Kaspar

I've met some great guys and had some fantastic times at mud pools which dot the cliffs along my local coastline. Sometimes, its fleeting, hurried and never repeated, sometimes its the start of a enduring relationship which goes beyond the first lustful encounter.

My first encounter with Kaspar was unexpected, memorable and the start of a very active summer.

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Late spring and on blistering hot Friday afternoon, I finished work early in my stuffy little office, changed and headed directly to the beach. So many others had the same idea and I walked past the busy crowds, screeching at still chilly sea to a more deserted part of the beach where crumbly cliffs met the beach of pebbles and sand.

I followed a discrete path from the beach, up to the first plateau of the cliffs. Out of sight of the beach, a muddy pool and shallow bank provided a secluded place to sunbathe, which was not overlooked. I stripped off and lay on a towel, enjoying the warm gentle afternoon breeze.

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I awoke with a start at the sound of talking. I grabbed my t-shirt to hide my nakedness. One, two, three heads appeared at the edge of the cliff. They were walking towards to the bank. More, four, five, six, seven. Seven men, I recognised them. They did beach boot camp on a regular basis. I had often sprinted past them to the sea after I'd been playing in the muddy pools, always hoping they didn't really have time to notice the mud I'd not quite managed to wash off in the pools.

They waved to acknowledge my presence, but ignored me as they made their way over to the bank at the other side of the pool, where the bank was flattest. I didn't know what to do about my nakedness. I had no tan line and wanted to appear nonchalant but being completely naked seemed too familiar, so my compromise was to drape my t-shirt over my groin area and slump back to a sunbathing pose.

The guys put down their bags. Already stripped to the waist, some wore shorts, some speedos. They commenced stretching and I felt a familiar warmth and stirring in my loin. I adjusted the t-shirt a little. These seven specimens were not easy to ignore. The boot camp coach was a muscular mountain in this late thirties, his nose was broad, his face kind his head a zero crop. He wore ridiculously small, green speedos which cupped his muscled buttocks perfectly, but offered little support to his cock and balls which bobbed in response to his stretches, lunges and jumps. I was thankful I was wearing sunglasses and could stare unabashed.

The troupe of seven soon worked up a sweat. Press-ups, sit-ups, matched body weight exercises, where torsos slippery from the copious sweating caused the guys to laugh loudly as they struggled to maintain holds on their partners. They were friendly, familiar and comfortable with masculine contact. Their tenting speedos, seemingly ignored as they continued their excursions.

After a brief stretch and cool down, the coach demonstrated a excruciating static squat for a full six minutes. I could here the other six chatter nervously as he held the squat with little sign of strain other than a gleam of sweat on his magnificent torso. He lined the team up near the edge of the pond and instructed them to assume the squat position, his battered phone, counting up the seconds and minutes. At the two minute mark, a tall slim chap started to wobble. I could see he would be the first to fail. With his free hand, the coach lent over to the mud pool and picked up a wet handful of the dark gloop and held it to the face struggling individual. I could see him gulp and lockdown into his squat as the others giggled. The coach spun round and there was silence and sobriety. Two minutes forty five and suddenly, the heavyset chap collapsed, his enormous chest and shoulders, clearly a burden to hold up on his haunches. A brief cheer from the others as the coach smeared the wet mud on his face and head. The chap looked utterly humiliated, but for me that scene was totally hot and I could feel my cock stiffen. Once again, from my position on the other side of the pond, I adjusted my t-shirt to hide my excitement.

The coach scooped another handful of mud from the pond as a second failed at the three minute mark. He accepted the face full of mud with good grace. Three minutes 15 seconds and two guys collapsed simultaneously. The coach nodded at the heavyset guy, who got a handful of mud himself and took great relish in smearing it on the face of the chap who had laughed loudest only thirty seconds earlier. I noticed that I was not the only one spotting a stiffy as four muddy faced guys watched the remaking two. Five minutes and still two remained, five minutes 30 seconds and the fifth failed. Unfairly, he received more mud to his face and head than the other four, but he seemed to enjoy it. Five minutes 45 seconds and the final guy showed signs of strain, 55 seconds he held still, six minutes a cheer, six 10 seconds, 20 then thirty then finally he succumbed.

