A normal day

[chaosmonkey]

Kate pushed the door open whilst chatting on her mobile to Steph. She paused as normal on the upturned face as its tongue slid over the soles of her favourite black work heels. If she’d have looked down she may have noticed that it was almost unrecognisable, a flattened mess of heel marks around a long since pulverised nose. It would need to be replaced soon. But she didn’t look down, she merely paused whilst it did its work, laughing at Steph’s latest story. She kicked off her shoes and strode into the living roon, walking full weight over another of the faces in the floor. The smooth bare skin of her heel split its lip before her weight spread to engulf it completely. She didn’t even notice the tongue dart out to lick her instep, why would she pay any attention to something so normal?

Kate dropped down onto the sofa and listened to the plan for the evening. Her feet rested lightly on two of the penises that protruded from her floor, she rolled one under each foot, her normal massage after a day in heels. She felt them stiffen and begin to strain beneath her tired feet. Seconds later they spat foot lotion along her soles and over her insteps as she told Steph about her weekend. She absent mindedly rubbed her feet together to spread the moisturiser around, before crossing her ankles and resting her heel on one of the dispensers. Steph would be over in an hour, she needed to start getting ready.

Kate stood up, a penis once again under each of her bare feet as she stretched and yawned. Her hair would do, she thought, and headed upstairs to her walk-in wardrobe. She quickly slipped out of her pencil skirt and blouse and into her favourite black chanel number. At the far end of the room her shoes sat in neat rows against a mirrored wall, arranged by colour and by heel height. Beneath them men lay embedded into the floor. Pairs of shoes covered every inch of their naked bodies. Each one, if he could speak, would no doubt have talked with great pride about how his existence was dedicated to looking after those shoes 24hrs a day. Each one would shudder as they told of those that had made mistakes, of those that had not been able to remove a scuff mark or an insole stain, of those who had disappeared.

Kate slipped her feet into a pair of patent black Louboutins as she checked her make up in the mirror. The shoe holder felt the warmth of her feet through the thin soles as the heels sank deep into his chest, the left heel piercing his skin and pushing through muscle to rest on bone. She puckered her lips to apply lipstick as the right heel slowly joined it. Something wasn’t quite right, the shoes perhaps? She slid into a near identical pair of four inch heels that rested on the same shoe holders face, or what was left of it. The hard soles crushed lips against broken teeth as she twisted around trying to get her dress to hang properly. The lips split, ripped, as she began to apply her mascara. What was left of the nose collapsed with a crunch. Kate enjoyed feeling it give way beneath her, she wasn’t interested in what it was, just the feeling of something pressing against her sole yielding to her and disappearing forever.

Kate stepped back to look herself up and down in the mirror, beautiful, sophisticated, elegant. She smiled as she headed back to the living room, thinking of the night of fun she had planned, not the slave who would be crawling down to pick up her work shoes once she had left. She didn’t think of the evening he would be spending cleaning every millimetre of them, of the night he would spend asleep with them resting on his face ready for her to slip into in the morning. It didn’t occur to her that the only sexual release he would ever have in his life was when her shoe leather needed a new coat of protection or when he left his moisturising seed each morning on her insoles. That all his hopes for the future would be crushed without a second thought, a thought at all even, beneath her soft white soles. That his dreams, like those of so many others, would simply seep away between her toes.

Kate’s black heels strode into the living room, not breaking her stride as her sole landing full weight on one of the cocks/massagers. She paused next to one of the faces in the floor as she waited for her nails to dry, the heel of her shoe just resting on its chin, her beautiful lithe body towering over this thing that used to be a man. She poured herself a drink and turned the stereo on with the remote, time to get into the party mood.

TBC

[trampleme5]

A wonderful start and thankyou for sharing with us

[jbush23]

ow...that was AWESOME! GREAT story!!! PLEASE continue!! It would be great if it continued with more slaves used throughout the night for human furniture too- even if those slaves don't neccessarily get trampled. Like did anyone see that Borat movie? Where he invites Paula Abdul over for an interview- and the only "furniture" that is there are these 3 mexican workers on their hands & knees? He tells her, "oh, yes, it is the latest thing" (to have humans as furniture) That would be a hot contiunuation...(withOUT borat, of course!)

