(I generated this using the text generator at NovelAI.net. Looking at the output, I think most of the text in the final output is written by the AI rather than me, though there are a number of places where I had to insert the odd half-sentence to keep the plot on track.)

With a sigh, Gwendoline set aside her book and glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. It was scarcely half past ten, and she felt another five minutes in this gloomy parlour would make her scream. It was three months since her marriage to the Honourable Francis, and she supposed she had little enough to complain of. He was courteous, well connected, and reasonably good looking, and as her sister had so pointedly observed when he had first made his suit, she was hardly in a position to be picky. The fact that she could no longer bear to think of her sister without a surge of anger had little bearing on the matter.

She looked out of the window. The early rain had lifted, and it was now a glorious autumn day. Before her marriage, she might have seized her shawl and walked out. In fact, now that she thought of it, there was no reason she could not do so, whether her husband liked it or not. He had set off for one of the outlying farms, and would not return for a few hours.

With a sense of reckless abandon, Gwendoline rang for the butler.

"I am going for a walk," she said, as soon as he appeared. "I do not expect Mr. Thompson to return for several hours, and I shall probably not be home before then."

"Yes, ma'am."

"If you would be so good as to tell the housekeeper to have tea ready on my return."

"Of course, ma'am. Shall you need your pelisse and bonnet?"

"No, thank you."

Gwendoline slipped a plain, unadorned straw hat on her head, and tied a scarf around her neck, before slipping out of the front door. She headed along the path which led away from the main road, and across the fields. The fresh air seemed to clear her head, and her feet were light on the path.

As the sun shone down, Gwendoline untied her scarf, letting it flutter behind her like a bright red flag. The air smelled fresh, and a slight breeze ruffled her hair. The path led down towards a small brook, which burbled and splashed over the rocks in its bed.

She stood for a moment, watching the play of sunlight on the water. As a child, she would have loved nothing more than to paddle in it, but her governess would have been scandalised. Now, she was free to do as she pleased. With a smile, Gwendoline stepped into the water. She took a step, and then another, heedless of the splashes. She walked for several yards, until she was about halfway across the brook, the water swirling around her ankles. What would her sister think if she saw her now? Or Francis?

Still, the stream was very shallow, and she was wearing boots. She had not expected them to become soaked, of course, but a good pair of boots could withstand far worse. She continued to the far side. Here, the stream gave way to an expanse of gleaming mud, left behind after the recent floods. She paused, then, unable to resist the temptation, she began to make her way across. The mud squelched beneath her feet, oozing between her toes.

She was just two yards from the bank, and congratulating herself on her success, when her left foot sank deep into the mud. She struggled to pull it out, but the more she tried, the more it sank. Soon, both her feet were embedded in the mud, and she could go no further.

She reached down, grasping her ankle, and tugged. Her right foot came out, with a loud squelching noise, and she was able to take a step forwards. But the left remained stuck, and her foot was now buried to the calf. She bent down and pulled at it, but there was no sign of movement.

Now, her other foot was sinking into the mud, and the more she pulled at her left leg, the deeper the other sank. It was now up to the ankle, and she was losing her balance. A moment later, with a squelch, she landed on her bottom. The mud was cool, but she felt it seep through her dress, and soak into her underwear. She could only imagine what she must look like.

"Well, that was rather foolish, wasn't it?" her husband's voice remarked.

Gwendoline spun around, or rather, tried to, for her backside was stuck firmly in the mud, and her feet were still buried.

"Francis?"

Her husband came into her field of view, and bent over her. "Well, dear, this is a pretty state of affairs, is it not?"

"I'm stuck," she said, in a small voice.

He laughed. "I can see that."

"It isn't funny," she retorted.

"Not for you, perhaps. But you really do look a sight. I must say, I had no idea that you had an adventurous side to you."

"This was a foolish thing to do," she admitted.

He laughed again. "You may judge the folly, or otherwise, of your actions after their consequences have been fully explored."

"Can you help me?"

"I certainly could. But why should I, when you are clearly enjoying yourself?"

"Francis!" But she could feel herself blushing. The sensation of the mud oozing around her thighs and bottom was not altogether unpleasant. It was warm, and rather... sensual.

"Perhaps," her husband continued, "you should ask me to join you."

Gwendoline felt the breath catch in her throat. She had never expected her husband to talk to her in such a way, or indeed, to have such an effect on her. She licked her lips. "Won't you come and join me, Francis?"

"Are you quite sure you wish me to?"

She nodded, unable to speak.

"Well, if you insist."

He pulled off his coat, and let it fall to the ground. Next, he kicked off his boots, and waded into the mud until he stood over her.

"What are you going to do?"

"Help you. You said you wanted me to."

"Yes, but "

He knelt beside her in the mud, and she felt a tremor run through her body. Francis reached out a hand and stroked her cheek.

"Do not be afraid," he murmured.

Gwendoline closed her eyes, as he leaned forwards and pressed his lips to hers. They were soft and warm, and she felt a shiver of excitement as he parted her lips, and his tongue met hers. His hands were at her throat, tugging at her scarf, and a moment later, it too lay discarded on the ground.

"Oh, Francis," she breathed.

His lips moved down her neck, and across her shoulder.

"I am not sure this is the most sensible place," he remarked. "The ground is a trifle cold, don't you think?"

Her rational side would have agreed. But the sensation of the sticky mud oozing around her thighs and bottom was making her feel hot and feverish.

"I am sure it can be made much more comfortable," she said, boldly.

