In college, I signed up for an introductory marine biology course, mostly for the credits and the field trips that got us out of the lecture hall. Every week we’d load onto a van and head to the coast—beaches, harbors, tidal pools—notebooks in hand, collecting samples and trying to act like serious scientists. One morning in early July, the professor announced our destination: a massive back bay, thousands of acres of tidal flats. Low tide had drained it completely, leaving behind a vast, glistening plain of mud under the pale dawn light. The instructor warned us to wear old sneakers, jeans, and T-shirts, nothing we cared about keeping clean.
We were split into groups of four. Mine included my buddy Mike and two girls from class: Sarah, quiet and athletic with dark hair, and Jenna, bolder, always laughing, blonde streaks catching the sun. We grabbed our clipboards, collection jars, and waded out from the edge, the mud cool and soft at first, sucking gently at our ankles.
The flats stretched forever, a shimmering gray-brown sea dotted with clumps of cordgrass and the occasional raised island of firmer ground. We poked around near the shore, jotting notes on crabs and snails, trying to look studious. Then Jenna spotted something—a small, grassy hump rising like an oasis maybe a hundred yards out. “Let’s check it out,” she said, already stepping forward. Sarah shrugged and followed. Mike grinned at me. “Adventure time.”
The mud deepened quickly. What started as calf-deep turned to knees, then thighs. Our jeans grew heavy, caked with thick layers that clung and pulled with every step. The surface looked deceptively smooth, but each movement released a wet, sucking sound. We laughed about it at first, the slow-motion slog, the way the mud slurped at our shoes like it wanted to keep them.
Then we hit the slight dip just before the island. The ground gave way beneath us. The mud changed—lighter, creamier, almost liquid. It wasn’t thick and grabbing anymore; it was silky, warm from the sun, enveloping. Sarah gasped as it climbed past her knees to mid-thigh. Jenna took another step and sank to her crotch in one smooth drop. She froze, eyes wide. “Whoa—guys, this is… deep.”
Sarah tried to back up, but the motion only pulled her deeper. The mud lapped at her waist now, soft and insistent. Panic flickered across her face. “I think I’m sinking. Like, really sinking.” She laughed nervously, but her voice shook.
I was taller, stronger in the legs. “Hold on—I’ll get you.” I pushed forward, the creamy mud parting around my thighs, then my hips. Every step was a deliberate effort, lifting one foot free with a wet pop, pressing it down again, feeling the suction tug back. The resistance, the slow drag against my jeans, the way the mud molded to every contour… it hit me hard. My cock stirred, thickening, pressing painfully against the zipper. The sight of the girls—Sarah’s jeans dark and plastered to her legs, Jenna twisting slightly as the mud rose—only made it worse. Their bodies half-submerged, curves outlined in slick brown, helpless and beautiful in the morning light.
By the time I reached Sarah, I was crotch-deep myself, the warm mud cradling my balls, sliding up the insides of my thighs with every shift. I grabbed her arm, steadying her. She leaned into me, breathing fast. The contact—her body close, the shared struggle—sent a jolt straight through me. I was rock-hard now, throbbing under the heavy, mud-soaked denim. One more twist of my hips and I could’ve come right there, untouched, lost in the sensation of being swallowed by the earth while she clung to me.
We linked arms, Mike helping from the side, and hauled ourselves the last few feet onto the grassy island. Solid ground felt almost disappointing after that embrace. Sarah collapsed laughing, mud streaked across her shirt, hair plastered to her neck. “Holy shit, I thought I was gone.”
We sat there catching our breath, the sun climbing higher, warming the mud on our skin. Jenna, still buzzing with adrenaline, looked back at the depression. “Wait… you can kind of control it, right? If you don’t fight too hard.”
On the way back, the girls went ahead. When they reached the creamy patch again, they didn’t rush through. Jenna stopped deliberately, sinking slowly to her waist, then twisted her hips side to side, letting the mud rise and fall around her. Sarah joined in, giggling, pushing down until it lapped at her chest, then rocking back up. They played—twisting, sinking, surfacing—like it was a game. Their jeans clung transparently in places, mud glistening on bare skin where shirts rode up. I watched, frozen, aching.
That was the moment. Something locked into place inside me. This was the real thing—deep, shared, uncontrollable, erotic in a way I’d never felt before.
We made it back to the van eventually, caked and exhausted, earning amused looks from the professor. But I was already different. Hooked. From then on, I started scouting alone—old quarries, riverbanks, forgotten tidal spots after storms. I’d wade in deep, let it take me to the waist, the chest, feeling that same delicious pull, that building pressure. Solo sessions turned into rituals. The mud never judged. It just held me, claimed me, and let me lose myself completely.
Years later, I still chase that feeling. But nothing quite matches the first time—the accidental discovery during that college field trip, the girls’ laughter turning playful, the moment the world narrowed to warm, creamy suction and the pounding in my veins.
That bay didn’t just expose the flats. It exposed me. And I’ve been sinking ever since.
