The tarpit

by Hairy Beard   

Home is a tarpit.

We walked down the trail in silence. My hands were trembling in anticipation, and Ken kept glancing at me, keeping the hormones flowing swiftly. It was only about a hundred yards until I could faintly see the Gulf through the trees. We approached a second bog that was like the first but with no reeds around the edge and about twice as large.

Along the edge there was an empty Coke bottle and tiny footprints which ventured only about two feet into the morass. Ken growled at seeing this example of mankind’s laziness and lack of respect for environment, especially this environment, being as it was a national park, something to protect and be thankful for in this, the latter days of the industrial 20th century. “Assholes…” he said, as he stepped one foot into the edge, and picked up the bottle.

“Fucking lazy and unthinking pricks… man, sure does bother me to see that litter in what is supposed to be a pristine natural reserve,” I declared indignantly.

“Yeah!” he agreed, as he wound up and hurled the bottle about 35 feet into the air over the mud pit, gaining speed on its way down, and landing with a distinct “thud” smack-dab in the middle of the flat.

“What the….why’d ya do that???…” I asked, surprised.

“Now go get it, nature boy!….and don’t disappoint me. I want that bottle and you’re going to be the one to get it for me… got it?”

My dick grew even harder with this sudden commanding tone that came out of him. He’s got his ideas, all right, and I’d play right along, no problems.

The edge of the mud flat was much like the other mud, super soft and slick, but just slightly oilier. However, it rapidly dropped off to almost knee deep. It offered little resistance, and really didn’t even provide much suction, only slightly more than the other pool.

“Well, this isn’t so bad…” I grumbled.

“Shut up and get me the bottle…” Ken barked back at me.

Each step carried me closer to the bottle, but the mud didn’t get deeper. The bottom was firm, supporting my weight for a second or two and then slowly starting to give way. If I kept walking, even that wouldn’t pose a problem. If it weren’t for the massive buildup, I would have suspected that he was just joking.

I continued, while Ken kept his eyes locked on me. The mud did get deeper toward the center, but barely to my knees. Here the bottom felt like it had a rubbery skin… it was like walking on a mattress. When I got to the bottle I stopped and picked it up. I could feel my feet sink slightly into the thick goo below, the mud rising slowly above my knees.

“Hey!” he shouted.

I paused. he seemed ready to say something but hesitated. I felt my feet sinking a bit deeper and shifted my weight.

“I guess it’s not so much of a problem!” he shouted.

The cool mud was creeping to my thighs. “The top’s about the same as the others just a little oilier. The bottom feels different though… it’s kinda rubbery, and… what the—?!”

As I pulled up on my right foot, the goo at the bottom held it fast, forcing my other foot down. The additional weight on my left foot caused it to break through the thick, gooey top layer and my left leg was swallowed to my upper thigh. Shifting my weight to keep my balance, the other foot broke through, and oozed slowly but surely down. I tried wiggling my toes, but the bottom goo was as sticky and thick as cooked molasses. I concentrated on extracting one foot.

“Having a little trouble now?” Ken quipped, a smug grin on his face.

“Just a minor delay…” I lied. I had been in sticky clay bogs before, and slow patient progress one leg at a time was all it took to get out. But this was very different. As I pulled on my one leg, the goo at the bottom clung like glue. It was so thick that I could barely get one leg out of the mess and back into the normal mud above it. This was not like any other mud I’d seen! I stepped forward, working the free leg back through the mud. I set it down on the more solid surface 2 to 3 feet closer to shore, but as soon as I pulled on my other foot, the added weight caused it to break through and slowly sink in the thick mire. I pulled and the other leg came out, but only at the expense of my other leg going in about an inch farther. I managed to do these 3 or 4 times, getting me a few feet closer to shore, but the process had worked me in deeper and churned up the surrounding mud. An oily smell arose, and I felt the mud around me getting gooier.

“Looks like you’re having a lot of trouble…”

I was in up to my waist. The ‘mud’ was now getting an oil-slick shine on the surface, and the smell of petroleum became stronger. “What is this stuff?” I asked incredulously.

“Forgot to show you the warning sign over here…” he said, walking to the other side of the pool. There, along the front of the trail was a sign facing away from me. He turned it around and I read the big bold letters.

TAR PIT
DANGER, KEEP BACK

Ken calmly explained: “An oil company had to buy this property after a big, nasty oil spill around 15 years ago. After a storm, this slit washed over it and they thought they could cover the whole thing up, but eventually the government found out. The clean-up was complete, but a few of undiscovered tar pits boil to the surface every so often. They’re safe unless some fool breaks through the subsurface, and if that happens, they’re stuck for good and at the mercy of whoever may have led them into it!” He smiled maliciously.

As the cool upper mud crept past my mid-rift, I felt the sticky tar bonding to my skin. The raw crude tar held my legs tight: any struggles at this point only resulted in my sinking deeper. However, if I didn’t try to get out, I’d continue my slow decent. I felt the oily grip reach my thighs and the surrounding tar-mud clung to my arms as I tried to push myself out.

