Dear Reader: this is a - mud-patch -ashpit - compost heap - wanking story. You were warned

I didnt put on my shoes to go outside; the garden is just lovely on warm evenings like this after a storm. There are little traces of last nights going-away party everywhere: bright paper lanterns in the dripping trees and empty cups in unlikely places like an invasion of boozy little gnomes. Ive been busy in the house all day, scraping plates and washing glasses. It seems so empty without Ed. Hell be landing in Singapore in a few hours, then on to Christchurch tomorrow. I must admit to having looked forward to just spending a bit of time alone to suit myself and keep my own company. As I pad through a cool, shallow puddle I smile to myself. See, Darling? Not even twelve hours and I have descended into complete savagery! When you return you will probably find me living on peanut-butter spooned straight from the jar and propagating tomato plants in the bathroom sink! The last time I lived alone I was an undergraduate; I fear I shall inevitably regress.

I have to take care on the last bit, the narrow path to the compost heaps. I should perhaps have worn shoes after all. Huge wet heads of scrambling roses nod over the path, enveloping me in their rich scent and soaking my hair with raindrops and petals. I find I dont mind a bit; but take great care not to miss my footing. I can hardly see where the foot-worn path snakes through the tall grasses because of the enormous basin of kitchen scraps and plate-scrapings Im carrying. I should have done it in two trips really, the weight of it is starting to make muscles burn in my upper arms.

With my next step one foot sinks into shockingly soft wetness and every hair on my body stands on end as mud oozes and sucks between my toes.

I almost drop the basin and have to take a sharp step forward, sinking a second bare foot into the mud as well. I stand for a few seconds before I really trust my balance again; breathing hard. Once Im certain Im not going to fall I hoist the basin against my hip so that I can inspect the thick, sticky puddle Im standing in. My painted toenails look comically out-of-place as I wriggle and squish them through the mud. I havent done this for so many years and it feels just lovely. Im startled out of my sensuous silliness by a splatter of melon seeds slewing over the lip of the basin and pattering onto the tops of my bare, muddy feet. I cant resist the urge to slide them together, wiping the slimy seeds off and folding them into the mud; smearing my calves recklessly in the process.

I study the path ahead which slopes slightly towards a dead-end with the compost heap on one side and the ashpit on the other. The bare earth is glistening and sticky-looking. I find myself taking another step before I even realise that Ive made a decision: Im going to paddle through the mud and enjoy getting a little bit dirty. After all, I shant have to explain myself to anyone. Even so, I find my footsteps quickening as if doing this in haste will make it less wantonly naughty. My heartbeat deafens me to the slurping sound of my footsteps and the patter as rain shakes out of the leaves overhead. Im suddenly so excited that I realise Im on the verge of laughter even though Im alone. I let the weight of the basin pull my steps into a run.

Of course I slip. The first time I right myself again after a moment of wheeling, gut-clenching uncertainty. A second later and Im down on one knee. Momentarily, Im absurdly delighted that I havent spilt the basin. Then it registers that cool mud is smeared the whole way up the inside of one of my bare legs from ankle to thigh - oh god - Im absolutely filthy under my skirt and thats quite exciting too. I feel that excitement viscerally: a sudden awareness of a warm knot inside; stiffening nipples; the portents of pleasure. I set the basin down in the mud and try to settle myself into a more comfortable crouch. My muddy thigh slides against my clean one as I shift my balance and the sensation is stunningly smooth and frictionless. I need to see just how muddy I am down there but that will mean planting my palm in the mud as well for stability. A second of indecision and I twitch the pale fabric of the dress out of the way, plant my palm in the mud, and lean back to stare at my splattered legs with bemused admiration. My gaze is drawn upwards, drawn towards the single dark spot staining the blameless crotch of my pink cotton knickers. Its not mud; Im just so wet that Ive soaked right through them.

I stand up at once feeling both guilty and watched; glancing around at wet trees steaming gently in the last of the sunlight. As I calm myself all of my attention returns to my dirty bare skin and the mud dripping from my fingers. I rub the tips of them together in wonder: the mud is so smooth and slippery. In a sudden rush of lust I imagine how it would feel to stroke my clit with these filthy fingertips and spread a soft coating of mud all over my pussy. I want to stroke through the wetness and get myself dirty in a very naughty place indeed. I cant believe Im considering actually doing this but my clit is so tight with desire that it feels as if a single silky daub might make me come. My horizon fills with the thought of answering the begging need between my legs and making myself come right now, in the garden, in the mud. I picture the ways I could indulge that wicked impulse and speedily rehearse the possible sensations of sitting down in it; of rolling around in it; of plastering my dress then stripping naked and getting it absolutely everywhere. Of filling up my knickers with soft, squashy brown mud and I have to see how it feels.

