As he stood, gasping, mud sloughed off him in heavy clumps.

Then he turned.

And there I was—stuck, sinking, arms flailing as the mud crept higher. Our eyes met. For a second, I saw it: that flicker of amusement (or was it something else?) before his expression shifted to concern.

"Shit—hold on!" he called, already stepping back toward me, his own shoes squelching.

The mud around me gurgled, as if laughing.

Alexis trudged toward the abandoned hut, his shoe squelching in the damp earth as he pushed through the overgrown brush. Inside, our bag lay slumped in the corner—right where I’d left it. He yanked it open, fishing out the coiled rope along with the water bottles I’d packed, then snatched up the sturdy stick I’d brought along.

"This’ll have to do," he muttered, scanning the area before jamming the stick deep into the clay-rich soil. With a few sharp twists, he anchored it firmly, then looped the rope around it, testing the knot with a hard tug. Satisfied, he grabbed two more sticks—one to prod his way through the sucking mud, the other to toss to me.

I watched, half-submerged in the cold, clinging goo, as he extended the second stick toward me. "Grab on," he called, bracing himself. "And don’t let go."

Alexis yanked me free with a grunt, his grip tight around my wrist—only to lose his balance the second I lurched forward. We crashed down together, landing in a wet thud as the thick, yellow goo of the mud swallowed us whole. It oozed over our clothes, our skin, even splattering up to our cheeks as we gasped for breath between laughter.

I grinned up at him, wiping a glob from my eyebrow. "Y’know… I could’ve gotten out myself," I admitted, voice dripping with faux innocence. "Just wanted to see how hard you’d try to ‘rescue’ me."

His eyes widened, then narrowed. "You little—" A punch to my stomach followed, but it was half-hearted, his knuckles lingering just a second too long against my mud-slicked hoodie. The heat in his glare wasn’t anger—it was the same electric buzz humming under my own skin. We were both a mess, filthy and exhausted, but neither of us could hide the way our bodies reacted. The mud wasn’t the only thing thick between us.

We lay there for a while, catching our breath, the sun baking the clay onto us in crackling patches. Eventually, we hauled ourselves up, clothes heavy with sludge. We stripped off our ruined shirts but left our pants and sneakers caked in mud—because of course we did. There was no way we’d waste this. My XXHI Converse were barely recognizable under the drying layers of golden-brown clay, and Alexis’s AF1s looked even worse, the mud clinging to every groove of the soles.

The walk back to the cabin was slow, deliberate. Every step squelched, our bulges straining against muddy fabric as we shoved each other’s shoulders, trading insults that sounded a lot like compliments.

"You look ridiculous," Alexis muttered, flicking a clump of dirt from my hair.

"Says the guy with his dick outlined in premium tidal mud," I shot back.

He didn’t deny it.

By the time we reached the porch, the sun was dipping low, painting the woods in amber. We’d have to hose off outside before tracking mud inside, but for now? We just stood there, grinning like idiots, our sneakers ruined and our hearts racing.