This is an erotic fiction story I wrote while I was on holiday. A holiday during which I went for a lot of long walks across some very muddy terrain, so inevitably over the course of these walks I nurtured a fairly detailed fantasy about getting dressed up in my best clothes, then utterly trashed by a horny guy who pushed me into the mud and fucked me. So yeah: this is a story about getting fucked in the woods, with a heavy emphasis on how messy and trashed you’d be at the end of it.
Trashed: Fucked in the woods
She doesn’t know why she wants to be trashed, although she’s spent a lot of time combing through her childhood for a reason why she might lust after this. But apart from a friend’s tenth birthday party which ended in a mediocre cake fight, she’s got nothing. She has no idea why she wants to get trashed, she just knows that she does.
‘Trashed’: messed up. Filthy. All torn clothes and smeared goop and running mascara.
It used to be a casual fantasy – one she’d indulge every couple of months or so, on a specific site she has bookmarked, neatly hidden in a subfolder inside another subfolder inside a final folder marked ‘HMRC.’ Occasionally she’d dip into that, when her desire to be trashed would bubble up to the surface, and she’d masturbate to photosets of people being pushed into the mud, or smeared with custard or – the one she returns to most often – thick, tar-like gloop that’s supposed to denote oil. That scene is set in a garage. One man submits to being trashed by two others. The slickness of the oily wetness shines on his bald head, and when he cries at the sheer humiliation of it – as she imagines she would if it were her – the tears cut neat rivers down the canvas of his filthy face. It’s her favourite.
But recently this desire to be trashed has gone from being an occasional dabble to something more concrete. She thinks about it every time she wanks. She imagines it when she’s fucking: closes her eyes and pictures the bedspread turning to mud, her disgusted partner picking up globs of it and smearing them all over her tits. She finds herself dressing up for sex more often: mascara, foundation, lipstick, the works. Just for a Tuesday night fuck. Just on the off-chance that he’ll trash her.
Last weekend, bold and horny and a teeny bit ‘trashed’ in the drunk sense, she took his hand and kissed the first two fingers before dragging them across her lips to smear her lipstick like crushed plums. She gave him a lopsided grin and took the plunge: ‘I love it when you mess me up.’
She has no idea why she wants to get trashed, but now that they’re in the car at midnight and she’s dolled up to the nines, the idea of fulfilling her fantasy seems silly. It had sounded normal when she said it out loud: “I want you to take me to the woods, push me into the mud, then defile me like I’m worthless.” After all, isn’t every kink a bit silly when you really put the work into it? Imagine spending two hours carefully curling your hair, putting on make-up, and selecting a sparkly, slutty outfit only to deliberately ruin it for cheap kicks?
Her kink is objectively silly, she tells herself. But as she looks at her partner sitting silently in the driver’s seat with a ‘just you fucking wait’ grin, honestly she doesn’t give a fuck. Tell her tomorrow how silly she is: tonight she just wants to let go.
They park the car down a dirt track at the entrance to the woods. By daytime this would be filled with Land Rovers and dog walkers in puffy gilets. By night it’s empty, cold and damp. It’s been raining for the last two days – tonight’s a rare break in the end-of-October downpours. As they exit the car, they both feel the squelch beneath their feet.
When her partner orders her to start walking, she replies “yes Boss,” with a grin. When the boss tells her to walk through the muddiest puddles, teetering and sinking in ludicrous heels, her heart beats faster.
And when he grabs her firmly by the wrist and starts dragging to speed her up, that heartbeat moves instantly to her crotch.
They pick their way through mud puddles and over broken branches until they can no longer see the car from where they’re walking. The light from the road no longer touches them – the only sparkle on her dress now comes from the moonlight. Her clothes are in stark contrast to his: slutty heels vs sensible walking boots. Short, tight skirt vs thick jeans. A sparkly, spaghetti-strap dress that keeps slipping from her shoulders, versus a fleece-lined jacket and black t-shirt. The greater the contrast between these two things, the hornier she becomes. Like every element of the costume has been donned especially to arouse her.