I let my dress fall and wade towards the centre of the mudpuddle exploring the depth and straining to keep my balance. I move like a novice ice-skater until it gets a bit deeper; then its so soft underfoot that I sink above my ankles before I feel my toes rest firmly in the stiff sodden earth underneath. I anchor myself with one foot so that I can use the other to mix and thicken the mud around me. Everything is so wet and the soil here is heavy, clinging. The surface water vanishes in a creamy wave and as I relish the luscious squish of it between my toes I realise there is such a depth of mud that if I were to lie down in it Id practically be swimming. The thought of how that will feel sends another liquid shudder through my slit; I want this too much to know where Ill stop. My footsteps leave oversized impressions as I get a bit braver and start to explore beyond the sloppy centre, expanding the area of achingly inviting mud. Its not as cold as I would have guessed, not as cold as water alone. As I sink once again into a crouch to slip my fingers back into the mud I reflect that before it dipped below the level of the Buddleia the sun must have shone uninterrupted on this open bit of path. It feels daring to just plunge both hands into the mud: a commitment to getting more than normally dirty; and on-purpose too. I cant touch anything now I think, but I can if I let myself and Im going to touch myself so sweetly. Caught red handed I think as I examine my pale wrists ending in matching gloves of dripping mud. Its a comic-book badge of guilt, irrefutable evidence that Ive been playing a naughty little game with myself.

A game? Shall I make game out of it? A dare? I glance around again looking back up the muddy slope to where I left the basin and everywhere at the deep muddy puddle Im crouching in. Kneeling in, I correct, allowing my leg to sink into a much more comfortable position. The skirt of my dress is crumpled onto the surface of the mud all around me. When I notice, I gather it up a reflex despite my muddy hands but this just spreads wet mud across the backs of my thighs. I feel so dirty. I know just what sort of game Id like to play. I choose my first handful with care, scooping together the smoothest and siltiest mud; then I realise I should have lifted my skirt at the front and held my knickers open first. I leave dark flutters of fingerprints everywhere I touch trying to do this without dropping my sticky prize. Because of my impatience I end up letting go of the dress at the wrong moment and smearing most of the mud across the warm skin of my belly instead but Im too thrilled to regret my aim. This feels so shockingly, sexily, dirty and wild that I just cant help but rub it in with an extended caress. My nipples are clenched so tight it almost hurts and the desire to let my slippery hands wander all the way up my body under my dress is compelling but Ive dared myself now so I resist. Ill find out whether it feels good to dip my tits into it after Ive tried carrying that basin the rest of the way to the compost heap with my knickers filled with sloppy mud.

The first cold, heavy dollop down the front of the pink knickers looks like blasphemy and feels like missing a step when descending stairs. I feel a physical lurch of arousal when the cool thick mud starts to slither lower between my pussy lips, gliding endlessly over my clit. Another handful follows and I find my hips rocking into the pleasure: the sensation is so maddeningly soft and ceaseless. The front of my knickers is absurdly stretched by the generous filling. I torture myself by rubbing firm fingers over the mounded fabric, sending a slow avalanche of mud flowing down the insides of both of my thighs. When I refill them I shock myself a little by scooping the seat of my knickers full of mud as well and shudder with lust and self-reproach as I feel the cold mass of it against my skin. Ive never done anything that felt so dirty; Im almost ashamed of how much I want to try sitting down like this. I wonder: will these even stay up?

Its a struggle to get to my feet on such a slippery surface with the constant knee-wobbling pleasure of the mud squishing around in my knickers, rubbing my clit. A part of me is cringing at how this would look to anyone else and at how ridiculous I am, taking space-man steps and trying to suppress another bout of laughter until Im on more level ground. Its hard to get purchase on the slope now that Im clumsy with lust and longing beyond all restraint to just slide flat on my face in the mud and try touching it with my whole body. I have to use my hands as well to scramble back up to the basin. Now that they are slick with mud I cant get a grip on the smooth plastic. I make several attempts before it occurs to me to simply wipe my filthy hands right down the front of my dress. It hardly matters by this stage, does it? Ive ended up with something yucky from the basin all over them as well - mayo? garlic dip? - but Im already smearing it all slowly onto the clean cotton, leaving shocking muddy streaks over each throbbing breast. My touch turns into a stroke and I immediately find myself wanting to dip my hands in the mud again and not to stop the lovely, naughty, sliding sensation. I want to cover my dress and feel it stick to my skin. Instead I pick up the basin, closing my eyes at the unexpected slurping thrill between my legs when I bend over.

