In the mud!

[swimwear4wetting]

The parcours was pure chaos. Mud, screams, obstacles — everything loud, wet, alive. I wore my old tight jeans, soaked on the first slide: heavy, muddy, hot. Underneath, as always: my dark blue swim trunks. Tight. Sporty. Ready. On my feet: striped rubber boots, now just caked in sludge. From the start, it was clear — this would be a full-body emergency. Toilets only at the beginning and end. I drank too much at every station — water, isotonic, cola — and my body spoke up. Loud. Urgent.

Third obstacle: a muddy hill. I slid down on my denim ass, mud slapping, splashing, sucking. And right there, I let go. I peed my swimwear. On purpose. The fabric vibrated, soaked, came alive. Warm. Dirty. Real. I rubbed myself in the mud — wild, rhythmic, greedy. My body was a stream, a pressure, a quake. I moaned. I came. Silent, but intense. The trunks celebrated me. The jeans were done. I was in. Deep. Honest.

The course went on: through a creek, a mud pit, over a wall, under a net. The jeans took it all — torn at the thigh, filthy in the back, clinging like a second skin. And underneath? More piss. I let it flow with every jump, every landing, every laugh. The swimwear was a sponge for everything I gave. A friend. A home. Then it hit: a rumble, a pull, a pressure from behind. “Oh god, what did I eat?” I thought — and I shat myself. A big, almost liquid load — soft, warm, insanely good. The speedo took it all, spread it under the jeans, and I felt it everywhere. I paused, touched the fabric, felt the warmth, the fullness, the truth. That was real passion. Three obstacles later, most of it had vanished. After a short break — iso drink, banana, a few nuts — I kept going.

The jeans were a masterpiece of filth. The boots heavy and proud. I had crawled through mud, slid through water, flown over barriers — and let go. Not just physically. Emotionally. I felt alive. Right. Spoiled. The fabric wasn’t just wet — it was fulfilled. And then, at the final obstacle, came the second fabric moment. I climbed a slippery wall, slipped, landed on my back — and felt it. The trunks were still warm, still soft, still ready. I pressed against the ground, against the fabric, against myself. And then I let go. Not much. Not loud. But enough. A small gush. A twitch. A moment. I came in my swimwear. Quietly. Honestly. The fabric took it in like it was made for it. And it was. I was proud of my body, proud of my feeling. Sixteenth place was my result—not glorious, but joyful. Next year I’ll be back. No doubt about it. And maybe I’ll wear this dark blue speedos once more —tight, athletic, discreet, and reliable. Cause I know: When something starts rumbling in my belly again and something announces itself in the back, I can simply push it all in my swimwear. They are ready for everything.