The Secret Garden
      (Well without that whiny little girl and some mud....)
                                         By Ivy Seward

                                  Disclaimer-Disclaimer
	The following story contains items of a sexual nature-if this offends you STOP READING !!! If you continue to read and are still offended, knowing you would be, its your own fault! If you desire to read it and are offended that is just a reflection of your taste. You have been warned and I know a lot of big guys who would wrestle you to the ground if you harass me.
	Note to WAMmers: The following is a true story. It involves mud, although not deep. (Actually its mainly a feet and legs story. But I think its told well enough that everyone can enjoy it.)
	It is not grim. I do not die (go figure). A park ranger doesn’t attempt to save me and die. A squirrel doesn’t fall into the mud and I witness its little paw poke through in a final struggle as the mire swallows it. This is just a little happy sexy story. If this does not appeal to you, do not groan and complain.
	Finally, you are free to do with this story as you please, just remember where you got it from. Again I don’t want to have to bother those big guys.....

(Female, mud, sexual nature(feet and eroticism), happy) is what I will use to synopse this.

Well onward and downward......................

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	I do love a good rainstorm and rain it did one long summer night until the next morning. One of those rains that pour from the sky, like the drunken pagan gods are having an uproarious time....um....pouring rain from the sky.
	I peered out my window at the morning outside, one of those hot, sticky ones. For this rain that the pagan gods did pour was not the refreshing, cooling summer varieties, but one of those, the devilish gods like to think as of the variety opposite to those particular adjectives.
	Alright, enough of those amusing stumbling metaphors. Lets get to the mud shall we.
	I donned a happy little sundress, pale blue let’s say. (I think that will make a nice contrast to the mud I will encounter in the next paragraphs.) I slipped my slender, pale feet into my Birkenstocks (tm), wiggled my toes in a pixie-ish manner and headed for the outdoors. 
	A fine mist clung to the ground as I stepped out onto my back porch. Wood nymph that I am, I eagerly anticipated walking through the rain kissed grass. Actually, it was more of a sloppy, frat boy, French kissed grass, since the past 12 hours could easily have been described as a continuous downpour, even by those who had little grasp of the meaning.
	I felt the cool mist kiss the tops of my blood red toes, (well they’re painted that way I really wouldn’t be wearing sandals if my toes were actually blood red.) I wriggled them in guilty pleasure watching the rain bead on the top of my foot. I shivered a little in the mugginess, knowing what lay in store. 
	I stepped down into the backyard, feeling the damp grass brush against the bare skin of my feet, cooling them with the rain. The soggy ground gave a bit under my steps, sending a cool pleasant sensation up my legs that was not entirely due to the lovely little bath my toes were receiving from the showering droplets of the grass. I lifted my toes up to catch a errant blade or two between then and as I shifted my feet the ground slurped a little, a quiet whisper of things to come.
	Far down the yard is my father’s garden patch. A beautiful 10x10 square of ungrown garden, for this year he has been too busy to start his habitual planting. He has only had time to till it, turning the soil for his summer’s seeds. However, the morning’s rain has soaked this little plot, churning it into a inviting private swamp.
	I step across the yard, barely hearing the little slurps and sucks of the grassy ground beneath me as it pulls at my sandals slightly, teasingly. I barely feel the slap of my sandals as the soles spring back to slap the bottoms of my feet. I barely feel the caress of the grass, as it whispers along my feet, kissing them with little water droplets. So drawn am I to this little piece of earth, unfettered by clinging roots, its deep brown complexion lain bold before me, unmasked by lush green grass.
	I stand on the brink of my shallow swamp, my feet, my legs, my fingers and toes, electric with anticipation. My sandals slowly sink a little into this border, I watch the water well up around the edges of my sandals. I can’t quite remember if  I ever cork sealed these things.
	I pull one sandaled foot up from this tiny mire, and again here a slight sucking sound, urgent, reminding me of what is to soon follow. I watch water pool into my footprint as I hold my foot over the mud, slowly letting the sandal slip free, dangling it from a toes, before releasing it, watching it slide to the mud with a slapping sound. 
	I slowly lower my pale toes, finally their pads touch the greasy, slick surface of the mud, I trace tiny grooves across the mud, the bottom of my toes a rich, dark , moist, chocolate brown, like Hershey kisses left in the sun.
	I lower my barefoot into the mud, the coolness kisses my heel, sliding around it. A let my foot sink slightly, the hungry mud seeps up between my toes, squeezing its way between them, separating them, pouring up and slightly over like a thick toothpaste. 
	The thick brown clay appears ready to swallow it. It slight embrace of the sole of my foot has sent ripples through my body. I wiggle my toes pressing them down again and hear the gentle sucking as the mud releases and then greedily welcomes them again. I slide my foot forward and the mud envelopes my toes. I watch deep brown, blot out my ivory toes with their blood red nails as the mud swallows them in a cool embrace. I wiggle my toes again watching the mud coated tips peek out from beneath the surface, before they happily plunge back in. \
	The mud is so soft and wet. surrounding my toes, sucking on them like a thousand mouths. The mud kisses my foot with its creamy lips.  
	Desperate with pleasure I kick my other sandal off and plunge my foot into the mud. It is deeper here and I watch my ivory foot is swallowed up into the thick embrace . I wiggle my foot back and forth feeling the mud slide over and under my foot. its soothing caress travels up my legs, awakening them, travelling further to spark a moist pleasure deep within me and under my sundress. The mud getting deeper under my writhing feet, it swallows me up past my ankles, holding them in a heavy warm embrace. Deeper it grows under my churnings, climbing to my shins. 
	I continue to pull my feet free and plunge them in again. They are heavy, the mud protests my leaving it, sucking and pulling at my feet. French kissing my toes, fanning them out, roiling between them. The sucking sounds, the seeping feeling is stirring me more and more.
	I watch the mud slide from my feet and legs. I hold a foot out and wriggle my toes, watching the mud squeeze out and fall from between them. I rub my foot on the back of my leg and look at it, the blood red toes poking through the remaining speckles of thick dark mud.
	The slurping of the mud excites me so. The velvet creaminess on my skin, enshrouding my feet and toes. 
	I continue to walk, and begin fingering myself the mud grows deeper, gulping at me, making it gloriously difficult to walk and pull myself from its embrace. But who would want to leave the grip of such a lover?
	I finger more, the heat between my legs contrasting the sweet coolness of the mud.
	I kneel down, the mud deliciously swallowing my legs. I sink to high on my thighs, and as the pleasure of the mud slowly climbs up my legs, I am pulled in deeper, my legs slide back plunging my feet through the mud under me.
	I explode in pleasure. I arch my back. I throw my legs forward, forcing them through the thick mud. I plunge my hands into the mud, clenching them into fists, habitually trying to find something to grip while I ride out this wave of electric pleasure. There is nothing to hold but the lovely clay, and as it squeezes through my hands I rock more and more, splashing cool, kissing mud all about me. The mud welcoming every bit of my bare flesh I offer to it, I shudder with its final kisses, pointing my toes, sending them plunging through the thick paste, feeling the slick solid bottom of my secret “swamp” slide across their soles.
	Finally, after all the quaking this good earth has caused me I sit on the side, pleasantly filthy, sliding my toes through the mud, soaking my weakened legs as I relish the explosion it caused me. I paint pictures on the surface of the mud with my toes as the glow it has given me slowly subsides with the morning mists.