[Story generated with the assistance of NovelAI. Illustrations by ImageFX]

I should not be walking in these woods.

It is not a matter of my safety. On my father's estate, I am perfectly safe, just as my father's tenants and servants are. Nor is it a matter of disobedience. Even a young lady must take some exercise, and a gentle walk in the grounds is not such an unusual request. My father does not forbid it.

There is no danger in these woods, except that which I carry within me.

In the house, surrounded by company, I can restrain myself, but here, where there is nothing but trees and empty silence, there is nothing to stop the wild thoughts from being heard.

The wild thoughts, the unruly ones.

As I cross the stream, I look down and wonder how it would feel if I fell in. The cold water would soak my dress, make it drag and cling to my legs, and my shoes would become heavy and slippery, making me clumsy and slow.
I do not know why the idea should fascinate me. There is something about the cold, the wetness, the way the cloth would wrap around my ankles, holding them so tight that I could hardly move, and how my movements would become constrained, restricted, how it would slow me down, and I would feel it with every step.

I take a deep breath and move on.

These thoughts are unworthy of a young lady.

But sometimes they come to me anyway, and the more I push them away, the stronger they return.

A little further, I come to where the little path winds between the trees. There is no one around, and I pause.

The path leads down to a secluded hollow, sheltered by the trees. At the bottom, in the winter, is a marshy pond. Now it is an expanse of black earth, broken twigs and dead leaves, and I hesitate for a moment.

It is the last place where anyone could see me.

Then, before I can think twice, I scramble down the bank. It is not easy; my feet slip, and I grab a sapling for support, my fingers curling around the slender trunk.

I can hear the crackling of the dry twigs and leaves as I slide, and the mud is thick and soft under my shoes. It clings, and my steps become heavier, more ponderous, the sound louder and louder as I walk across the clearing, leaving a trail of footprints in the damp earth.

My shoes are dark and glistening, and they grow heavier with every step, as though the mud were clinging to them, the weight dragging me down.

I stop in the middle, turning slowly, feeling the weight of my sodden shoes.

I should go back now, but I don't. I stay where I am, my feet growing ever heavier, the mud and water seeping through the seams, soaking my stockings, trickling down my calves and ankles, into the tops of my shoes, until every movement is accompanied by the slosh and squelch of muddy water. The appearance of dry ground was merely an illusion, and now the whole clearing is soft and slippery, making every step an effort.

A branch cracks beneath my foot, and I feel it give way, the rotten wood disintegrating. In a rush my foot sinks, the cold mud rising over the top of my shoe.

I gasp and try to pull my foot free.

For a moment it holds, then I stagger and fall, landing with a heavy splash on the ground, my posterior sinking into the oozing mire, and my legs splayed out in front of me.

I had never dared imagine that I would ever sit in the mud like this, the dampness seeping through my clothes.

I have to lean back and place my hands behind me in the mud to stop myself falling backwards. My skirts have billowed out around me, and now they, too, begin to sink into the mud, spreading out around me, like a puddle of cloth.

With an effort, I sit up, but my efforts merely sink me further into the quagmire, my skirts billowing out until they surround me, and my petticoats are a ring of white water around my waist, and the mud creeps higher and higher up my legs.

I have never felt anything like this before.

It is cold and slimy, oozing and sucking, and the harder I struggle, the more I feel myself sinking into it. The stink of it fills my nostrils, and I can feel cool splatters in my hair, against my neck, and all around me is the squelch and suck of the mud as it rises up, surrounding me.

My feet have disappeared completely, and now the mud is creeping up my thighs, sliding slowly and inevitably up to my hips, the cold slimy ooze filling the gap between my legs, and I can't move any more, my struggles only making it worse, the mud rising ever higher until I am immersed in its slimy embrace.

I have never felt anything so utterly filthy.

And I love it.

I close my eyes and let my head fall back, savouring the feel of the wet, oozing slime against my legs, creeping higher and higher, reaching for my most secret parts, and the thought of that is so obscene and yet so arousing that I cannot help but moan.

I have no idea how I am going to explain this to my maid.