I suppose a part of me knew it would be impossible; my first stride turns into a slide under the ungainly weight of the basin. Something heavy sloshes down my leg but I cant see; vegetable peelings whirl like hells own confetti. I stumble and slip and the total loss of control makes my arousal soar. I wobble through a series of increasingly hapless poses; far too fast. The muddy slope comes rushing up to meet me as I lose my balance and abandon my battle with gravity. I sit down on my ass with a delicious wet smack and continue to slither helplessly until I come to rest in a patch of mud so thick and clinging that it absorbs the energy of my pratfall. I half sit, half lie, gasping with laughter with my elbows stuck in the mud behind me, and inspect the mess. It seems my instinctive grip of the basin was faultless; the contents, however, are now mostly pooling in the lap of my dress.

Houmous and beetroot juice and rice salad; something white and lumpy; an eggshell Christ, I cooked this lot myself yesterday and I dont recognise what half of it is! I know I ought not to be frozen with shock - this really was the only way my little game could turn out, now wasnt it? but I am. Im transfixed! Not ten minutes ago I was chiding myself for dipping my toes in a puddle and now Im wallowing in a swamp of mud and kitchen slops and I know I should be disgusted, hell, I am disgusted. But Im also so deplorably aroused that Im going to rub this wicked mess all over my tits when I get my breath back. To that end, I lower my shoulders gently until they rest on the wet slope and lie back to look up at the evening sky, panting from the exertion and excitement. I feel the mud grip my warm curly hair and totally give myself up to the sticky contact, grinding into it. I let my attention roam from my slick bare legs, restless and wriggling with the richness of the sensation, to the creeping weight of god-knows-what starting to seep through my dress. Its the style with buttons all the way down the front. Slime trickles between my legs. Still lying back serenely, watching swifts race against pinkish clouds, I work my fingers into the mess in my lap: lumpy, dense, soft. I spread a random handful slowly up over my breast and tremble as the neighbouring buttons strain. I want it on my skin, on my hard nipples. I smear my next handful across the gaps and surprise myself with a raw little sob of excitement when I feel something viscous drag on the clean bare skin underneath. Thats it: its going everywhere now.

I almost begin to undo the buttons, stopping my fingers time to part the fabric ungently instead and tear them off in a series of highly satisfying tugs. I didnt think I could get any hornier but it seems I was wrong: as soon as Ive ripped off enough buttons to stroke my breasts Im running my dirty hands over them hungrily, showing my own body that my intentions tonight are utterly depraved. I feel shamelessly dirty already but this lust is reckless and I can suddenly think of a dozen clit-stiffening ways to make it much, much worse. I rub a buttery palmful of mud into each cup of my bra and another across my collarbones so that it starts to ooze down into my dirty hair. The sensation of liberation, of giving up of care, is so powerful it takes my attention away from my slippery nipples and I stretch to skate my hands through the sloppy mud-patch, wriggling down into the softness underneath me and enjoying the slurping sounds. Im going to need to stroke myself inside my muddy knickers soon; I slide my thighs together and let a body-warmed wave of mud roll around between my pussy lips. Dazed by the intensity of the pleasure; I use both hands to rake as much of the kitchen mess as I can up into my gaping dress. I revel in the twisty grip of distaste and desire competing to overwhelm me as I plaster myself with it from nipples to knickers. I arch my back and slide the last few inches down the slope, dragging my hair through the mud and gasping at the breathtaking novelty of lying in in, of just fucking lying in it . I really am so filthy now that normal standards simply do not apply. I watch with bursting glee as I fill my bra with soft mud and thick nasty plate-scrapings from the pool on my lap. Couscous perhaps? Mushed together with something oily, something sticky and something red. I rub it all over my tits, circling over my nipples, giving my body exactly what it needs and as much as it can take.

