I had never had a hands-free climax in the field. They took too much discipline, too much patience. And while I knew from experience that no release would be sweeter, I could already feel urgency clawing at me as the dampness crept into my sock. I flexed my foot and a terrific sound reverberated in my boot as the sodden cotton began to suck to the lining. I plunged my foot into soft abyss harder, my breath catching in my throat as a cascade of slurry poured into the Hunter from all directions like a brown, slow motion Niagara Falls. My hands were on my crotch and I knew that I would not last long. 

“Oh, my god—are you stuck?”  

I whirled around and traced the voice back its owner, a middle-aged woman with an unruly mop of dark hair in an oversized windbreaker who was craning from her place on the trail to glimpse my position under the bridge. I swore under my breath as I felt the mushroom cloud of pleasure that had been burgeoning within me begin to collapse into a formless fog. I steadied myself in the mud as I twisted to meet her concerned gaze between the fading leaves of the trees on the slope between us. 

“Uh, not really…” I fumbled, hating how strained and awkward my voice sounded as it reverberated under the concrete structure, but thankful it was steady.  “I’m fine, thanks.”  I gave a dismissive wave and turned away, hoping that eye contact was the only tether keeping her.  My left leg, no longer sexy in my flooded boot but just uncomfortable damp and sticky, heaved inside the Hunter as I attempted to prove that I was not in need of rescue. The rubber squawked and the ooze surrounding me quivered, but the ground would not relent, was not satisfied.  Neither was I, but I simply didn’t do audiences. 

“What’s going on?”  A second voice drifted my way. Annoyance became stained with embarrassment and even a hint of panic as I turned again to see that the woman had been joined by a man. Beefy, shaved head, black jacket that didn’t quite conceal the girth of his upper arms. While the woman pointed at me with one hand, she placed the other on his arm in a move that clearly told me this was the husband. Fabulous.

“I think that man is stuck.”

I rolled my eyes and looked heavenward at the overpass’s underbelly. “No, really.  Everything is fine. I’m an experienced hiker.” An experienced hiker?

The man crouched on the trail and peered at me through an opening in the brush. “You sure?”  The voice was rich. Manly. It made me feel like a pitiful child who had literally gotten in too deep.  “You look kind of like you could use a hand down there.”

“Honey, go and help him.” The mothering tone she employed only increased my irritating sense of vulnerability.  I strained my foot against the top of the boot, praying for a pocket of air to make its way down there and prove that I was not some wounded animal. 

“Please don’t trouble yourself,” I practically growled through my exertions as the man began to scramble down the slope.  

“No trouble, buddy!” he called over the crackling of leaves on the embankment as he made his descent. 

“Jerry’s a trained rescue worker,” the woman announced helpfully from her perch at the edge of the trail. “He knows what he’s doing.  Just stay there.”

I ran my hand over my eyes. This couldn’t be happening. It was akin to my mom wrapping on the bathroom door just as I was mid-orgasm in the shower.  “What is taking so long in there?  Other people are waiting!”  Her impatient bark had sliced through the bliss.  I remembered struggling to keep my voice from wobbling through the ruined climax. “I’ll be right out!”

As the man picked his way toward the edge of the bridge’s shadow and the expanse of mud that held me captive, I took stock of what he would see—one inch of my right Hunter still visible, frozen in place as though it shared in my horror at this predicament, the left Hunter completely obscured with clay solidly painting my jeans just to the knee crotch…and speaking of crotch, one suspicious dark patch of denim on my right inner thigh. I was just convincing myself that Jerry probably wouldn’t notice this detail in the murky light when he reached the place where the carpet of leaves stopped, and he surveyed the situation. 

“Okay, buddy,” he said as I could feel him assessing the water-filled divots where I had previously trod and my buried boots.  “As you heard Maggie say, I’m Jerry. What’s your name?”  

“Wow, you really are a trained professional, aren’t you?” I managed dryly. 

He chuckled. “Yeah. Force of habit.  Just makes things a little less tense, I guess.”  He tentatively pushed a toe against the mud, testing its give. They were tactical boots of some kind—a handsome mixture of black leather and mesh panels that stretched over his ankles.  The laces were tight drawn all the way up, zigzagging in orderly switchbacks to where his slim jeans bunched at the collars of the boots. 

“I’m Cole.”

Jerry looked up, the autumn light gleaming off his shaven scalp. “Hey there, Cole. Nice to meet you. Let me just get a lay of the land here…” his voice trailed off as he raked his eyes over me, lingering ever so briefly at my crotch where drooping wood still oozed. I froze, my cheeks blazing.  Could he see my pulse hammering at the side of my neck?  He stared at me for what felt like a week, then slowly turned and looked up at Maggie, who was now squatting down to take in the scene.  “Mags, can you go back to the car? Maybe find some towels and bring the med kit—just in case?  I don’t want to be unprepared when we free our friend, Cole here.”

Maggie’s looked disappointed. She brushed her messy hair from her eyes. “You sure?  It could take me a while.  It’s like ten minutes to the car.”  Her voice was one of protest, rather than concern. 

“This is not at all necessary,” I tried to interject, sounding a little whinier than I would have liked, but the man raised a hand to cut me off. 

“Trained professional, remember?” he said to me. His tone was light but held a warning note. He turned back to look at his sulking wife. “Go. We’ll be fine. And take your time. I don’t want you getting into trouble, too.”  

Maggie shrugged, her black mop disappearing from view as she stood and turned.  Jerry didn’t seem like a guy you argue with. He looked up at the empty trail following her departure for what seemed like an inordinate amount of time before finally turning back to me with a tight-lipped smile. “Guess we should see what we can do here.”  I expected him to remove his boots, maybe roll up his pants. I was mildly astonished when he simply began to move toward me, the tactical boots squelching into the shallow mud.  