I cannot tell her the truth.

I can barely admit it to myself.

That I am sitting here, in the middle of a swamp, sinking into the mud, and my body is tingling with excitement at the feel of the cold slime oozing between my legs, sliding against my thighs.

My body is hot and flushed, and the touch of the cool, wet mud is like a caress, the chill against my burning flesh, and I long to sink deeper and deeper, until the oozing filth covers every inch of my body.

I lie back in the mud, revelling in the sensation.

I have no idea why the mere thought of this should thrill me so much.

Why the feel of the wet slime sliding against my skin should fill me with such excitement.

It is the most disgusting, obscene sensation, and I love it.

The cold, the sliminess, the way it wraps around me, sliding and caressing.

It feels so wrong, so wicked, so utterly filthy, and yet it excites me beyond anything I have ever known.

I have lost all sense of shame.

The filth is sliding across my body, coating my breasts and belly, creeping across my shoulders, sliding up my neck. It is a warm, wet caress, and my breath quickens at the feel of it.

It is utterly depraved.

I feel so shameless, and yet I cannot stop.

I roll over onto my front, desperate to befoul the last clean, unsoiled part of me, and press my body into the ooze, grinding and rubbing myself into the filthy mud, burying my arms in the mire, and the cold slime slides beneath my bosom, creeping over my breasts, and the feel of it is like a thousand kisses against my skin.

My breathing is harsh and ragged, and the feel of the warm air against my lips, as though they were being kissed, only adds to the sensation.

I roll back, letting the mud cover my back, and the cool slime slides against my spine, sending a shiver of pleasure through me.

I cannot stop.

I cannot control myself.

"Why, it must surely be Amelia."

I open my eyes with a start.

It is not a voice from the wild thoughts. It is a voice from reality.

Standing on the bank is a lady, no older than I am, dressed in a respectable black dress. Her dark hair is carefully coiffured, and her face is pretty, her complexion pale and smooth. But there is nothing respectable about her expression. Her smile is lascivious, her eyes bright with delight, and she is looking at me with undisguised interest.

"Miss Amelia, I had no idea you were so fond of mud."

"Who are you?"

"You need not know my name," the lady says. "Let it be sufficient to say that we share the same interests."

She walks down the bank, her boots sinking into the soft ground. The hem of her dress becomes soaked with mud. She pays no attention, her eyes fixed upon me.

"How do you know me?"

"I know you by reputation, dear Miss Amelia," the lady says. "The lady for whom no man in the county is worthy. The lady who is above such things as marriage, or indeed any form of physical affection. The lady who, they say, has never been kissed."

I flush with embarrassment.

"And now I find you, lying in the mud, and revelling in the sensation of the slime against your skin."

I want to run away, to hide, but I cannot. The mud holds me in its grasp.

"I quite understand your desires," the lady says. "You may deny them, of course, but they will only build until--" She gestures, indicating the scene before her. "This."

"Who are you?"

"Someone who knows enough of your secrets to ruin you," the lady says. "Someone who knows the true nature of your desires, and has no intention of letting anyone else know about them. Provided you are willing to accommodate my own modest wishes, you need have no fear of exposure."

"What are your wishes?"

"Why, to enjoy your company, of course," the lady says. "To share a little intimacy, the way women are meant to. And in particular, I would like to help you explore your desires."

"I do not know what you mean."

"No, I dare say not." The lady kneels in the mud beside me, and I am suddenly aware that her face is very close to mine. "Let me explain."

Her hands rest upon my shoulders, her fingertips pressing into the oozing mud, and then her lips brush against mine.

I am so startled that I gasp, and the lady takes advantage, kissing me again, and her tongue slides against mine.

I have never been kissed before, and the sensation is overwhelming. I have no idea what to do, and so I kiss her back, allowing her tongue to probe and explore, her lips moving against mine, and the feel of her body against mine is so delicious that I can do nothing but kiss her in return.

At length, the lady breaks the kiss, and looks down at me, her face flushed and her eyes shining.

"Now, Miss Amelia," she says, "Do you admit that you enjoyed that?"

"Yes," I breathe.