I sit up and look down at the ruin of my dress. The bright colours from my kitchen are getting lost in a repulsive jumble: some unidentifiable and grey; some unidentifiable and pale; some unidentifiable and so churned up that the colour is nameless. I start to swirl it all together with smooth dark handfuls clutched from the sticky puddle between my legs, hitching my sodden skirt right up and catching a heart-stopping glimpse of the crotch of my knickers sinking into the mud in the process. More buttons fly one by one as I spread my legs for myself. I lather every last chance patch of clean skin with mud and filth; torn between the need to watch and the compulsion to just shut my eyes and forsake even the shapes of words inside my head. I cant look away for long though, I want to recall every detail of this blissfully erotic defilement. I swirl sticky things and sloppy things and mud into fabulous patterns all over; playing the loveliness of my canvas against the vileness of my paint. I stretch the waistband and sluice the slick of scraps and slop thats pouring down my belly into my muddy knickers and stroke it all in.

Now that the buttons are scattered I cant really be said to be wearing the dress at all anymore. I slip my arms out of the short sleeves and kneel on it so that I can pull off my bra; its too robust to rip with my bare hands. I manage to shred the sagging knickers though, forcing a startling rush of slush along the length of my slit and everywhere-the-fuck-else. Shuddering, I rest for a moment on my hands and knees savouring the exhilaration of being totally naked outdoors. Im just about to crawl into the middle and find out how the mud feels all over my naked skin when my eye catches the half empty basin. Ive always preferred to think of myself as a half full type of person. Smiling, I stretch for it and lift it carefully towards me trying not to let the contents pour straight into the mud. Id rather pour them into my hair. I stir the mix with my fist, loosening whatever had stuck to the bottom and making sure that it will all flow freely over the side when I upend it. I take note of more eggshells, lots of lentils, something yellow and creamy, coffee grounds, chunks of pallid pasta My arms tremble as I raise them above my head. I shut my eyes and tip. The first soft slop of it plasters my hair to the back of my head but I fumble the second and discharge the wet remainder straight into my upturned face.

In surprise, I let go of the basin.

The combined indignities of my reeking mask and ridiculous hat disorientate me entirely and I reel off balance. Little rivers of lumpy stuff drip down the length of my kneeling body but I barely register this as I suddenly feel cool smooth mud parting underneath me. Im rolling around in it before I resolve to my satisfaction which direction is vertical and which horizontal. The sensation is just mind-blowing; even filling my knickers with mud didnt prepare me for the carnal abandon of a naked roll in the stuff. Sliding into the thick mud-patch with my eyes pressed shut I experience nothing but the buttery depth of it sucking at my skin. My face is suddenly submerged and instead of horror I feel a soaring high that makes me want to writhe and roll around without pause. I want to bury myself in it and not stop slithering until I come. I clang my knuckles stupidly on the upturned basin when I try to plaster mud over the back of my head, then send it skidding away. My world has reduced to things I can touch which means just mud everywhere; thick and deep enough for a perfect wallow. I slide frictionless hands all over myself and sprawl on my belly in noisy, frantic ecstasy.

Without the basin I can go to work on my hair: shampooing the helmet of scraps and leftovers into fluffy, muddy chaos and grinding it all in. My hair feels like it could soak up a bucket of the stuff and I slosh armful after armful of mud into it on top of the food; stiffening it with the absurd burden of filth. I scrunch my fingers through it and relax totally under my dirty touch. It feels like the release of pent breath I was unaware I was holding. I rub and tangle it through the storm of lust until it no longer really even feels like hair. This isnt just arousal: this is passion. I buck my hips at the thought and revel in the clitoral contact and the motion all around and underneath my body; the constant greasy pleasure of my sticky mudbath. Mud sucks and squelches as I slide both my face and my wet slit through it; scissoring my legs and rubbing my clit into the slick cushioning mess faster and faster. Im going to come like this without needing any other kind of touch; Im helpless in the grip of such all-encompassing dirty pleasure. I can feel my orgasm trembling in my limbs, quivering in my clit, advancing to swallow me whole. With the mud massaging every part of my body at once I rock my hips into the most spectacular soaring orgasm, blowing bubbles unheeded as I pant my pleasure into the mud.

***

Do you know that feeling of lying on the ground outside, looking upwards and feeling as if the whole world is upside down and you are suspended over measureless sky? I dont know how long Ive been lying here on my back, letting my gaze drop endlessly downwards into a sea of rosy cloud. I really could believe its only the gluey mud thats preventing me from plunging into space as if the earth, having claimed me, will never let me fall.

