Mr. Trample Fantasy
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My Halloween Birthday Gift
🕑 Added 2022-10-29 22:13:33 +0000 UTCWe had a great marriage. That’s something I have to say first. Outside foot action from other ladies? Hell, no. I love my wife and would never ever do anything to make her feel insecure about my love, devotion, and adoration for her. She knows that, for me, the sun rises and sets with her. To me her feet are the most beautiful appendages ever to tread this lucky earth. But it was her idea. You need to know that, too. And my privates? Well, they’re still healing. But man-oh-man-oh-man, was it worth it!
See, my birthday was approaching. As was Halloween. Looking back, I can see how everything sort of just happened. Choices made along the way made it ripe for occurring.
My wife, and I must say this, is stunning to the eye! She’s naturally athletic, average height, around 140 lbs-- most of it muscle, and she keeps a tan year-round. She’s stacked very nicely up top with a slender waist, legs to die for, feet that are wide and athletic but still quite feminine with long toes with longish toenails. Her feet look average-sized in a pair of heels, but up close and bare, those soles are huuuge-- size 9’s. When you’re licking them clean after a night of some barefoot-out-on-the-town action, those soft, perfect soles seem to stretch on forever. And my wife’s got a smile that lights up any room. Add to that her chic hair-style, sex kitten voice, and a bubbly personality and keen intellect, and men-- and women-- fall at her feet wherever we go. And it’s been like that since the day I met her. I love it! We’ll be in a bar and-- I kid you not-- most of the men will do double-takes looking at her, a dozen or so will get caught (by her, me, or the guy’s lady) gazing hungrily at her feet (she always wears those open-toed shoes), and at least 3 or 4 will try to pick her up… with ME sitting right there at the table, haha!! She’s just that attractive. Okay, so anyway, that’s my wife.
Now, being the social creature that she is, my wife has a fun group of lady friends. A diverse bunch, all of them are probably in their late 40’s to late 50’s. They’re all hard-working, vivacious, attractive women, and a little vain. I say ‘vain’ because each of them always has her hair just so and they all keep year-round tans. And they’re all big into wearing lots of jewelry. A few, I’ve noticed, even wear toe rings and anklets (as does my wife).
Anyway, several of them come over for drinks at least once or twice a week. And being something of a recluse, I’ve slowly gotten used to it. I’ll come home from work some evenings to find a half dozen of them lounging around the living room-- or out on the patio-- in their professional, work-all-day business attire, shoes kicked off, barelegged (none wear pantyhose, I’ve noticed), with their glasses of wine, swapping stories and laughing a lot. And, being the good little husband that I am, I fetch the wine and refill a few glasses before retreating to my upstairs hideaway while they continue to enjoy themselves. I’m always careful to avoid glancing too eagerly at their feet. None of these women are as beautiful as my wife, but they all have what I’d call attractive feet. Well-kept, smooth, larger-than-most feet, with dark or varied shades of red toenail polish. Good arches. A couple of them have restless feet like my wife, and they frequently have their feet up on the coffee table edge, or the arm of another’s chair, wiggling their toes, flexing their feet, and no one else seems to notice. Except me, of course, and that’s a place I don’t let myself go. Nope, my wife’s tanned, sexy feet and her long, flexible toes with their hard, long, erotic, dark-polished nails are way more than enough to keep this guy happy and satisfied. You think I’m kidding? I’m not. This woman has turned me into a hardcore addict, and my drug is her feet, and she gives me my ‘fixes’ of them daily. Really, I’m quite content, thanks. Which makes what followed a bit… unexpected, if not downright unbelievable
Now, this thing about which I’m going to tell you occurred around this time last year. But, I really need to set this up for you so you can appreciate it.
It was the 2nd week of October of last year. I came home one evening to find my wife and her friends all lounging about, unwinding with their wine. As I was refilling their glasses (and trying gamely to keep from checking out their bare feet) I heard one of them talking about a ‘Haunted House’ her grandson was participating in this year. For some church group.
One of the women, Sheila (5’10”-ish, blonde, thick southern accent, brown eyes, with-- I’m guessing-- size 10 or 11 feet with toes nearly as long as my fingers, maybe 150 lbs) said “Hey, you know what we should do, we should all get together and go to a Haunted House! I’ve not been to one in years.”
Another one popped up with “Oh, please! I stopped going to those when I was a teenager! They’re just so damned cheesy. It got to the point where my friends and I would just laugh all the way through. ‘Omigod! Look, it’s another headless guy covered in fake blood!’ Hahaha! Now, if someone could come up with a Haunted House that really SCARED me, I’d go in a heartbeat!”
My wife, at this point, asked me if I knew of any good ones in the area, and I told her no. Then she said “By the way, when Bill” (that’s me) “was a kid he wanted to grow up and design haunted houses.” Which drew laughter from everyone, including me.
“Yeah, yeah,” I shot back, “thanks Lisa. And weren’t you going to grow up to marry Shawn Cassidy” (an American male heart-throb eons ago) “and have 80 or so children? Well, you see how well that worked out.” More laughter.
Another of the ladies, Danielle (about 5’6”, black hair, petite, maybe 115 lbs, very wide feet with thick, tan toes-- her feet maybe size 8 or so, Italian and proud of it) said something that, in retrospect, sealed my doom. It was a challenge. An uncomfortable one. She said “Okay, Bill, tell ya what. Why don’t you come up with a mini-haunted house thing for us?” More laughter. “And IF we think it’s good, we’ll…” (looking here at the other lady’s for ideas and support?)” …we’ll all pitch in and… oh, I dunno--”
“Send us to Vegas for Christmas?” my wife cried out. More laughter. My wife was egging the others to jump onboard. At which point I wanted to bolt from the house and not come back for a looooong, long time.
Why? See, Lisa, my dear sweet loving wife, KNEW that the only-- and I mean the ONLY reason I wanted to grow up and design haunted houses was so I could work in them, where it’s dark, and where sexy women stumbling through them could not see my fingers, food or anything else I put in their path for them to step on and crush. That’s the only reason I’d wanna work in a haunted house. As a kid I remember reading a story in one of my oldest brother’s kinkier pornographic magazines where this one crazy foot guy working in a haunted house laid between two carpet rolls while a group of women stepped all over his body, stood and stomped on his face, and pretty much did him in… thinking they were abusing a Halloween prop underfoot. I wanted that to be me!!