Another cheer, but no mud humiliation for the winner. He'd beat the coach. Instead he gathered mud himself from the pond and walked to the coach who smiled and shook his head. He held it to the coaches face, the coach backed away, the muddy hand followed and the coach looked resigned. Then, surprisingly, the static squat winner, took his hand, full of glistening wet mud and plopped it squarely in his own face, globules of mud showering his neck and shoulders. He rubbed the liquid mud into his hair until his hand was relatively clean. The coach gave a loud belly laugh, but the other guys were not going to let him off Scot free. The returned to the pound to grab handfuls of muddy ammunition and circled the coach who had an expression of resigned expectation.

One handful to the face, one to the head, one each to his shoulders and one each to his chest. The guys returned to the pond to refresh their supplies of mud and then to the coach to plaster his body. Slap! A loud handful to his taught abs, he didn't flinch, his arms reaching for the sky, his pits received handfuls of mud. The muddy assault was relentless as his skin disappeared beneath a coating of shinny mud. I know how the experience of being covered in mud feels to me. It's an electrifying erotic sensory overload and as I watched I could feel precum seeping from my fully erect cock. I struggled to disguise it with my t-shirt.

My attention returned to the muddy coach. He looked tremendous, so muscular, glistening, so virile. As he turned I could see that his muddy speedos were doing little to disguise a magnificent erection. A handful of mud on his gleaming cock was batted away and he turned his back on me uncharacteristically shy. The heavyset guy tugged at the back of coach's speedos and plopped a wet handful of mud down his but crack. The others laughed at the coaches exclamation of surprise. Then it happened. The tall lean chap walked up to the coach and tugged the muddy drawstring. The coach did not resist. Loosened, the speedos sagged down his perfect buttocks, held up only presumably by this stiff cock. The lads tugged, pulled the speedos down his thighs, were they fell like a muddy puddle at his feet. Totally naked, under his coating of mud, he stepped out of the speedos and turned briefly to look directly at me. I froze. I could see that most of him was mud covered, but there was still a few pink patches on his cock an buttock where the speedos had denied the mud egress.

He bent over to share a brief word with the heavyset lad, then took a lumbering run and dive into the centre of the mud pool, landing with a deafening splat. The lads cheered, the coach turned in the mud pond onto his back, his thick cock sticking straight out of the mud.

The heavy set lad went over to the duffle bag and retrieved a pair of faded shorts. The old fashioned nylon ones used by runners He balled them up and threw them into the pit, they fluttered down to land close to the coach, who struggled into them. The heavyset lad returned to the duffle bag, retrieved and a another pair of shorts of the same style. I was startled as he headed over to me with them.

"Kaspar, Coach Kaspar, says you like to join him in pond. Yes?" I stared back opened mouth. "You put these on, the others go wash in sea".

I fumbled with the flimsy nylon shorts. They did nothing to hide me erection, but Kaspar motioned me to the mud pit, so I took a running jump to land beside him in the warm mud.

A brief cheer from the lads and then one by one, they made their way back to the beach to wash off. Kaspar lifted a giant hand and scooped a wave of mud onto my still clean back. A moan escaped my lips as he rubbed the mud into my back and shoulders and then he rolled back onto his front and slid on top of me, pushing me deeper into the gloopy mud. The sensation of his slippery muddy body on mine was fantastic. Through the nylon shorts, I could feel his cock, hot and hard pressing into the crack of my buttocks, while my own hard cock was massaged by the mud.

As I cleared the mud from my eyes, I could see that the heavy set guy had returned with a camera. Kaspar wanted a reminder of his day and I heard frame after frame being taken as we slid over each other in the mud. I will never forget the feel of the mud heavy on the nylon shorts, how our cocks were encased by mud and thin fabric, the feel of taught muscles, under the slippery mud as we wrestled or the quickening, urgent pounding to satisfaction, when we eventually squirmed out of our shorts for a naked, slippery climax.