[HECTOR622]

Bravo Chaosmonkey.
A wonderful story ; Kate seems really alive. The description of her attitude is realistic and not too much in the same time.
In one word : perfect.
Some beautiful renders come in my head by reading your text.
Many thanks

Hector

http://www.images4sale.com/store/21105

[airoha]

oh, dear God...is She rich?...lovely story..and such a nice idea..
waiting for the nezt desriptive part

x

[HECTOR622]

Kate is coming back from the office...

http://www.images4sale.com/store/21105

[kiko]

Wonderful story - just my kind of taste ;) Let the Ladies be even more cruel with their high heels ! Cant wait to read more.....thanks ! ;)

KIKO

[cave56]

Great story!
Thank
cave56

[hhhmmm]

cm:

One of my fantasys is to be a part of a living floor. Very nice start, and hope that you continue this story. I'm male and love boots btw. Hope that you throw in some boot trample with your story!:)

hhhmmm

PS-
Can't wait to see the next update!

[chaosmonkey]

Thanks for all your comments! This is the first time I've ever tried to write anything so really appreciate your feedback. Been mega busy but hoping to write some more at the weekend.

Hector - thanks, I'm a huge fan of your work - I think we share a very similar vision for for the world should be...

[jbug]

Oh hell yeah! Great story!

[chaosmonkey]

Steph put the phone down on her desk and smiled to herself as she thought of spending the evening sipping cocktails with Kate, the perfect way to unwind. Her beautifully manicured nails drummed impatiently as she waited for her computer to shut down. Beneath the desk her stockinged feet rested on the face embedded in the floor. The silky mesh of her stockings had left it red and raw, had grated away layers of skin over the many hours she had sat there. Its tongue had lapped at her insteps for eight hours straight and seemed to have been worn down to merely a stump. Still, there would be no loss of service. A new one would be there in the morning. She wouldn’t notice the difference, she wouldn’t notice full stop.

Steph pushed back her chair, spun it 90 degrees and slipped her stockinged feet into her patent black stilettos. They were a little tight, but she had just had to have them. There was just something about the way the long thin spikes morphed into the delicate curved leather that held her heel, something about the way they showed off her delicate toe cleavage before thrusting forward to such a hard pointy finish. Still, they were definitely a little on the small side. She rocked her foot from side to side as she slipped it deeper into the shoe, grinding it deep into the face that they had sat on all day.

For the first time in years she actually looked down at it as her heel drilled into its chin. Her mind drifted back to how it had all begun for her. She had been with Mark for a few years, living in a large house, what used to be thought of as a pretty ‘normal’ relationship. Then Steph’s career had really taken off. She was soon earning far more than Mark, working longer hours, always out at social functions. They barely saw each other. She was so busy that Mark started to take over all the work at home. He cooked, he cleaned, he washed and ironed. Steph was earning so much money and had so little free time that Mark soon gave up his job to support her full time, it had been a tough decision but her success could take them places he could never hope to reach through his efforts at work.

He slowly started to support her more and more actively. She would come home from work, he would help her undress, present a selection of outfits she may wish to wear for that night’s social event and help her get ready. She would rush out again, leaving him to get her work clothes ready for the morning. When she got back he would give her a foot massage after her day spent in heels before helping her undress and making sure her clothes and shoes were cleaned and put away. She was tired by then and they rarely spoke. Before long his natural state was one of silence.

After some experimenting she found the perfect foot massage. Mark’s hands did a good enough job, but there was just something about the way the soft flesh of his testicles yielded under her feet, about how it cushioned her soles and how their hard centres rolled around under her instep. She would sit for hours with them, or the shaft of his cock, rolling beneath her feet as she relaxed. He didn’t complain, he wasn’t in a position to argue given he relied on her for everything. Besides, she had stopped allowing him any kind of sexual relationship long ago and this was as close as he could get. If he came she would simply massage it into her feet and carry on, if she noticed at all. After a while she had asked him to regularly ejaculate into a small bottle that she would carry around in her Gucci handbag, foot lotion for whenever she might need it during the day. She still remembered his look of shock and hurt when she casually mentioned that the other girls at work did the same and she often borrowed theirs if hers ran out. She didn’t see the problem, what did it matter where it came from so long as it helped keep her feet soft?