But hey, these days I’m legit, these days I’m monogamous, and Lisa’s feet are the only feet for me. (If you ever saw them or had them on your face you’d understand.) So, it would it be no fun at all for me to design and put on a haunted house for these ladies. It wouldn’t be rewarding at all. Because there’d be no pay-off. None! I was about to jump in and tell the ladies thank you but no thank you, when Sheila and my wife sealed the deal. Sheila guaranteed Lisa a trip for two to Vegas for Christmas IF I could give them a scary, mini-Halloween house experience.
I laughed at the prospect, yeah, yeah, right, and retreated to my study. God, this totally sucked! It’s not that I didn’t have some great ideas, but for my wife to ask me, a hardcore foot/crush/trample fetishist to design a mini-haunted house for her good-looking friends that involved NO foot thrills at all--?!… That’s just wrong. But then again… Lisa had been hinting strongly about a trip to Vegas for months, but financially we just couldn’t swing it at the time. Maybe I just needed to suck it up, put on the haunted house for my wife’s friends, and be a good boy and NOT have them crush or step on anything… just so my wife could have her wish and spend Christmas in Vegas.
Sitting in my study, the doors shut, mulling all this over in my mind, I pulled up some of my wife’s video clips on my computer. My wife’s big, beautiful, tanned feet, with those long sexy toenails, stepping around on my face barefoot and in flip flops, mashing my features like a rubber mask, oblivious to my discomfort…. Lisa, blindfolded, stepping all over my cock and balls in her cruel red high heels as I trembled beneath the cock block I’d built her…. Every time her heel spike landed in the soft, fleshy tissue of my manroot, planted, mashed down, and then stepped away leaving a little crescent heel mark in my flesh and sometimes a red droplet of blood, my heart caught in my throat…. My wife in wedges at the Memorial Day concession booth, laughing with customers and (unseen by them) mashing to unrecognizable pulp all those hotdogs I’d ‘accidentally dropped’ on the floor behind the counter where she was working.
So there I am in the privacy of my study, watching all this sizzling foot action on my computer screen, ready to cream my shorts looking at all this incredible footage my wife had let me film. Lisa, on film (and in person) is completely mesmerizing to the eye, and she had me in a full-bore state of arousal. So I nearly leaped out of my skin and knocked over a desk lamp when the study door was loudly yanked open and Lisa bounded into the room. She knew I watched her in here, but with everything that was going through my mind, I felt like I was 13 year-old caught by the nun with the lit cigarette still in my hand. Before I could reach the computer’s mouse to minimize my all-powerful audio-visual drug, Lisa had crossed the room, straddled my lap, stuck her (very talented) tongue down my throat, and was playfully spinning us in the chair. When she came up for air she commented on the feel of that tent stake in my pants, quickly clued in as to why, and glanced at my computer screen just as the sexiest feet in the universe (hers, in yellow flip flops) leaped high in the air and landed full weight, feet together, on my naked trembling penis, mashing it flat on the cock block, and forcing a little bit of red ‘life essence’ out the tip. (She loved our ‘block parties,’ as she called them. She got to get out her aggressions toward her coworkers by marching, stomping, and jumping around blind-folded on my ‘flesh sacrifices to her beauty’ while at the same time making my fantasies come true.)
She giggled and said “I should have known.” Then she grew serious. “Listen, Baby, the reason I pushed so hard for that silly haunted house thing isn’t because of the Vegas trip. No, that’s not it at all.” She paused, looked at me, bit her lip, and then shot me a sheepish smile before saying “Well, okay, yes, you KNOW I’ve been dying to go to Vegas. But… and I know you might not understand this… but… your birthday’s coming up. And you’ve been so loyal to me. And I know sometimes it’s hard.”
“Like when I come home to find your girlfriends all sitting around barefoot.” I kidded.
“But you never look.” Then she burst out laughing, “Well, actually you, do, but no longer than for a couple of seconds.”
I was too embarrassed to speak.
“And I’m proud of you for that, Baby.” She grew serious again. “The reason I pushed for the haunted house thing wasn’t because of Vegas. It was because of you.”
“Me?” I was dumbfounded. “Sweetie, you KNOW the reason I always wanted to design those damned things was because--“
“Yes, I know,” she jumped in, covering my lips with her very pretty fingers. They felt so soft I found myself gently kissing them. She let me. “As I was saying, the haunted house is for you. It’s a birthday present from me to you. I may never do this again,” she paused, laughed, rolled her eyes and sighed dramatically. “I may never do this again, but… Baby, design the thing however you wish. And I mean HOWEVER you wish.”
I just stared at her dumbly. I was completely in the dark about her meaning.
She didn’t let me wait like that for long. “I’m telling you, Sweet, that if you want to… you know… get a few things stepped on, I don’t mind. In fact, I expect you to.”
What the f-ck?!! Was this my (jealous) wife speaking?!! I pinched myself, which set her to laughing.
“No, you’re not imagining this, Billyboo.” (One of her pet name’s for me.) “I’m telling you to design a mini-haunted house-- it doesn’t have to be extravagant, it doesn’t have to be involved and complicated, but I want, I expect, I DEMAND--“ Here she leveled at me her most stern, but tongue-in-cheek glare-- “you get something crushed, and that you film it! It’s my early, once-in-a-lifetime birthday gift to you. And if don’t get something crushed, bruised, and/or bleeding, I will tell the girls about your fetish and we will have a ‘Stomp Billy Flat’ night!”
I was mortified. Turned on, but mortified. She’d actually tell my weird little secret to her friends? They would surely laugh at me. And then they’d tell someone who’d tell someone who’d--… It’d be all over town by nightfall. To Lisa and I, my foot fetish was OUR little enjoyment. (Okay, our BIG enjoyment.) Something special and private, something just between her and I.
“Damnation, woman. …You’d DO that?”
“Yes,” she smiled, in a way that told me she would.
“Well, then… okay. They shall have their little haunted house.”
Lisa giggled, stood up, lifted her short skirt so I could see she wasn’t wearing panties (but quite honestly, she rarely does), and then sat her hot (sexy, creamy-smoothed, tan and perfect) derriere on my knees. She then pulled up her legs-- God, I love it when she does this!! She’s so bendy!- and planted her bare heels on my chest as I leaned back a little in my chair. She grabbed the desk chair’s arms for balance, and then placed her silky soft toe pads against my lips and moved them from side to side, brushing them across my tingling lips, gently raking my nostrils with her long, black-polished, sharp and tough toenails, sending me deep into a silent spell. By the way, this is nothing new. She does this sometimes when she wants to talk about something serious, or just needs a sounding board, and doesn’t want me interrupting. Some of the best planning she’s ever done has been while sitting in this position with me in a toes-induced trance.