Now I feel mellow and contented and just deliciously drained. Once the last bright clutches of my orgasm faded I had wanted to shower immediately; buffeted by an unexpected stab of repentance. What have I done? . I found the feeling passing; I really was too sated and trembly to actually stand up and take action and, besides which, I couldnt see. It was a while before I risked opening my eyes after palming the mud off my face; mercifully nothing seems to have gotten into them.

I shift onto one hip, destroying my illusory pact with the infinite: a dizzy feeling. I scrutinise my filthy skin. Layer upon layer of mud and unknowable slop cover me everywhere with a powerful depth of textures: each smear and streak an account of a stroking hand, a loving covering. I could no more describe the complexities of the un-pattern than I could describe every fold and ridge in the clouds above. The mud dries quickly across the broad expanses of my body: my hip, my ribs, above my tits. It lingers wet and dark everywhere else; tucked into my elbows, glistening on my thighs. The shifting tones dapple my skin and I fancy myself camouflaged to perfection: naked yet secret in the dusk until I move.

Im covering myself with it again without really thinking about it; like a subject of hypnosis. Now that I can see again Im spell-bound by details, by the delta of drying mud clinging to my body and chronicling my degeneracy. I slowly smooth a fresh slick of wet mud over the top of this strange map on my skin, painting myself by numbers; playing. With languid concentration I massage smooth, creamy mud in slow passes over my thighs; up the side of my ribs to the curve of my breast. Urgency has given way to a sort of smouldering anticipation. It feels so blissfully indulgent and sensuous and soft that I know if I keep stroking myself the pleasure will blossom back into that aching itch. Eventually I fingerpaint my breasts in tender spirals making my nipples tight and keen again. I reach for a sticky palmful of mud but my hand finds instead the sodden remains of a raspberry. When I pulp it against my nipple, and feel sodden fruit disintegrate into senseless softness against my firm tit, the giddy clutch of arousal squeezes my clit taut. I squish my fingers through the mud feeling for some yielding clump to rub over the opposite nipple. They close around something slimy but distinct and I pluck it out. I experience a momentary tang of true repulsion: I really have no idea what Im holding but the texture is pleading for intimate acquaintance nonetheless. Oh god I really dont care I wipe the clot of slime over my straining nipple and OH EWW! Oh it burst! And its full of... What the..? I scramble to my feet in cold, splashy panic, furiously wiping the mess off my breast and realise what Im holding is just the muddy remains of a used tea-bag.

Relief sends me laughing to my knees, oh I really should know better than this but Im flushed with adrenaline from my moment of alarm and I feel invincible. I let my laughter carry me back down into the deep mud again, smacking into it with my breasts and allowing myself to be reabsorbed. The more I slide and roll the better it feels and the heat and tension in the long muscles of my legs and back is driving me on. I part my legs and lose myself in a rocking slide that brings my clit into ecstatic contact with cool slimy filth. I couldnt possibly get any dirtier: the thought fans the flames and I pin my clit between slick fingers and stroke. You could have a little dip in the ashpit supplies another quiet voice within: You knew you were going to from the moment you first rubbed those dirty hands down your dress. Im correct, of course, I want to.

I slow my stroke and try to stand but its hopeless; my limbs are leaden. Ill crawl on my hands and knees with my bare ass in the air then. Dignity is no longer a meaningful concept. I dont make it far; beyond the sticky swamp where Ive been wallowing the ground becomes harder and I find Im kneeling on twigs amongst the slimy leaves. The dress. Wheres the dress? Its not hard to find but its so weighed down with mud that its hard to lift. I wonder if Ill be able to move when I put it on. An exquisite shudder runs the length of my spine at the thought of pulling all that clotted fabric over my skin. I cant find the sleeves and slosh the thing around in impatience, finally dunking it under the surface of the mud in pantomime pique. Im sitting in the mud again, I cant resist the sticky sucking between my legs. I do my worst with the dress, recoating it inside and out with smooth wet mud before I drag it up over my shoulders. Oh! Cold clinging fabric is pasted to my whole body! I cant fasten it without the buttons but I find I can bind it around my waist with the tapes that once sat in a tidy bow at the back. Mud keeps dripping into my face as I concentrate; tempting me to plunge my hands back into my heavy snarl of hair. I reach my arms up and close my eyes. Im lost in the sensation of the mess inside my dress pulling at my skin as it drains slowly down my back; between my breasts; between my legs.