"Then there is no need to be ashamed of your desires," the lady says. She smiles, a wicked, sensual smile, and leans close, her lips brushing against my ear. "Tell me, Miss Amelia, have you ever thought about doing the same thing to a gentleman?"

"What?"

"Kissing him, lying with him, making love to him," the lady says, her words whispering into my ear. "Have you ever fantasized about having a man in the way a woman does?"

"No."

"Really? What a pity."

The lady's hands are on my shoulders, holding me down, and then her mouth is against mine again, and I am kissing her again, and the taste and scent of her, the feel of her skin against mine, is so intoxicating that I cannot stop.

At last the lady pulls away, and I lie gasping in the mud, unable to move, or even think.

"Well, Miss Amelia," the lady says, "What do you say? Shall I tell your father, or will you do as I ask?"

"What do you wish me to do?"

"That will become apparent in time." She stands up and wades through the mud to the bank, her dress dripping and smeared with the thick slime. "You will receive certain missives from me. It would be as well for you to pay attention to them, and obey their instructions. Otherwise..." She pauses and gives me a knowing smile. "Well, perhaps I shall not need to repeat myself."

"I understand."

"Very well, then." The lady pauses, and then steps onto the bank, her feet sinking into the soft soil. "Until next time, Miss Amelia."

She climbs up the bank, somehow appearing dignified despite her sodden appearance, and disappears among the trees, leaving me alone in the mud.

I lie in the mud for a while, until I can gather the strength to roll onto my front once more and crawl towards the edge of the clearing. The mud clings to me, reluctant to let me go, and by the time I reach the bank I am exhausted. From the neck down I am coated with the slime, my dress heavy and sodden, and my limbs feel leaden, as though the filth is weighing me down.

I manage to scramble up the bank, and look down. In the centre of the clearing is the churned and muddy patch where I lay, and I cannot help but feel a thrill of shame at the memory of what occurred there. Then I turn and and make my way back along the path, through the trees. My shoes are so heavy with the clinging mud that I can barely lift them, and it is an effort to walk.

The mud is everywhere.

It has soaked through my gown, and I can feel its coolness against my skin. It has seeped through the seams, and now the whole thing clings to me, like a second skin, and I can feel it in my hair, against my face, and when I try to move, the oozing slime runs down my legs, dripping from my hem, and my shoes are heavy and cold, and when I take a step, the mud squelches between my toes, and the sensation is so obscene, so lewd, that I can hardly bear it.

Every step is an effort, and I can feel the slime oozing and squelching between my thighs, and when I try to squeeze them together, the mud squishes and bubbles, and it is almost unbearable, and yet, and yet, there is a part of me that loves it.

There is a part of me that wants more, and as I walk back towards the house, the mud clinging to my legs, the slime oozing and slurping, I know that this is only the beginning.

By the time I reach the house, I am exhausted, and my maid looks at me in astonishment when I arrive, covered in mud. She takes one look at my sodden, filthy dress and shoes, and asks no questions. I am hurried to my room by the servants' staircase, and left alone while the maid fetches hot water.

As soon as the door closes, I strip off the muddy dress and petticoats and shoes, and stand in my chemise and stockings. My undergarments are soaked and filthy, and my hands and feet are caked with the slimy mud.
The maid returns with the water, and I slip out of the chemise and step into the bath. The water is hot and steaming, and it stings against my skin.

As the maid scrubs and cleanses me, the mud and grime disappear, and I feel the warmth of the water seep into my skin. I say nothing as the maid washes and dries me, and helps me into a fresh gown.

When she has gone, I sit down at the dressing table and look at myself in the mirror.

My skin is clean and pink, and my hair is soft and glossy. I look exactly as I ought to.

And yet, when I close my eyes, I can still feel the mud, oozing and slurping around me. I can still feel the lady's hands on my shoulders, her tongue sliding against mine. It is too late now. The seed has been planted, and it is already beginning to grow.

There is nothing I can do to stop it.

I am in the hands of the lady, whoever she may be, and whatever she may wish of me.

And now, all I can do is wait, and see what the future holds.