“Okay,” she began. “Let’s think this through.” (I’m writing this for you right now and I THINK I’m getting it right, but when a beautiful woman is doing such things to your face with her toes, not all her words get past your ears if you know what I’m saying. When you’re looking past the tops of her wide, tanned, veined feet, to her delicate ankles and creamy, shapely legs up into that beautiful smiling face, one’s comprehension suffers greatly.) “All right. Now your haunted house can’t be totally dark, otherwise you couldn’t film it very well, could you? No, of course not….we’ll do it with lights on… and blindfolds. Yes, we’ll have them wear blindfolds…. And shoes…. Now, you really like to be crushed, and while I know how you love flip flops, you don’t want to get arouse their suspicions. I mean, they feel something too strangle underfoot they might rip off their blindfolded and --gasp!-- you’re busted.” She laughed and gave my mouth a playful stomp. “So, rather than have them get suspicious of what they’re stepping on…. I’m thinking the ladies need to wear shoes that don’t have flexible soles. High heels, wedges-- all open-toed, of course.” She giggled and looked into my eyes, enjoying the power she held over me with her tootsies and her words. I think I may’ve grunted my assent, I’m not sure. Her toes, so long, her toe pads so soft, the very fact that this strikingly beautiful woman was actually sitting on my (MY!) lap stroking my nostrils and lips with her ‘killer sexy’ toes was more than I’d ever hoped to experience in this life. I was in lah-lah land.
The next day I could barely concentrate at work. I couldn’t get my mind off six or seven beautiful, powerful, intelligent, ‘mature’ women, being led by my sexy-footed wife, stepping all over some yet-to-be-decided body part(s). It was too great a thing to wrap my mind around. Between client calls and meetings I was able to plan a few things. I would need building materials for my haunted house, and I would fund it all with the few hundred dollars I’d been squirreling away for that trip to Vegas that Lisa and I would now be getting for FREE-- IF I was successful. IF I could scare the ladies. And have some unforgettable crush fun in the process. Okay, think, think, think. I’d need some wooden planking, 2X4 boards, etc. I’d need some more very high quality audio speakers, some chain from which to hang them (for unexpected scary sounds coming from unexpected angles). And cameras! By close of business that first day I’d phoned around to friends and colleagues and had located nearly all the cameras and speakers. Now I just needed to make some purchases.
A couple of days later, just as I was wrapping things up for the day, getting ready to lock up and leave, I heard the familiar notification sound of my computer, telling me I had a new email. It was a forward from Lisa. Apparently the ladies had been emailing back and forth with my wife for a couple of days (Lisa had said nothing about this). She had just forwarded me their long email conversation up to this point. And it was looong! My mouth went dry as I read where my wife was telling them that things were coming along nicely with the haunted house, and that to celebrate its success (oooh, the pressure I was feeling to pull this thing off well!) they should all go out afterwards for drinks at one of the more upscale nightspots in town. And that they should all come to the haunted house all dolled up, in skirts or dresses, high heels, wedges, or ‘whatever looks dressy.’ My imagination went nuts! High heels? Wedges? And which body part(s) of mine would those ladies destroy underfoot? My face? My hands and fingers? My cock? All of the above? The ladies then set to discussing by email which dresses they’d be wearing-- the designer, the color, the cut of it, and which shoes-- describing them to my wife. Raina (around 5’7”, 125 lbs, the most quiet of the bunch, serious, of Native American descent, with long black shiny hair, dark eyes, dark skin, perfect teeth, a gym-shaped physique, wide, long, perfectly-proportioned feet with unusually high arches, full round heels, and thick long toes-- I’d rank her feet second only in beauty to my wife’s) described a pair of black high heels with thin 4-inch heel spikes, and thong-type straps, plus a skinny heel strap to hold them on. She even threw in a lengthy narrative about how the last time she wore them out in public she’d stepped on some loudmouthed redneck’s toes when he refused to take ‘no’ for an answer. She said the guy’s mouth shot open in shock and pain and she could see tears forming in his eyes and she brutally ground her heel into his foot. She said it made her ‘wet.’ That same evening, a little later, a very ‘hott!’ young man, a bit drunk, spilled some of his drink on her foot. (Her legs were crossed.) She sternly commanded him to, quote, “lick it off! And he did!! LOL!!” --I know, I know, it sounds pretty far-fetched, but Raina assumed this email was for her friends’ eyes only and she never thought a male would be reading it. And she may’ve just been bullshitting them, trying to make herself look empowered and strong, but hey-- it had me squirming in my desk chair! There were some other descriptions of the ladies shoes but that one was the hottest. I thought you’d enjoy hearing about that one. Needless to say, it took me a few minutes before I could lock up and leave, as I was being a little ‘anatomically obvious,’ if ya know what I’m saying.
Fast-forwarding here, it took up nearly every evening and most of my weekends, but… I finally had everything just right. It was two nights before the ladies were to come over and have the fright of their life when I finally finished plugging in the last audio wire out in the garage. We have a big one, a 2-car, with lots of extra room off to the side. And I’d totally cleared it out, moved everything into the spare bedroom or outside behind the house.
But just to get a second opinion, I brought Lisa in and took her through it, every step of the way. It took about 25 minutes from start to finish. I led her through, without a blindfold (which, to be clear, her lady friends would be wearing), explaining things as I went. I had the scary sounds turned down half volume so she could hear me, and I pointed out places where my body parts would be crushed. When I finished she just stared at me. I couldn’t tell whether she was pissed off, shocked, or in awe of my obviously brilliant and imaginative mind. A slow smile crept onto her face.
“You, my Billyboo, are completely insane.” She gave a short bark of laughter. “I hope you live through this. And that Big Jim and the twins survive. I’d miss them, ya know.” She paused. I tried to think of something witty to say. But she quickly asked “Now, just so I’ve got this right, the lights will all be on, there’ll be special lamps lighting the areas you’re filming, and the ladies will all be blindfolded --except me, right?”
I nodded confirmation. Then she turned on her heel and disappeared into the hallway leading out of the garage.