The thick crude almost was up to my armpits. As I tried to move my legs I could barely budge. My arms were in all the way, and as I tried to pull them out, the sticky trap held them in, forcing me down even deeper.

“Looks like you’re set in there good….and you’re going to stay there. Right now, I have to go up to the office… take this time to evaluate your situation, and your options… as my prisoner!

The second wave of panic hit me. This stuff wasn’t coming off me!

He started walking back up the path but stopped. He looked back at my spattered head, now the only part bobbing above the pit. He shook his head and walked over to a nearby tree. Picking up a coil of rope, he tied one end to the tree.

“Just so you don’t drown yourself, you can have this to keep your head up and out of the tar,” he said, as he tossed the slack toward me. The rope uncoiled across the surface, sticking to the mud as it touched down. The end of the rope splattered into the oily slop around my face. I blinked, and opened my spattered eyes to see Ken wave as he strode up the trail.

Then, with a snicker, he disappeared around the bend.

I slowly started working my hands up to the surface. He really had me in a predicament, but I realized that I had gotten myself into it. It was like a very effective bondage trap: if I moved my hands up too fast, the weight and suction of the tar pushed me in deeper, and I was already up to my chin… not much room to work with.

After about five minutes, my tar-caked hands finally reached the surface and grasped the rope. Pulling with all my might, the rope sunk into the mud from the base of the tree where he had tied it all the way to shore. I wouldn’t be able to pull myself up and out of the goo, I’d have to pull myself through it. Another little twist… I started to gain a new appreciation for his deviousness.

The thick, sticky tar proved to be the greatest workout ever devised. After a half hour of hard work, I managed to get about halfway out of my little tar-pit. My legs were still firmly engulfed and not able to move or help. The going was slow and every time I stopped, exhausted, gravity resumed the slow trip down into the tar-trap.

It was getting late, probably now to 5:00 p.m., when I knew the park closed.

After another 15 minutes I finally my legs slid out of the pit, and I slowly dragged my body, now three times my weight, through the mud. Swimming and pulling, I made my way to shore and collapsed exhausted on the firm ground.

After laying there a few minutes, gasping, I tried to scrape off the goo. The thick tar lived up to its tar and feather reputation, and I realized that I’d have to carry the 2-to-3-inch-thick coating up to the office, where the turpentine would hopefully get it off. Sex was not even in my mind anymore as I realized that it would take weeks for the black full-body tattoo to come off.

I stomped back up the trail to the pool where we began. I consigned my clothes to the trash can and picked them up with my black, molten hand… I wasn’t going to be able to put them on until massive cleaning up had taken place.

“Ha, ha, Ken,” I thought grimly. I contemplated what I’d do to his as I made my way up to the office. Surely, he’d get in trouble for this… I could have drowned! And just leaving the rope… what kind of Ranger would do that?

Then a sickening feeling came over me as I felt the empty pockets of my shorts. I hurried the final few steps up the trail and my worst fears were confirmed: the parking lot was empty! Next to the office I saw an empty tin turpentine can. As I slogged up to the door, I saw a crumpled note beside the tar-covered Coke bottle on the ground:

”Thanks for the jeep and the extra cash. By now I’m long gone, and you’re covered in tar. Now look at the options in front of you. Either go out to the main road looking like you do and having to explain yourself and how you ended up this way, or you can simply go back into the tar pit, where you can jack off and enjoy yourself, as the true mud pig that you are.

”There’s a chain and two locks on the ground as you can see. And a cooler full of food and drink for a couple of days. One end of the chain goes around your neck, the other around the trunk of the nearest tree (don’t worry about length, though), and the gauge as you can see. It will take you a trip just to carry that there. Once you’ve recovered from that workout, come back and get the cooler.

”I’ll be back sometime, and if I find you there, you and I will both know you’ve found your new home. You will be owned by me and never see civilization again. Your only hint of time passing will be the length of your ever-growing beard (don’t expect to find shaving cream and a razor in your supply cooler—ever).

”‘Ranger for a day’ Ken”

I had to admit, the choice did seem obvious. With a hardening dick, I picked up the chain and locks with a groan—it was at least 40 pounds of chain—and, as recommended, came back for the cooler once I’d caught my breath and my aching muscles stopped shaking.

Knowing I would never see civilization again, I put one end of the chain around my neck and locked it with one of two heavy locks. The other end I locked around a tree trunk so thick a hurricane couldn’t move it.

I walked back into the pit, sinking faster than before as I carried the extra chain in my arms. I sank just up to my chin, which was raised to keep breathing. Well, sometimes I relaxed and just breathed through my nose.

From that point on I existed as a creature in my tarpit home and was thankful for the short moments he returned to laugh at me. I think that must have been years ago. I don’t have any other thoughts other than him, how I belong here, and how much I look forward to my beard continuing to grow beyond the 2 feet it must be now—hard to tell as it’s encased in tar...

This story is based on a M/F story by another author from ca. 1995, which now cannot be surfaced. If anyone can locate this story, please note it in the comments below.

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