Mark spent his evenings naked and alone, waiting for her to return, wondering where she was and what she was doing. Sometimes she’d come home a bit drunk and tell him about her evening sipping cocktails with her friends, how great they all looked in their designer outfits and skyscraper heels. Sometimes she would talk about the men who were there and how they looked at her, for in those days there were still some men who led ‘normal’ lives. She would tell Mark about how she danced with them, how she flirted with them wearing the clothes he had picked out for her. She would tell him to pick out particular pairs of boots that she knew would get the men drooling, get him to spend the whole day polishing them ready for her to wear out. She’d watch him clean them for her when she returned while telling him about how she had danced with other men while wearing them, how she had pressed up against them and pushed her lips against theirs.

She started to be much more careful while receiving her foot massages, never letting him ejaculate other than into her foot lotion bottle. She stopped buying brushes to polish her shoes too, telling Mark that his tongue was just as good and could get into every crease of the leather far better. Gradually he became more and more a mere object. She had sometimes used his face as a footstool in the past, but only ever with bare feet. This too changed and she would sit for hours with her shoes planted firmly on his face whilst watching tele or chatting on the phone. It was in this position that he heard her telling a friend over the phone about this man she had met. How she had danced with him all night and then gone back to his apartment. She laughed about how she had given him a footjob whilst pressing her slender heels absent mindedly into Mark’s cheeks, piercing the skin and forever scarring him. She told her friend about how wonderful his cock had felt beneath her feet, about how hard he had come and how she had just stepped back into her shoes afterward and left, she giggled at the thought of it as Mark’s tongue lapped at the thin soles of her shoes.

That was then. Things were very different now. Mark had eventually just become one of many anonymous faces in her floor. She had given him the great honour, a few years later when he had finally expired, of using his skin to create a hand-made pair of heels. There was no reason why he should stop being useful, after all.

Steph’s reminiscing was bought to an end by sudden crack of the face’s nose. She smiled , stood full weight on it and strolled out along the corridor of flesh to get ready for her night out.

[zenonvip78]

Awesome story!!! You have incredible talent! :worship:

[LuvsHerHeels]

one of the best stories here in a long time.
hope you continue.
thanks.

[Miss_clinton]

Just one word - WOW...
hope there is lots more..

[toejam]

would love to read more

[macrina]

Fantastic work, thank you.

[chaosmonkey]

Kate had arrived early and sat by the bar sipping a dirty martini. It was great how they’d kept the character of the place, refusing to install men into the fabric of the room, preferring to keep it old school instead.

On the other side of the bar lay a line of men, just naked on the floor rather than embedded. The barmaids complained from time to time, it was one thing standing on an ‘embed’, that was little different from a flat floor, but having to walk and stand on uneven bodies all night didn’t exactly make life easier. There were techniques that they’d learnt to adopt, the sinking in of heels to gain purchase, certain parts of the body that were flatter and more stable (or could be made so with a few well placed stamps). Some of the girls took great pride in how they could stand perfectly normally on a non-embedded face and chat with customers. It was all just a matter of practice, of balance, of forgetting that they were there.

Kate scanned the room. One side of the room was lined with man-tables, naked men on all fours acting as tables just like bars used to have a few years ago. Her eyes fell on a couple of office girls, pristine pencil skirts, blouses and stilettos, but clearly a few glasses of wine passed sober. They had both extended a leg and were crushing the man-table’s testicles between their near identical patent black shoes, laughing hysterically as each tried to push the other’s foot back. It was a game they’d all used to play, giving no thought whatsoever to the thing that was twisted and crushed to pulp between their feet, it was winning that mattered, trying to keep your leg straight, not being the first to bend your knee and admit defeat. They both pushed hard, staring into each other’s eyes, twisting their soles to try and gain advantage. They seemed pretty evenly matched, she could see the pressure building relentlessly until, with an audible pop, the well worn soles of each girl’s shoe met under the table with nothing but the thin skin of a burst balloon separating them. Their now slippery soles just added to the fun and both continued to push and twist away with no other consideration but winning, it was just one of the many games they played to kill some time.

Kate’s gaze shifted as the door swung open. Steph paused for a second to dispose of her cigarette before entering. It was one of those old fashioned disposal units, a naked man in the pose of a begging dog. Steph pressed her sole down on its flaccid member and its mouth sprang open. She kept her foot in place as she took a last couple of drags before tossing the burning cigarette into its mouth. As she went to move off again her foot slipped, dragging it’s cock back a few inches along the concrete, just like slipping on a banana skin. She rolled her eyes, slightly embarrassed at such a clumsy entrance, bit didn’t bother to glance back to see what damage she’d done. Her eyes had already found Kate sitting alone at the bar.