On the day of my doom, I left home at lunchtime, sick. Okay, so I wasn’t really sick, just so damned nervous and excited I the attention span of a gnat. In fact, my boss threatened to fire me if I didn’t leave. (I’m pretty sure he was only kidding.) I drove straight home, sweating profusely with my car’s air-conditioning cranked on high the entire way there. I kept thinking that Lisa was right, I AM insane. At the house I got out of my suit and into some shorts and a tee, and headed for the garage, my soon-to-be Chamber of Horrors. I left the hallway door open so the a/c would cool the garage. I hung up several greasy bratwurst sausage links along the wooden plank walk the ladies would walk along first. (Can you imagine walking into a hanging row of those, blindfolded, not knowing what the hell they were!) I finished off that section with extra long spaghetti noodles. (No sauce-- didn’t want to mess up their hair or clothing.) It might not scare them to death, but it sure as hell would gross them out.
The wooden planking led around the room, up and down stairs, a safety rail on either side. (Even though through it all they’d be holding onto the shoulders of the lady in front of them, my non-blindfolded wife leading the single-file line, I wanted first and foremost to guard their safety. Especially on the stairs.)
The next section led down into a 2’X2’ shallow wooden tray of sandwich-baggied peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. I had borrowed exactly one dozen video cameras and tripods from various friends and coworkers. I had two of the cameras, aimed from different angles, one at floor level, one about knee level with a wider shot, all ready to film. Yup, I’d be looking at edited 2-angle video footage of this food crush action while eating PBJ’s for the next two weeks! (Watching on my laptop, in a deserted conference room at work, every day at lunchtime until all the sandwiches were savored and eaten.) I’d have high-pitched nasty-sounding monster noises coming from speakers close to the floor, beside the tray, to mask the sounds of crinkling sandwich baggies being stepped on. (Because crinkling sandwich bags, to me at least, don’t sound all that scary.)
After crushing their way through the sandwiches, the ladies would walk up two steps to a long walkway covered-- and I mean COVERED with rubber toy snakes and frogs. I’d crazy-glued them down to the planking. And I had 3 speakers suspended along either side of the walkway, floor level, playing sounds of about 50 frogs and 100 snakes, croaking, hissing, slithering, rattling, along with the sounds of swamp. (I had a friend who worked at a recording studio and I bribed him with promised trinkets from Vegas.) I also had a friend in theatre who’d gotten hold of a Cold-Blo machine that would shoot a two-foot stream of cold wind. That would blow along the floor, adding an icky, reptilian feel, I hoped. When my wife experienced this stretch during her walk-thru, with the lights on full, no blindfold, sounds playing only at half-volume, she dance-leaped across it very fast. She said her eyes told her it was all ‘fake,’ her other senses made it terrifyingly real. Oh-- but the best part-- midway along this plank there was dinner plate-sized clearing with a ¾” hole drilled in the flooring. This was where my cock and balls would receive possibly life-threatening (for them, at least) crushing abuse. I had three video cameras trained on this area. One camera to shoot from the ‘balls’ side of the walkway-- trained on the lads, one shooting from waist-high about 4 feet away-- filming the ladies knees down and including my cock, and one from shin-level-- and slightly to the side, catching the women (toes to camera) as they stepped, stomped, and danced across my naked, helpless, terrified privates.
Past that stretch, the ladies would walk across a 7-foot suspended bridge, with river sounds-- laced with hungry alligator cries playing on the speakers beneath it.
Turning a corner, the ladies would walk back up some steps, which led to a higher plane. Midway up those 10 steps, on step #5, is where my ten, nervous fingers would be splayed out flat and helpless (palms down) against the flattening, heel-spiking, and full-weight mutilation of half a dozen out-for-a-thrill ladies. (Their crossing the suspended bridge would buy me enough time to slide out-- if I still had the strength-- from beneath the walkway, slide on some shorts, and hurry over to the stairs and get my hands in place.) I had two cameras here, too. One camera would be shooting from the side, in profile across the step, and the other one would be slightly to the side, filming from inside the stairway outward, so their crushing feet would have their toes facing me and the camera lens. I had a stand-alone speaker here with a foot-control pause/play cd player attached, and it would play some of the most unearthly screams you’ve ever heard. So if, say, one of the high-heeled ladies nailed my hand on the knuckle where my fingers attached to my hand, and the pain was so great I couldn’t keep quiet, I could trigger the cd player with my foot so the pre-recorded ‘unearthly scream’ would cover the sound of my own girlish shrieking.
At the top of the stairs, there was a long walkway with speakers hung chest level for my ‘fright victims.’ Now, you realize I’m really wanting to scare them. I mean for real. The more terrified the ladies will be, the better our chance of them awarding Lisa and I that golden Christmas trip to Vegas. So I was going to pull out the big guns. My friend at the radio station got hold of some very realistic gun sounds. I swear, with the high quality speakers I had, plus the smells of the gunpowder tray I’d light up on the ground beneath the plank (safely engineered by another friend who blows up buildings for a living around the state), blindfolded, you’d think you were walking through a live firearms battle. I fully expected some of them to wet themselves. (Hey, I had my pride and a trip to Vegas on the line, ya know.)
Coming down off the walkway, the ladies would file into a wood-railed ‘holding pen,’ which was back behind a tall black curtain near the entry door leading back into the house. (I’ll explain this more in detail later.) This would be the ‘big finish.’ If the shooting gallery didn’t finish them, this would.
I gave everything one final inspection, set all the camera’s to record ready, and went back into the house, locking the door behind me. Everything was all set. And imagining the fun to come, my legs were rubbery, my stomach was in knots, and I felt so light-headed I could pass out. And no doubt, before the night was over, I would pass out. If not here, then possibly in the Emergency Room. Only time would tell.
At 7:46pm Lisa came in to find me perched on the side of the bed sweating. (Nerves.) I couldn’t stop. She saw my face, saw my expression, and burst out laughing.
“C’mon, Billyboo, this isn’t going to kill you, ya know?“ …Dramatic pause. Then “Or is it?” Raucous laughter. Then she grew serious again. “Hey, really, if you don’t want to go through with this, I’m fine with that. We’ll just go to Vegas next year.”
Oooh, this was serious psychological warfare. She knows me. She knows I don’t back down from challenges. And she knows how much I’ve been looking forward to this. I’ve been obsessed with this. Back out now? Right. I’d never hear the end of it. And I’d regret it the rest of my life.
I looked her square in the eye and said with a smirk I didn’t feel, “Bring it on.”
She left the room, humming, and left me to consider what lay ahead.