Its so much harder to move with this on. It trails and snags under my knees as I approach the mouth of the ashpit but it cushions my skin against scratchy things. I try to focus my eyes against the looming blackness and take in the layout of the foul lifeless pit. We dump wood-ash from the burner here; its good for the roses when its mulched in. The pit is slightly lower than the path, roughly square and recessed into the ground behind a plank that keeps the step down from crumbling. Its a grim alien desert in miniature: soots and ashes erode from various mounds in marbled streaks. Changes from grey to black to grey define the layers: a spectrum of wet, nasty grime. I dont even stop to think about it; I just let myself tumble over the edge. I roll as I drop: six inches into a yielding pile of sodden soot. What looked like a plain of cinders is just the crisp surface over a staggering depth of coal-black slurry. Some dark emotion makes me cry out aloud as I plunge into it and sink. Giving up all thoughts of taking my time I lounge back and pillow my head on a sandcastle of soot, stretching into a roll. I clutch handfuls of inky paste and let it squeeze through my fingers again and again; a liquid rush down my upstretched arms. Theyre divided at the elbow by gauntlets of the darkest black. I rub the wet ashes over my shoulders and across the back of my neck, rub them under my arms. This stuff is frighteningly black, impactful even on the dirtiest skin. Im mired in it up to the waist with my legs tangled beneath me. I slump forward to press my tits into it, squirming into the cloying filth to obliterate my muddy dress with the finality of the blackness.

The space is too small to lie down flat so I have to raise my legs in the air to get fully down on my back in it; an incongruously elegant pose like an advertisement for fine hosiery. I dunk my hair and smooth a shell of clinging black muck over the top of what has gone before. My heel clips the top of the freshest dune and I shut my eyes quickly when it collapses in a torrent of powder between my legs. I lie still until the dust settles, savouring the claggy cling of powdery ash on the insides of my thighs. Arousal wrenches at my clit but when I try to stroke myself my fingers are interrupted by the dense pile of fine dust. It transforms them into useless lumpy lollypop fingers when I try to dig; like the hands of a novice baking bread. Instead I start to spread the soft soot deeply over my dress. I shut my eyes and kick another peak to pull down more dry material. Its astonishingly absorbent: I dust myself by the fistful and feel my coating of mess change from sloppy to gluey to stiff. I revel in the filthiness, the impossible filthiness of this feeling. I grind soot into my palms and mud into my tits as I squeeze and stroke them through the dress. I press my sticky thighs together. I finish off my appalling shampoo by moulding my hair into a stiff lump with fine, dry soot. I long for a mirror but content myself with what I can see at the moment: my body is a series of submerged curves and its truly difficult to know where to start defining my limbs. Im covered in it.

I need space to thrash and buck; space to stretch my legs and slide around. I want a glossy slick of mud over my clit when I let myself come; the ashes arent so blissfully slippery. I use the wooden siding of the ashpit to help me into a standing position: my hair is so heavy now that its noticeably harder to lift my head. I just want to slide back into the mud and answer the sweet ache between my legs; roll all this ash into rivers of black sludge. I climb up out of the ashpit and stagger under the weight of the dress. I step on it in regaining my feet and hear the whip of tearing cloth across my back. My hands need no further encouragement. I grip a pocket flap and a hem and yank in opposite directions. The fabric splits in a vast vertical mouth that lets one breast spill out plumply. The traumatised cloth tears with astounding ease. My hands clench into claws as I pull at the dress in a frenzy. Slashes open where the material cleaves apart under my brutal care. I shred and tear, demented with the force of the need; with the harsh rub of dirty cloth gripping my body as I tug. Im so absorbed with my struggle that theres no warning: Im seized by the fall before I see the danger. With a little bark of horror I tumble face first into the compost heap proper.


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I keep very, very still: a shift in my weight could break this whole putrid pile apart and send me sinking into the ancient rancid depths. My precarious reprieve has come in the form of a deep drift of drying grass-clippings. I sprawl on the steep face of the mound with only a duvet depth of sweetly stinking grass between my bare skin and all the things that squirm around down there in the dark.

I shall have to pick myself up very carefully indeed.