He raised an eyebrow. "Indeed? Perhaps we should try it."

"I would like that."

"Then, you are not offended?"

"By what?"

"The thought of being taken by your husband in the mud."

Gwendoline flushed, but a smile played about her lips. "Not at all."

"Then, let us proceed."

With a jerk, he caught her legs and hauled them out of the mud, leaving her on her back, with her skirts falling about her waist. He pushed them aside, and gazed down at her exposed thighs.

"How pretty you look," he murmured. "But we should get these boots off you, or we shall be forever scraping the mud off them."

She watched as he grasped the heel of her right boot, and eased it off. It emerged with a loud squelch. A moment later, he did the same with the other. Then, his fingers curled around her stockings, and slowly rolled them down, leaving her feet and legs bare.

"Much better," he remarked, letting the sodden items fall.

Then, his fingers were at her drawers, and he tugged at them, until they fell aside, exposing her lower body. She could feel the mud seeping into her hair, and the sensation was oddly exciting.

"Now, I think," her husband murmured, as he loosened his breeches, "we shall try this experiment."

"Yes," she breathed.

A moment later, she felt the hard tip of his manhood press against her, and then, he was inside her, thrusting with long, powerful strokes. The mud gurgled and squelched around them, and his thrusts were accompanied by a series of moist slurping noises, which would have made her laugh, had they not been so exciting. Their previous couplings had been restrained, but this was something quite different. She could not imagine what it would be like, if they were ever to be discovered in such a position, her husband plunging his shaft into her in the mud, in full view of anyone who might happen to pass by.

Gwendoline arched her back, pushing her hips against his. She was close, and each thrust took her nearer to the brink. Suddenly, she could bear it no longer, and let out a soft cry. She closed her eyes, savouring the exquisite pleasure as her body was flooded with it, from the tips of her toes to the top of her head.

Francis thrust one final time, and then, he was groaning, his manhood throbbing within her, until his seed spurted out. He collapsed against her, and her arms came up, encircling him, drawing him closer. They remained like that for some moments, before Francis pushed himself up.

"There is something very satisfying about that," he remarked.

Gwendoline felt herself blushing again, but she did not feel embarrassed, and a small smile crept across her face. "It was wonderful," she admitted.

"Would you care to do it again?"

"Oh yes," she breathed.

She felt him roll her over onto her front, the mud engulfing her breasts and stomach. It was cool and slippery, and she could not resist reaching out to take a handful, and then bringing it up and squeezing it between her fingers. It squelched and oozed, and the sensation was thrilling.

"That was rather naughty, was it not?" her husband remarked.

"Yes," she replied, breathlessly.

"Then, we shall have to see what can be done about it."

Gwendoline gave a little cry as he lifted her, and pushed her forwards. Her bottom was now high in the air, and her legs were spread, giving him a clear view of her nether regions.

"Do you know," he murmured, "I have heard it said that a certain amount of penetration is possible in this position, if a gentleman is well endowed. What do you say to that, Gwendoline?"

She felt her cheeks flame, but the thought of it was irresistible. "Please, Francis," she gasped.

She felt his fingers parting her flesh, and a moment later, his shaft was there, probing, pressing.

"It is a tight fit," he murmured.

Gwendoline groaned, as he thrust harder, and then, with a grunt, he was inside her. Her backside was now pressed hard against his body, and he was buried deep inside her.

"How does that feel?" he whispered.

"Wonderful," she moaned.

"It feels wonderful for me, too."

Then, his hands were on her hips, holding her firmly, and he was thrusting hard, the force of it causing her whole body to shake. Her breasts rubbed against the mud, and it oozed beneath her, enveloping her in a soft, silky cocoon.

"Oh, yes," she cried. "Take me, Francis."

His shaft plunged deep inside her, and the feeling was so overwhelming that she almost fainted. His movements became harder and faster, and a wave of sensation washed over her, and then another, each stronger than the last. Her cries grew louder, until her climax shook her, and she slumped forwards, burying her face in the mud.

Francis's hand caressed her backside, and she gave a groan.

"Have you had enough, Gwendoline?"

Gwendoline could only moan. She felt like an animal, lying there in the mud, plastered from head to toe with filth, her ruined dress hanging off her, and her drawers somewhere in the mud, her body sore and used, but she had never felt so content.

"I'll take that as a yes," her husband said, as he helped her to her feet.

She looked up at him. He was just as filthy, and his breeches were now hanging around his ankles, revealing his long, muscular legs, and his manhood, still half-hard, and coated in the mud.

"I must look a sight," she said, pulling her ruined dress down.

"I have never seen anything so beautiful," he replied.

"You are too kind," she said, blushing.

"I mean it," he said, cupping her chin and forcing her to look into his eyes.

Gwendoline felt her blush deepen, but she could not drag her gaze away.

"I fear we shall have to return to the house in a state of some disarray," he remarked.

"They will guess what has happened," she said.

"And what, pray, do you think they will say?"

Gwendoline could only giggle.

"I will tell them," he continued, "that my wife, a woman I love more than life itself, has taken a fancy to playing in the mud."

"They will think me a child," she said, trying to sound indignant.

"They will think you a wild woman," he corrected. "And they will be quite correct."

He leaned forwards and kissed her again, his hands slipping around her waist and pulling her close.

"Come," he said, taking her hand. "We will return home, and wash away the mud. And then, perhaps, we can continue this... experiment."

Gwendoline smiled.

"I should like that," she said, as they made their way back across the stream. "Very much."

Not bad.