At 7:55pm the doorbell rang. Jaaaaysus, my time had come. I raced to the window and peeked through the curtains down at the front yard. What I saw made me so nauseas I ran to the bathroom, fell to my knees, hugged the toilet, and began to-- Okay, I’ll fast-forward through that part.- What I saw on the front lawn was terrifying. Convertibles, sports cars, SUVs, minivans were parked all up and down the street, in the driveway, in the edge of the yard. And women in their 50s, some in their 40s, and a few in the 20s and 30s were laughing, talking, walking leisurely across the lawn toward our front door. There weren’t just the 5 or 6 I’d planned on. There were maybe 50 to 60 women down there. At least! Tan women, tall women, petite women, curvy women, skinny women. And, to the last woman, they were all very, very attractive. I saw evening dresses and open-toed high heels, sundresses and flip flops (our Octobers are rather mild in this part of the country), business suits and pumps, jeans and open-toed wedges. I’m dead, I thought. Friggin’ dead! Can you imagine how permanently screwed up your wee-wee would be were it trod upon by 50 women in high heels with deadly, flesh-tearing, vein-puncturing heel spikes… wedges that could crush broken blood vessels literally into pulp… all made worse, damaged beyond repair, by the constant crush of all those ladies? My baby-making days would be over. I’d be a eunuch. Castrated. But just think how damned amazing that would be, the thrill of danger, the horrific, intense arousal of watching all those gorgeous women trampling innocently across your vulnerable flesh, tearing it, bruising it, grinding it until it was bleeding and unrecognizable from what it once was, laughing in playful innocence as your body parts are crushed and shredded mercilessly under their feet. No safe words this time, pal. And my fingers…I could forget ever using a computer keyboard again. Or picking up a fork, or using the television remote. (Scary!) I suck at math, but somewhere inside my head the voice of reason was screaming his tiny little lungs out about the slim to none chances of ever being able to stand up to take a leak ever again. About ever experiencing an erection. And an orgasm? No way! No, his sage advice was to RUN!!!! Run, before it’s too late!!!! I madly began devising an escape plan. Through the guest bedroom window, across the roof of the screened in porch, down the lattice, through the hedge, through the neighbors yard-- wait! Damn, they’d just put up an 8-foot privacy fence.
From the corner of my twitching eye I noticed that all those pretty heads had began turning toward the front door. I couldn’t hear exactly what was being said, but I recognized Lisa’s voice shouting above the din, calling the group to order. She was waving a clipboard and explaining something. The women, as a group, listened attentively. Then the clipboard was passed around. After each woman wrote on it, some flipping to the next page, bid goodbye to my wife and a few others, and left. Some left quickly, some milled about, some look disappointed, some laughing and shaking their heads. I wasn’t sure what was going on. Maybe Lisa was having them sign a petition? (She did a lot of volunteer/political work.) As my anxiety lessened, that loud heartbeat pounding in my ears began to subside, and I began to breathe more normally.
Finally, all that remained were a small group of 10 women (I counted from my perch behind the window.) I didn’t recognize any of them, but they all seemed quite attractive. There were two that really caught my eye. One was a tall blonde in a miniskirt and yellow flip flops. Dark toenail polish (biiiig, long feet, and wide), dark blouse to match her toenails. Silver toe rings, anklets, bracelets, and necklace. The other was more mature, tan, silver-white hair, and she was curvy (in a good way), and wore a form-flattering aqua-blue dress and stacked wedges to match. Red nail polish. Red neck scarf to match her toenails. Tan. Both her and the tall blonde were tan and riveting. They began moving into the house with the others.
Not sure what to do, not sure what was going on, I sat there on the bed wondering if I was still physically fit enough to scale an 8-foot privacy fence. Just then Lisa burst through the bedroom door grinning ear to ear. (Gawwd, what a dazzling smile she has. She lit up the whole room!) She collapsed on the bed beside me, beginning to laugh. It took her nearly a full minute to catch her breath.
“Now …don’t be upset with me, okay?” she began. Not a good start.
I’m wondering at this point if Lisa might really be Satan.
“Now, Billyboo, you know I love you. And you know what I said about making this a memorable event for you. Well… honey.… sweetie pie. …The ladies and I.. well… we kinda invited more ladies than we’d originally intended.”
I’m now convinced Lisa IS the Devil.
“You know how word gets out. A friend tells a friend, who tells a friend, who…. Well… you still wanna do it?” She reached over and patted my head. I must’ve looked like I needed it. “The ladies have signed up to come through in groups of 10, starting in…. oh…6 minutes. You’ll have a 10 minute break to rest and reset your house of horror, change camera cassettes, go pee-pee-- if you CAN!" More laughter. She's laughing so hard she's crying. This woman is truly evil. Note to self: Start sleeping with a crucifix. "And then the next group comes through. We’ve got 6 groups. Most of them said they were going to go have a drink somewhere and come back. Hope they don’t get too drunk. Can you imagine what a drunk lady in heels could do to your--“ More raucous laughter. “Omigod! If you could only see your face right now! God, it‘s hysterical!!!“
I curled myself into a fetal position and grabbed Jim and the twins, tuning out my wife‘s demonic laughter. I wanted to remember how they felt before this night began.
“So… for the next two hours, Billy, you’re going to get the trampling of a lifetime! Are you ready?
I sat there, mortified about what might be coming out of her mouth next. Mortified and so excited I was light-headed, aroused out of my skull.
“See…” She paused. “Now, promise me you won’t be upset with me or the girls, okay, Baby?”
I gave a slightly perceptible nod.
“Well, originally your haunted house was supposed to be for the ladies who were here that night. Danielle, Sheila, Raina, Dottie, Angela, and Morgan. …But… they all thought this would be such a hoot that they told a few of their friends, who told a few of their friends, and.. it’s sort of gotten out of hand. So, there are 56 women, not counting me, who are scheduled for tonight. The first group is downstairs enjoying some wine. The other ladies scheduled for later have left to go have drinks and then come back when it’s time.”
What?! So, not only will I be unknowingly trampled by 56 women, I’ll have my cock and fingers unknowingly crushed and mutilated by 56 drunken women. My stomach began roiling again in earnest.
Lisa was still talking. “They’ll be coming through in groups of 8, with me leading each group… That’s, what, seven groups scheduled 30 minutes apart. And from my walk-through of it I’m guessing each walk throu-- excuse me, stomp through…”
A small cry wriggled up my throat. I’m sure I sounded pitiful, which only made her burst into laughter. “Each stomp through should take about 10 to 15 minutes, which should give you plenty of time to reset everything and get a breather, right, Billy?”