Letting go of her wrist now, the boss issues an instruction.
“I want you to turn and face away from me,” he says, in a voice laced with playful glee. Then, as if remembering this is supposed to be dominant, the next line is delivered cold. Almost menacing. “Now run.”
She is not swift. Tottering and tripping and sinking down to her heels in the muddy ground, she stumbles rather than runs. Her ankles are already caked with mud, and now splatters of it start to whip up her calves and thighs. Every now and then she’ll turn round to see her partner following – a lazy jog, exerting just enough effort to keep her in sight. There’s no doubt that he could catch her, if he wanted to.
That makes her hot: the thought of being caught. When she pictured this fantasy it hadn’t involved a chase, but somehow, when she’s in the middle of it, the chase becomes everything. She remembers a zombie run game she took part in many years ago: how the organisers had told the players to be careful, to remember that zombies aren’t real, and on no account get so scared that they run into the middle of the road. Ten minutes after scoffing at the idea, she encountered her very first zombie, and the truckload of adrenaline dumped into her veins meant – you guessed it – she ran into the path of an oncoming scooter. Luckily no one was hurt, but she did not learn her lesson. Instinct is hard to train out of someone, as she’s starting to realise now.
She doesn’t mind being caught – she wants to be caught. But now that there’s a chase her instinct takes over. The person she wants to be caught by becomes frightening, purely because he’s in pursuit. Running away from something instils it with danger, no matter how safe it might actually be. So what she wants – to get trashed – becomes what she’s avoiding. The cognitive dissonance of this would be interesting, if she weren’t so fucking horny for it.
And also desperate to avoid it.
When she eventually trips, as they both knew she would, he is by her side like lightning. Her heart hammers and her brain flickers a quick burst of warning static – you’re done for! – before she realises she’s safe. He grips her around the waist, arresting her fall. Digging firm hands into her hips until he knows she’s got her balance back.
A pause. A long one. He stares into her eyes, streaming slightly from the exertion of the run and the chill of the night air. She is panting heavily, and trembling now: excitement and lust and fear.
“Now get on your fucking knees.”
Everything squelches satisfyingly as she drops. The mud oozes around her calves, and she can feel the wetness soak through her shoes and into the tiny gaps between her toes. She wriggles a little, to revel in it, before she’s pushed further down.
“Properly. Sit in it properly, you fucking slut.”
The boss looms over her, one hand in his jeans and the other spread and pressed against her face. Smearing the make-up she’s laid on deliberately thick. She touches the tip of her tongue to the palm of his hand to feel the warmth of it, before he shoves her head back, nudging her further down. Forcing her to spread her knees wider, letting mud slick up her thighs and into her crotch and the crack of her arse.
It’s all over her dress now, the mud. Liquid wicks up the thin fabric and she can feel it – cold and slimy – against her skin. As her partner leans down to give her a deep, biting kiss she welcomes the contrast of his warm lips on hers, and the coldness kissing her bottom.
She didn’t expect it to turn her partner on, but she watches his hand rubbing gently inside his jeans and it makes her nipples twitch with longing. She wants to be there – face buried in his crotch, make-up smearing further as she’s facefucked – but the very act of asking would likely break this spell. Instead she’ll do what she’s told.
What she’s told is “stay right there”, kneeling in the mud while she’s inspected. He takes both hands and tears at the flimsy straps on her top, releasing her tingling nipples to the biting night. Next, he takes one of her hands and presses it into the ground, gently crushing it with his boot, caking it in yet more mud before ordering her to smear it on herself.
She looks down at the wet streaks, sees the filth and mess marking her skin, and shivers with delight.
He slaps her face. Gently, very gently at first, then harder. Then again, but this time with a handful of mud. Grabbing handfuls of her hair, he covers that in mud too, all the while whispering what a dirty fucking bitch she is and how he wants to take her right here in the woods.
Wants to fuck her. Wants her knees to squelch in the mud while he plunges his dick into her cunt. Wants to grab fistfuls of her hair with muddy hands and yank on it while he shoves himself inside. Wants to paint her with spunk to mess her up further – order her to lick droplets of it from her muddy, messy face before he’ll allow her to sit back in his car again.