I stood slack-jawed as he progressed toward me, both of us watching his boots disappear further into the muck with each perilous step. By the time he was a step or two from my position, the immaculate tacticals had nearly disappeared.  A renewed hardness raged between my legs, yet it was not accompanied by a surging humiliation as one might have expected. Perhaps it had something to do with the tenting bulge that had formed in Jerry’s jeans, which he seemed to be blithely ignoring along with the fact that he was surely about to become just as ensnared under the overpass as I already was. 

He paused in front of me—a pause that said he knew what his next step would bring. “You sure did find the spot, didn’t you?” he said lightly, as though I had found the perfect location to paint a landscape.  At that, he sunk his boots in front of me, the ooze burbling over the leather rims of his boots.  I think we both swallowed hard at the sight. 

“I can’t believe you just did that,” I murmured as dark stains gathered around the calves on his jeans. Jerry followed my gaze down to his legs for a moment before looking back at me and giving a dismissive wave. 

“It’s nothing more than lending a hand. People are what’s important.”  I stared at him, dumbfounded. Was this really supposed to be the act of a Good Samaritan? Did he think I couldn’t see his raging boner?  He shuffled wetly so that he had one half buried leg on either side of my stubbornly planted left Hunter. I nearly gasped at the tension of my imprisoned rod as it responded to the little bubbles snapping and popping around his legs, so close to mine. The “I Survived” episode on the mudslide I had seen so many years before bloomed in my mind as it played out before me in real time. 

Jerry remained poker-faced, betraying nothing even as the small circle of precum appeared just below the waistband of his jacket. “Can you move your boot at all?” he asked in a casual, businesslike tone as he squatted and grasped the mud-caked rim.  The moment he tugged on the immobile boot, he sank further into the mire himself. His crotch was now leveled at my left knee. “I need you to work with me here,” he said, looking up at me. 

I heaved my foot against the top of my boot once again as he yanked on the shaft. My knee jostled him, finding the rigid pole that held the tent in his jeans. He didn’t even so much as glance up. “Can you move your other boot?”  

“I think so,” came my rather breathless answer. I bent my right knee and strained against the ground, pain splitting my quad as a satisfying slurp announced my success. 

“Okay, good. Put your right foot behind you. It will give you more stability and leverage.”  I did as he instructed, sinking my right Hunter about a foot back.  Leaning back on my right leg brought my left to a bent, almost 90 degree angle.  “Perfect,” Jerry encouraged as he bent down to grasp the boot again. Now he was nearly sitting on my knee. “Here we go again.”

He began to rhythmically tug at the boot. I could feel the alternating tension and slack in the rubber under the mud.  I tried to lift my foot in sync with his movements. My knee began to smash into Jerry’s groin.  “Now we’re getting somewhere,” he narrated.  If he was talking about something other than our mission to free my boot, his face never betrayed it. We worked to the beat of an unheard drum for several more measures, my cock starting to cry out for its own release as my knee continued to tease his with increasing intensity. 

“Okay,” Jerry said breathlessly, his hand motioning for us to take a break. “Nearly there. I can feel it ready to break loose.  I want to change positions, though.”  He wiped the beads of sweat that had gathered on his forehead, panting lightly from the exertions. I was heaving, myself.  “You grab the boot.” I obediently bent and wrapped my fingers around the one or two inches of rubber we had unearthed. “I’m going to pull on your leg. But I’m going to have to brace against you.”  I nodded. He wrapped his right hand under my left thigh, then put the palm of his left against my bulge. A small giggle involuntarily burbled up as he pressed his strong palm against my hot, sticky cock. He looked up. “You okay?”  He looked serious. 

“Perfectly. Let’s do this.”

He gave a earnest nod. We resumed our efforts. But this time, each tug resonated through both of us.  Our movements became frantic, the sound of my wet sock vocalizing inside my boot with each quickening jerk. “I think we’re almost there,” he hissed. I couldn’t speak. I just nodded feverishly. Jerry was nearly up to his knees in goo, my leg pulsing against him as the palm of his hand drove into me.  Just as a loud suction sound signaled our triumph, he bent forward, shaking. “Oh, fuck!” he moaned at the ground. I could see spasms wrack his body. “We got it,” he said with a strained voice. I was nearly on the same page. Just seeing him succumb was nearly enough to thrust me under, too. 

I pulled my boot from the mud and held my foot aloft, wobbling for balance and teetering on the edge of an orgasm.  Jerry shook his head to rouse himself from his trance, then looked back up at me. “Hold on there a second,” he said, holding my thigh in his left hand.  “You don’t want to put your boot right back in there again. Just take a beat.”  As he held me, he stared right at me and ran his right thumb over my crotch in a quick series of measured strokes. We both teetered as I practically screamed, hot semen filling my underwear and soaking through to his hand. 

I could feel cooling trails of cum rolling down my right leg by the time I heaved a shuddering exhale at Jerry, who was smiling. “Great job, Cole,” he said weakly. “We did it.”  I nodded and slowly backed into shallower mud on watery legs, taking in his own cum-stained and very muddy jeans. 

“Thanks,” I chuckled.  “I probably wouldn’t have been able to resolve this quite so well without your expert help.”  He rested his hands on his knees and laughed, the hearty boom reverberating off the overpass.  “The next part is the real bitch,” I added, “—walking all the way back like this.”  I extended my left leg and let the silt drain from the top of the boot.  It splattered to the ground, it’s tinny echo sounding off the ceiling overhead.  

“No, mate,” Jerry said, still laughing and mopping tears from his eyes. “The real bitch,” he corrected, “is getting me out of here now.”