Again, I nodded, feeling dangerously close to passing out. My vision had begun to swirl. All those women, all those feet, all that crush weight. I mean… I’m no mathematician, but if you have 56 women (not counting Lisa on each tour), averaging-- on the conservative side-- 130 lbs each… that’s 7,280 lbs crushing my cock and fingers in the course of one evening. And it would be over 8,000 if Lisa chose to participate. (That’s 4 tons!) Reality began rearing its ugly head, and Fantasy was very nervous. Reality said if I choose to put my cock and hands in the path of all those women I may never have full use of them again (even with major surgery!). Sure, I could do the sensible thing and NOT put my vulnerable flesh body parts in harm’s way. But I’m not a sensible guy. I’m an insane idiot and a masochist on a major scale. Who knows? Maybe the cd sales of this night of my delicious horror and physical mutilation would pay the Emergency Room bill. Or maybe not. I really didn’t care. I’d fantasized about being trampled unknowingly by a large group of women for most of my life. And now my time had finally come. And as a man walking that last walk to go meet his executioner, I smiled wanly and rose quietly from the bed. I walked zombie-like down the stairs to go meet my doom.
*****
At 8:10, according to the clock on the wall, I heard women’s voice nearing the door. I’d check and rechecked all the cameras to make sure they were recording. All the lights were on and I trembled with terror and excitement as I lay beneath the wooden walkway with my privates pulled up through the board, lying in the path of those to come. My wife walked through the door first, leading 8 giggling, tipsy, blindfolded women. I prayed they kept their blindfolds on. Lisa assembled them into a single-file line at the end of the walkway. She had them grab onto the shoulders of the women in front, with her at the head. She gripped the railing, looked down at me, winked, and mouthed what looked to be ‘I hope you survive!’
My heart was racing. Gawwwd, I’d never been so damned nervous in my entire life. Talk about one mean-ass adrenaline rush! Skydivers, mountain climbers, bungee jumpers? That’s nothing compared to THIS adrenaline rush. Imagine, if you will, the danger I felt, the danger of this situation. At any moment one of these ladies might get too curious and pull off her blindfold to have a peek at what’s really going on around her. She might then see me, see my privates, scream at the top of her lungs that they’ve been tricked by a pervert, and the whole evening would come down around my ears! Word would spread throughout the community, the state, the world! My wife and I would be shunned, talked about, I’d be fired from my job, and we’d be run out of the community with our tails between our legs. (Hey, if you’re going to imagine something awful, then why not imagine the worst?) There was also the danger of complete and irreversible castration under all those crushing, merciless, uncaring, unknowing feet.
The shrieking interrupted my thoughts. The women behind Lisa had found the hanging sausage links and dry, sticky spaghetti noodles and were nearly hysterical as it haphazardly hit their faces. I glanced up to see women batting blindly, awkwardly knocking the bratwursts links aside-- which sent them swinging and rounding back to hit them in the back of the head. If I hadn’t have been so terrified I would’ve laughed. The ones in back--the tall blonde and the silver-haired lady-- heard enough to know that something was hitting the ladies in front of them and so were busy ducking in order to avoid the same fate.
(Note to self: Next time -- Ha! As though there’ll be a next time!-- next time I do a haunted house, have extra cameras positioned to pick up the ladies’ hysterical conniptions. It’ll be great material to blackmail them with if they ever catch on to what I’m really doing. …No, I‘m kidding. I could never do that.)
As the ladies clomped down the stairs into the pit of sandwiches the monster noises began and a couple of ladies near the middle of the line hesitated. Lisa shouted above the noise, urging them on down the steps, and as they crushed through the pile of baggied sandwiches, the squishing of food under their feet must have been a little freaky to them. I heard “Eeeeew” and ”Gross, WHAT am I STEPPING on?!,” and other such phrases of disgust. My heart raced even faster at the thought of watching that on film later. (Watching it in my hospital bed? ..No, don’t go there!) I could imagine the peanut butter and grape jelly oozing to the sides of the baggies beneath the soles of wedges, flip flops, high heels, crushed beyond recognition. I’d originally had 50-- yes, 50-- sandwiches in the pit, but when I heard there were 7 groups coming through I quickly pulled some out for the following groups to destroy. I’d also taken my high school diploma out of its very nice picture frame, found a few treasured (fragile) toys from my childhood, Christmas ornaments my grandmother had made me, some music cds, and a couple of my framed and treasured movie posters, and they were all destined to be crushed, crinkled, flattened, soiled, and ruined in the pit under the thought of those drunk, uncaring, beautiful women. Such thoughts, by themselves, had Big Jim stretched to his full length, dancing wildly, slapping up and down on the upper side of the wooden floor up against which I was pressed.
Lisa was now leading them up from the sandwich pit, shouting over her shoulder while glancing mischievously into my eyes, “NOW DON’T WORRY ABOUT THESE SNAKES, LADIES, THEY’RE NON-POISONOUS! DID YOU GET THAT? NON-POISONOUS!!” And with the cool air hitting their ankles, and the swamp sounds filling the room, some of them gripped the handrail with one hand while holding the ladies’ shoulders in front of them with the other, slowly bearing down on me. Closer and closer, my wife was slowing them down, setting the pace, guaranteeing my privates would not escape injury from every pair of shoes. Each footfall brought them closer. I could feel their combined weight pressing down, the walkway shuddering with every movement. My wife then stopped an inch before she reached my right nut. (I was lying sideways beneath the walkway, so I could watch. My head and upper body were sticking out from beneath the walkway to the ladies’ left, and my legs stuck out from under the plank on the right. Therefore, my cock and balls were laying in profile.)
Lisa continued, “OKAY NOW, LADIES, WE’RE GETTING READY TO CROSS THE MOST DANGEROUS PART OF THE WALKWAY! THERE’S A VERY NASTY-LOOKING SNAKE POKING UP THROUGH THE BOARD, HERE! THE SNAKE HANDLER I BOUGHT HIM FROM SAID HE TENDS TO BITE! WE SHOULD TRY TO KILL IT, DON’T YA THINK? OR AT LEAST PUT A GOOD HURTIN’ ON IT, SO IT DOESN’T BITE ANY LADIES IN THE NEXT GROUP?!”