He slaps her again, and orders her to cry, which she has no trouble doing. The catharsis of having her fantasy so swiftly and aggressively fulfilled means her tears are not far from the surface. They cut neat rivers down the canvas of her filthy face, which she smears with the back of her hand.
He yanks her hair so her face is tipped back, looking gratefully back up into his eyes as he pinches her nipples and sneers down at her: slut, filthy fucking slut. You’re a fucking mess, you know that? You want to be made even more of a mess?
She pauses before nodding.
Anticipating a facefuck, she opens her mouth, but that isn’t what he’s planning.
“Lie down,” he tells her. “Right in the mud – all of you. I want to see every single inch of your body flat on the floor. I want you to feel the coldness of the dirt and filth against your back and your neck and your arse. I want to fully examine how trashed your clothes are, how messy your face, and how wet your fucking cunt is now we’ve proven what a dirty girl you are.” As he talks, she slides down – clothes torn and hanging from her, mud oozing into every available curve and crevice of her body. He stands in thick-soled boots, legs spread and straddling her, looking down at her from a standing position, gaze lingering on her mud-smeared tits.
“Do you want me to fuck you up further?” he asks, dick in hand.
“Yes,” she says.
He starts to stroke himself, quickly. Squeezing his dick tight and beating hard at it like he’s desperate to come. She’s alarmed – this is too fast! She needs more. Doesn’t just want to lie there, she needs to get fucked. Her cunt aches with a need to be filled, stretched. In her mind’s eye she pictures how it will look as he slides it in: the thick, clean shaft sliding in to her wet, messy cunt. She looks at him with begging eyes, hoping he’ll slow down, but he just grins and strokes himself faster – avoiding the pleading look on her face, just drinking in the sight of her squirming and panting in the mud.
He tells her he’s going to squirt spunk all over her, make her messier, insist that she smear in his cum with the rest of the filth.
He pauses and stares at her, twisting his face into a practiced look of disgust – he’s good at this. He gets it.
“But aren’t you going to fuck me?” Plaintive. Pathetic. She’s begging and they both know it.
“Fuck you?” he replies. “I can’t even bear to touch you.”
Her cunt throbs at that, and she cannot help but grin. He meets hers with a grin of his own, and they know – they both know – she’ll get what she wants. It’s all part of the fantasy. But for now she pictures how it would be if he did finish right now, if he spat cum on her, then spat on her, before leaving her trashed and cold and vulnerable. In the woods, in the dark, in agonies of unsated lust.
He’s not that cruel.
He orders her onto her knees and as she flips over she can feel the wetness dripping from her cunt down the back of her thighs. Wonders if it cuts neat rivers through the mud that clings to them. Makes a mental note to ask him later, when they’re home and clean and ready to relive every second of what’s happened. She’ll write the details down, every single one, and store in in that subfolder in a subfolder in a folder marked ‘HMRC.’
He’s positioned behind her, one hand yanking up her torn skirt while the other stays rigid on his cock.
She closes her eyes, tries to lock each detail in her mind so she can remember everything. The way the mud feels between her fingers. The cold night air licking at her nipples and whipping through the holes torn in her clothes. The sticky dirt that covers so much of her flesh.
She focuses every atom of concentration on the sensation of his dick – how the smooth head feels, pressed up against the soaking wetness of her cunt. The rasp of his voice as he whispers “fuck, you’re filthy” as he slides it in.
The way she clamps so tight around him as he enters her – hard – and the speed with which his cock starts to pulse, filling her with yet more mess. Thick, white, hot, and dripping when he slides back out.
Cutting neat rivers through the mud on the backs of her thighs, just the way she pictured in her dreams.
This hasn’t been edited as much as I’d usually edit a story because I have the opportunity to get laid, so I’m publishing this in a rush and grasping that opportunity with both hands (and also my cunt). I’ll come back and do some edits later though so if you spot anything egregious do give me a shout in the comments and I’ll fix.