I arch my back slowly, lifting my chin and shoulders off the compost heap, then freeze again. Im very aware of the tickly beard of grass clinging to my face but I dont dare raise my hands. Im keen to keep my weight spread, snowshoe style. I try very hard not to imagine whats under the grass but I cant help it: things furry with mould; pale worms. My heart is beating so hard it would be easy to imagine the thump of my pulse is actually coming from the mound underneath me. I think I can actually feel the warmth inside of it; the slow burn of decay. I glance down over my shoulder for somewhere solid to plant my foot and catch a gleam of metal. My reaching hand closes around the hard girth of the object. Pitchfork handle!

I brace with my knees and manoeuvre the pitchfork so that it becomes a lever; a fixed point pinned in the mound. I force tired muscles into disciplined arcs and raise myself until I can feel hard soil under my stretching feet. I trust my whole weight to tiptoes and pitchfork handle and strive back towards the vertical. Something fleshy flaps off my midriff and tumbles away. A banana skin: there werent any of those in my basin today. I can finally tip myself back onto the path in a boneless shaking heap. I need to rest until my legs stop trembling but I cant: my final gymnastic exertion with the pitchfork split the mound of rot and the smell coming from the suppurating surface beneath is unendurable. I scramble away in horrified haste.

Back in the open my passing shakes white moths from the long grass and I slump gratefully into its sane embrace. I take stock of whats stuck to me: food and mud and fire-slush buried under a crispy blanket of cut grass. I scrape my fingertips through it, exposing snaking stripes of impossibly white skin. From where Im sprawled I have a poolside view of the mudpatch, sculpted by my earlier play into a sloppy, trampled swamp. I want to smear the clippings around before I wash them off with a deep, gluey roll. The tender attention of my hands reawakens my skin into shivering anticipation. The grass is becoming less identifiable amid the stew of drying, congealing filth on my skin. I revel in the wanton, unwholesome pleasure of smearing myself with it everywhere I can reach. Black is once again the dominant colour. I glance at the shiny black slime between my legs and hungry need plucks at my clit.

I need the softness there again. With smooth steady effort I slither across the boundary between wet grass and slick mud. Im too tired for sliding around: I roll my body slowly hip over hip until Im shoulder deep in soupy, smacking mud. I roll on my back to replace the last of my suit of ashes with a creamy, sticky covering of mud. Smooth skin is revealed, slicked with an even coating, my shape re-emerging. The fine silty stuff is as smooth and clinging as paint. Its such sensuous relief that I find myself stretching like a cat; the decadent pleasure intensifying the pressure in my aching clit. I stroke it with the gooiest mud; a rolling rotation that I wont be able to resist for very long. With my other hand I drag wave after wave of sliding mud to pour over my breasts and trickle down my sides. Mud loosens my matted hair and pillows me in suspended softness. I stroke myself faster in an unbroken storm of pleasure; my every inch of skin feeling like an extension of that quivering clutch of nerves.

I start to come from a very still place inside, detached from the helpless bucking of my hips, hanging for a heartbeat before plunging into a bright arc of spasms. The power of the surging pleasure is all-consuming and I have to resist marvelling at my body so that I can just lose myself in the bliss. My touch is so soft that I coax out each glorious pulse fully, slicking my clit with mud in frantic need. Oh this feels filthy I manage to think and I writhe as awareness of what Im slopping around in pushes me over a second edge. My whole body clenches and strains into the thick mud as I come hard and dirty.

It gripped me for about twelve breathless heartbeats. It was worth it.

***

Afterward

Another summer evening but the year is different. Ed has Something He Has to Show Me Now: apparently somewhere down the garden. He waits while I find shoes. He leads me down the private little track to the compost heaps; hand in hand but single file like children in a fairytale. He holds the nodding roses up so that I can pass underneath.

Theres a broad, dusty patch of earth where the path levels out; its a useful place to turn the wheelbarrow. Ed shushes my questions and drops to his heels; combing apart the tall grass at the base of the hedge and sending up a flight of white moths. I kneel to look.

Fat raspberries hang like jewels from lush bushes that have crept up behind the screen of grass. I find one that pulls away effortlessly and pop the plush fruit into my mouth.

Shouldnt we wash these?

I give Ed a Look and he has the good grace to smile at himself. We sit together in companionable quiet; swapping raspberries like secrets. We make the happy discovery that further raspberry bushes encircle the whole sunny side of the little clearing.

Do you think they grew from our compost heap? I wonder how they got all the way up here?

It must have been one lucky raspberry. I silence his musings with a first, syrupy kiss.