What the holy hell?!! This was NOT what we’d planned! What was going on?!! Why would Lisa think this was funny? This wasn’t in character with the woman I knew. The Lisa I knew would never have pretty much sentenced my penis to death like this. And she was standing there, looking down at me, laughing about it, with a look on her face I’d never seen before. Cold, uncaring. Had she been planning all along to castrate me like this? Was it a grand scheme of hers all along to get me in a vulnerable position where my sex organs would be so ruined that we’d never be able to have sex again? And then maybe she could have our marriage annulled? Or was she planning to leave me all along and move in with that hunky younger new partner at her firm? Shit, shit, shit!! It was too late to undo my restraints and escape, and this sudden, paranoid fear that my wife had planned all along to ruin my sexual organs tonight, had totally sucked all life from my penis. Jim was flat and wimpy, and in such a state might he be more severely damaged by a well-placed heel spike?
I looked back up into the eyes of my darling wife, who now looked down at me with an enigmatic smile, sort of like the Mona Lisa’s. And then she placed the slightly-raised heel of her black wedge directly in the center of Big Jim’s now flattened, fleshy neck, just below the head, and stepped down full-weight. As she shifted her weight back onto the back of her shoe, the small square of sharp-edged plastic heel of that shoe, bearing every ounce of my darling’s weight, flattened veins, tore skin, and then slid back, rolling off a vein in my penis. (I could both feel and hear it, even above all the swamp sounds and the ladies muttering.) I felt it give and begin to leak.
Have you ever been in the swimming pool and been so damned drunk you weren’t sure you could make it out of the pool and through the house to the bathroom, and so you just stopped tensing, and you pissed right then and there? You know that feeling of the muscles letting go, of the liquid starting to flow through your cock and out into the water? It almost feels like someone’s pulling a long slick string through your urinary tract? This is how it felt when Lisa caught that vein and clipped it under her heel. As the front of her slightly raised heel rolled backward off that one vein in my fleshy, wimpy, flattened cock, I felt the sensation of the flow beginning. It all happened so fast, too. I mean, from the moment she began pressing her heel down the neck of my cock, it was less than 2 seconds until her wedge rolled back with a ‘CLOMP’ and the little red drip, drip, dripping began from the mouth of my wimpy manroot.
As Lisa lifted her shoe from my freshly wounded cock she looked down at the now growing pool of red and began to smile. The first few drips made it the size of a small coin. The next few drips spread it quickly to the size of a breakfast pancake. Lisa laughed and took one step forward, stopping so the next lady in line would have nowhere else to step but ON my bleeding cock. And, of course, because of Lisa’s playful warning about THIS snake needing to be killed, the ladies in that first group happily obliged. They were in the mood to have some fun and so this seemingly harmless, sanctioned brutality released upon a few cheap rubber snakes was a lot of fun in this Halloween funhouse.
The woman behind Lisa was wearing a pair of black, thong-strap high heels. She was pretty in the conservative sense, in a Sarah Palin kind of way, but she had much better feet. Long, wide toes, party red nail polish with the nails neatly trimmed. High arches, wrinkled, rounded heels. The split second impression I got glancing up at her was that she’d been a trust fund baby, or had married well, or maybe was a ball-breaker who‘d left a lot of bodies in her wake, heel prints on their foreheads, in her single-minded, persistent climb to the top.. Lots of rings, gemstones, but I hardly got much more than a glance because my attention was focused completely on what she was doing with her feet. I wasn’t sure that it’d be painful. As you may (or may not) know, blood flow from your cock may (or may not) suddenly (temporarily) wipe out all feelings of pain. Something in the back of your brain takes over and adrenaline and endorphins shoot through your body, and you’re both horrified and intrigued by the beautiful foot meting out such vicious cruelty. It’s like a bad car accident-- you can’t look away from it. Miss Palin II planted the ball of one shoe on the head of my now bloody cock, her full weight bearing down on Jim’s mouth. Her shoe must’ve been broken in well, because it contoured slightly over my cock head, with maybe a half inch of Jim’s bright pink, red-mouthed head pressed our like a balloon ready to pop. With her other foot she kick-stomped my nut flesh (the twins had retreated a little into the hole in the board, but their tender flesh was still hanging out over the board, available for pinching wounding), as though she were trying to kick-scrape off a piece of old gum from her shoe. Grinding, twisting, stomping, scraping!! Though her foot closest to me, the one planted on Jim’s head and preventing the blood flow, blocked my view, I could feel the burning sting of my wounded nut flesh. I could tell she’d crushed the edges of my nut flesh to the point of bleeding. There was that alternating burning/freezing sensation I feel when my nut flesh has raw, open wounds. She then planted that merciless foot on my nut flesh and then began kick-scraping and grinding the hell out of Jim’s pitiful, bleeding head. (And THIS WAS ONLY THE SECOND WOMAN OF THE NIGHT!!!) I was completely transfixed by such feminine beauty doing such unbridled damage to the soft fleshy tissue of another human being. But she didn’t know it was human tissue. She just thought it was a silly rubber snake. After this violent attack on my cock, she stepped forward and stopped. Two down, 62 to go! (62, counting Lisa on the next 7 tours!)
