Erotic Quicksand Ch 02

Helen had been seeing her quicksand lover in secret, early Sunday morning liaisons, for some time now, and each erotic endeavour had heightened her sexuality. Wallowing in the warming wetness, and sinking sensually in the swampy sand, she had felt a frantic fervour to take things further, not just being made mellow liquid love to, tenderly and caringly, but to let her fluid fancier fully force himself on her, fiercely and fulfillingly. Not just a mutual mingling of sympathetic souls but a wild, passionate, animalistic sex, borne of deeper, dirty desires and drives.

Once again, in the pre-dawn summer light, she made her way through the forest to the clearing where her sandy sweetheart lay. With practiced precision and heart-pounding patience, she stripped and stuffed her clothes in her rucksack, wrapped herself in a towel as she tied her safety rope to a tree, and stood in the swampy shallows, squishing her toes in the soft slime, sending small shivering ripples out to let him know she was there.

Previously, she had hopped out on small, supporting tufts and mounds to the daring deeps of her darling, letting herself sink with knowing experience. This time, she wanted it raw and new, more dangerous than simply letting him engulf her completely for brief breathless moments. The safe path to his centre was off to the right, but the left side, away from the rising sun, she had neglected since mapping out the risk free route over his sucking surface. She also knew how to step and shimmy on his strong skin, trembling like a trampoline, over his miry muscles and rippling risky reality.

Taking a deep breath, she skipped light-footedly over the unknown, almost uncovered, clinging clay-like crust. Like an insect skittering on water tension, she made the merest mark, rarely a ripple, on the outermost ooze but as she penetrated further, her feet started to plunge and sink with faltering stride, breaking the skin as if on thick cooled custard. Staggering with struggling steps, Helen suddenly found herself floundering in his wild, untamed wetness. Like the civilness of culture covering our deep, animal nature, one side of her quicksand lover could be caring and considerate, but here was a primitive personification, the unevolved, savage swampiness of melodramatic fiction. She didn't just imagine and fantasize it sucked and drew her down as her own deep, dirty desire dictated, it really was clutching at her, rasping gritty sand ravaging, clawing her skin like a craving creature.

Within seconds, she was wallowing waist-deep in wave-torn, churning quicksand, like she had seen in many a film, been excited and aroused by the thrill and danger. Secretly she had hoped one day it would be her acting out those scenes, and now that she was, it suddenly swamped her with heart-pounding, chest-heaving, perspiring fear, more so when she realised...

The rope! In her exciting pre-plunge ponderings, she had forgotten to loop it over her shoulder. Now she was alone and untethered, the razor-sharp reality of possibly drowning, in a gripping, gritty grave that gurgled greedily around her, growing as she gradually got deeper.

The scraping sandy surface seemed to seethe as it swallowed her slower now. His abrasiveness scratched at her like stubble, and Helen tried to remain calm and not panic, knowing the turbulent textured trap she had fallen into didn't have to be fatal. As the slime and sharp sand started to smooth round the swell of her breasts, shuddering with her own short, scared, snatched sucks of breath, Helen tried to lie back slightly, to float. Fate had placed her in the middle of a large bed of quaking quicksand, and she could feel it - feel him - pondering round her like a predator to his prey, debating when to devour her.

Normally, in his softer, finer and saturated depths, Helen had only to relax, with a slow sensual swimming motion to keep him soft, and her slender body would buoy up and bob on his boggy being, carried like a bride in his amorphous arms. But this inhuman incarnation was indifferent, insensitive, considering her another vulnerable victim to his viscous viciousness. Even making slow, gentle movements through his mire, she could feel herself submerging in the swampy substance of his savage spirit, instead of being supported, her legs anchored in thicker, tugging tar-like mud that defied her to move, let alone kick out and swim away.

Arms out to spread her weight, Helen tried to get grip on the gritty ground, something to hold while she lugged at her legs but it just squished through her fingers, and the tug-of-war just pulled her deeper. Up to her armpits now, the trembling textured tension dipped like a trampoline, and she could feel herself slipping under more... only neck, head and hands visible soon unless...

One leg suddenly plopped free, and she slowly moved it up. With a few more wriggles the other was also working its way out. Her blonde hair spread round her face, making Helen's face look like a beaming sunburst on the sandy surface, with interminable patience she eased her aching, crushed limbs upwards and out level and, breathing deeply and determinedly, letting natural buoyancy take its course. After several eternally long minutes, she was resting, reclined, just under the rough, raw hide of her clinging captor.

In this position, she shouldn't sink any more, and could roll out back to the safety of his shores. But she had come here looking for something wilder and, while not quite what she expected, had found it. She raised an arm, seeing it sleeved in sandpaper rough scum, and slowly soothed the slimy substance over a pert nipple. Its coarseness was raw yet rousing, fear and adrenalin a potent aphrodisiac as her senses relaxed from the recent terror. Her breasts still heaved with slow deliberate breaths, but the tingle of her rubbed skin brought new sensations... a mixing of pain and pleasure.

Unhurriedly, with no further sense of urgency, she gradually parted her thighs and brought the soles of her feet together, as one finger delicately kept caressing her sand-covered nipples, while the other hand teased and crawled down the slightly submerged skin over her ribs, onto the trembling curve of her tum, finding its way through the muck-crusted fluffiness of her most intimate parts. Her own aroused wetness mingled with the grainy goo swirling between her fingers, grinding it over her suddenly sparked sensitivity, plunging two textured fingers past the parting threshold of her passions. Like before, she imagined them to be the legs of her lover, straying carelessly into the quivering quicksand of her own quim, struggling to get out but every writhing wiggle and fierce flick of her fingers only made her wetter, more treacherous and sucking, drawing him deeper.

Her palm pummeled the mound and the tender tingling bud beneath, pushing herself deeper and letting the chafing ooze flow into her openness. Filling with quicksand herself, the playful fantasy finger lover squirmed and fought against being sucked completely in but he was helpless against the drag of her desire, the pull of her passion. Lost in her dirtiest of desires, Helen's hand pounded and thrust itself deeper and faster until it became a powerful personification of her lover's libido, tearing her thighs apart and forcing its filthy fluid firmness into her fathomless femininity.

There was something primeval about this new, natural bonding, as timeless and eternal as the very earth, earth that now engorged her. Hips heaving and body bouncing on the watery bed, she let the savage sand surge over her skin, its roughness now rousing even more, like small nails digging into her, as her own had delved into her palm in the throes of passion. His frenzy filled her, not a gradual, growing gratification, but a fierce fury forcing itself around her, within... the tumultuous tremor of the surrounding quicksand tore through her, like a tidal wave. Caring caresses of silky sand became a violent, voracious vigour that jarred and tossed her in a storm-churned sea. This was sex, stripped of its veneer of wooing and love-making, simply pure lusting physical appetite.

Then, after timeless moments that could have been minutes or hours, he finally satisfied her in a crashing wave-on-beach instant of internal ecstasy. Helen threw her head back briefly in the boggy bed beneath her, a crying sigh of bliss and burning wrenched from her soul, as she shuddered and writhed in fulfillment. Around her the quicksand quivered and quaked in sympathy, its quintessence now quietened as she became the savage, the untamed, drawn into a distillation of desires, perhaps deeper and more dirty than even he.

The abrasive ache of her ardor slowly dissipated and Helen, still slightly wrapped in reverie, half-rolled, half-swam, out of the deep and dangerous dirt that had nearly taken her to the edge of death, but was now a deliciously daring darling... a bog bad boy.

And they were always the worst, but most enticing... weren't they?