My breath caught in my throat as the next lady stepped forward, feeling her way for the bad old rubber snake. She was petite, looked like a librarian from the ankles up, but she had these gorgeous little legs and feet. Delicate ankles. Her feet were small, size 6 maybe, but well-defined, perfectly proportionate. Her skin was light and creamy, her toenails longish (like Lisa’s) and perfectly rounded. They were polished with about 3 or 4 coats of a dark plum. I was guessing a salon pedicure with a couple of layers of topcoat. Probably a fastidious woman who liked everything just so. I imagined her closet was perfectly organized, everything in its proper place. Once she found my cock with the toe of her stacked black wedge shoe she put her heel just behind it, lifted the toe of her shoe, showing me her soft toe pads and the nails peeking out over the top of them, and slowly pressed her shoe down. Well, with the internal damage Lisa and Ms. Palin II caused my bleeding manroot, I was seriously considering calling it a night as soon as this lady stepped off. I could stop all further damage to my cock right now and spend the rest of the evening walking around screaming, growling, making those blindfolded tour groups of ladies hysterical. But I’d gone through hours of preparation, carefully thinking through this evening’s cock and fingers crush, making calls, borrowing video cameras. ..No, I was committed to this. I could do this. And if I bailed early, how could I ever face my fellow online foot fetishists. I’d bragged to them what I’d been planning, promised video clips posted once or twice a week for the next couple of years. (Damn, what a huge library of crush and trample footage just from tonight. All those women!!!) I can do this. I told myself that over and over. I can do this. As the librarian continued stepping down I watched her perfect little toes peeking out the ends of her shoes, watched the musculature in her foot flexing, wrinkling slightly, mashing down, testing this snake to see if it would scream or bite. Satisfied it wouldn’t, someone flipped a switched and she became the Stomp Bitch from Hell!! She lifted one foot, cocking her prim and proper little leg like she was going to stomp through a concrete floor, and then unleashed a stomp to my still dripping cock head that sent droplets of my blood flying everywhere. That foot had barely had barely had time to mash and roll slightly when her other leg was lifted high, cocked, released. (SHIT!!) Her shoe connected with my soft, thin nut flesh and my flesh was no match. Her black wedges, while looking tame and conservative, had some very angry treads. I could feel them. See their imprints in my flesh next time that foot was raised. See their red imprints on the bare wood planking all around my shriveled, bleeding penis. WHAM! WHAM! WHAM!!! I watched in teeth-gritting, muscle tensing (delicious) agony while this pint-sized hellion stomped my cock into pulp. Finally, she stepped off and took a step forward. Willing my body to relax before the next onslaught of cruel stomping feet, I happened to glance up and see her take one hand from the shoulder of Palin II and touch her sex through her dress. She was smiling. And even though the room was filled with deafening sounds of alligators, growling monsters, and so forth, I swear I could read the moan her pleasure on her face at having just gotten out her aggression on a rubber toy snake. She had done something cruel and violent to something cheap and insignificant, a $2 toy, and it had been very rewarding, therapeutic, even sexually arousing for her. (Where does my wife FIND these women? And why didn’t I ever meet such women before Lisa came into my life?) I was stunned at such cruelty-- by such seemingly kind and harmless women. But I swear these women would completely freak out if they realized the horrific damage they were doing underfoot to another member of the human race. But seeing what it did for the Librarian, I was determined now more than ever-- through curious intrigue, pride, and masochism-- to stay the course and -- as quietly as possible-- endure whatever these innocent, aggression-repressed ladies chose to unleash on me.
The next four ladies passed over my cock with hardly a stomp. One lady drug her feet, her high heel catching Jim’s soft, sticky red (blood gets sticky as it dries) neck and ripping it a little as she shuffled forward.
The next to the last lady was the silver-haired lady, Big Silver. I say big. She wasn’t really big, just nicely curvy. But under that turquoise dress I sensed a very solid, very strong, very capable body. Big Jim had stopped leaking blood from his mouth. He had a few cuts on his neck that continued to dribble a little bit of blood down the side. But when she stepped on my wounded cock I felt every blessed ounce of her crushing weight. Maybe it was her size (I’m guessing around 180 lbs), or maybe it was the way she used those turquoise wedges. She stepped down dead center of my very wimpy cock and then pulled it-- with the edge of her shoe-- sideways, toward my face. She did this two or three times, trying to pull out my retreating, devastated cock, from its hiding place. It took me her doing for a few seconds until I realized-- with great alarm!--DAMN!-- that she wasn’t treating Big Jim like a cheap rubber snake. She saw it as-- Did you catch that? She SAW it!! I glanced up in terror to see her looking down at me, her big blue eyes boring into mine, daring me to stop her, daring me to do anything at all. That looked demurely slid into a dazzling smile, and then she pressed one finger to her lips, a silent warning not to say anything. Damn it!!! She’d pulled off her blindfold!!! Why the hell--?!!… I silently pleaded as best I could, using only my eyes, for her not to say anything. No, that’s not true. I was actually more afraid of what she’d DO to my pitifully wounded cock. This woman had something about her, a sense of compassionate warmth coupled with the capacity to be ruthlessly cold and sadistic. She quickly refocused on the tortured, red and sticky cock at her feet. Once she’d pulled Jim out completely by yanking at him with her foot-- at least as far as she could-- she stepped right onto his neck (with maybe a quarter of an inch of Jim’s head still visible), pulled the other foot up beside it, and began balancing-- or trying to balance-- entirely on my cock!! Both feet would roll forward, and Jim would roll beneath her. And a tear or two would slide down my face. It was excruciating torment, but I could not tear my eyes away. She’d then lift the toes of her shoes and slide backwards a few inches. She was rolling back and forth on Jim full weight under those wedges, and it was painful as hell!!! Having your cock stood on while it’s rolled to the side hurts like nothing I can explain with words. She repeated this a few times until Jim was stupidly trying to become erect again, and leaking blood from his mouth again. She then gave my cock head a few merciless stomps and moved off to allow the last person, the tall blonde in flip flops, to have her chance at the rubber snake.
Because Big Jim had begun bleeding from his mouth again, when Blondie stepped onto his head, placing her other foot on my nuts-- I had both hands under the board keeping them pushed up there so the women would step on them-- and began marching in place. I thought I’d die. I really did. She was tall, as I’ve said, and a bit lean, maybe ‘athletic-looking.’ Like a former Olympic Women’s Beach Volleyball medalist. Her steps in place were slow and high. Meaning, she’d lift her legs high in the air so I had plenty of time to see the footfall coming, and then lower her foot onto my cock, the edges of her foot wrinkling and the soft flip flop contouring over my erection. I did my best to be perfectly still, but.. To this day I wonder if she could feel my erection throbbing under her weight. The second or third time she lifted her foot from the head of my bleeding cock, this clotted thing-- it looked like some sort of red bit of after-birth-- began oozing hideously from my cock’s red and wet mouth. (Maybe it was a glob of clotting blood?) Whatever it was, it eased out slowly, and with every footfall a little more of the red slimy afterbirth and blood pressed out. Once out, it lay there on the board at the mouth of my cock head for a couple of footfalls until she varied her marching and began moving back and forth. When the ball of her big, long, wide, tan foot (by the way she had a really cool tattoo-- some vine or something-- snaking around one ankle) came down on my cock head, completely covering it, the after-birth stuck to her sole and got marched up and down my cock. It finally ended up stuck to the board in front of her when she stepped off.. She’d been heavy (she was tall, after all), but her crush had been gentle. Which surprised me. I guess it’s sort of how I’d picture a cock walking by Mile High Mikayla to be, velvety soft but relentless. It had only been 30 seconds or so, but I knew it’d be blazing hot on film! (Gawwwd, I couldn’t wait to watch those recordings. But I knew the night was FAR from being over!) Time to pull myself out from under the plank and go get ready to have my fingers crushed. I didn’t even try staunching the blood flow from Jim’s mouth. He drip-dripped all the way over to the stairs. I’d clean up the garage floor later. That is, if I weren’t at the hospital.