The stool Kate was perched on was near identical to the cigarette disposal unit, just in a bit better condition and encased in a metal frame. Its face was pushed back so that it was looking up, staring at the yellowing ceiling. At least it would have been had Kate not chosen to sit on it, chosen, without even thinking about it, to just sit down and start casually touching up her make-up as the face’s world descended into darkness, into a numbness only interrupted by renewed pain whenever she shifter her weight or crossed one stockinged thigh over the other, which she tended to do a lot while impatiently waiting.

The face just hoped there wasn’t a repeat of the previous Friday when the girls had got a bit carried away and stood up on their stools to dance to the jukebox. It was impossible to describe the feeling of those hard unforgiving soles twisting around on your lips, your cheeks your eyes. Impossible to describe the pressure, the weight, the power, to explain what it felt like to be able to look up into a young woman’s face and see her laughing and joking with the other girls as her dancing feet created carnage below, as faces were all but shredded, as bones cracked and then broke. At least this way was manageable, sure the odd skirt zip cut into your face but by and large it was tolerable. So long as you could breathe that is.

The face had recognised Kate as soon as she had walked in. She was a regular, he knew the feel of every skirt and dress she wore, even with his eyes closed he could tell exactly which one she was wearing just by the texture of it, the feel of it as it pressed into his face. It was the same with her shoes. He knew each pair she owned by the tiny divots in the worn soles, by how they felt against his tongue. He knew each pair better than anything, better than anything else in the world. He knew them by their taste, by their smell, by the way the heels cut and scraped his skin. He knew that, to Kate, each pair was worth more than his life a thousand times over. He knew that men had died beneath them, had expired beneath every pair. He knew that Kate neither cared or, most of the time, even noticed. He knew that, right now, if she chose to shift her weight only very slightly that, without even meaning to, she would seal his mouth and nose beneath her arse, that he might end his days here just because she chose to lean forward to gossip with a friend or for no reason at all. Still, that was no different from any night, no different from many times a night.

Steph rolled her eyes again as she paused in the doorway. She’d never been great at walking across non-embeds and these were pretty new, not yet flattened out like they would be in a few hours, much easier to walk across. Kate laughed as she saw her friend shrug, toss her handbag over her shoulder and step up on to the naked chest of the first rug. She could feel her heels sinking into its flesh, she had to pause, keep her balance. The rug saw only her beautiful smile, aimed not at him but at Kate. It felt each of her needle sharp heels puncture its flesh, each of those cold hard soles press down without remorse. Yet he felt strangely happy, content to be of some use, accepting of his natural place in the world. He had had a name once, a life, friends. He still had hopes that things might change one day, that perhaps he’d be allowed to do all the things he once loved so much, to travel, to get back to his work at the university, to get the old band back together. Still, for the time being, this wasn’t so bad, there was something noble about it, chivalrous.

Steph’s left foot came crashing down on his face, slipping along his cheek as she struggled to balance. Her right foot joined it on the other cheek, it’s heel balancing on his two front teeth. He tried to remain perfectly still, not breathing, not blinking, just thinking back to that trip to Goa, to those amazing beaches. Steph struggled to balance, she leant back on her heel, the teeth gave way, the whole heel slammed down into his mouth, scrapped along the length of his tongue and finally came to rest just before the heel tip would have punctured the back of his throat. Steph merely yelped in mock fear before regaining her balance.

She gingerly stepped forward, tiny baby steps up his face, a trail of heel prints so close together that they looked like a stream of tears running from his eyes. Kate saw her friend dip slightly, lean back a little before stepping off the face onto the next rug, laughing now that she’d got the hang of it again.

The next face saw her playful smile, knew that that little dip had been the moment that her heels had plunged into his neighbours eye sockets, knew that he was gone. Yet all he could do was run his tongue along that well worn sole, enjoying the taste of the dirt for a brief few seconds before she strode on to greet her friend. All he could do was smile, knowing that she was happy, that he'd helped.

[hhhmmm]

Love the way you write!!

Keep up the great story, and looking forward to the next trample segment!

Face standing is always one of my fav's! Hope to see more of that in your stories:)

hhhmmm:)

[LuvsHerHeels]

luv the cruelty...plunging heels into the slaves eyes..GR8.

[chaosmonkey]

Kate stood up to greet her friend, allowing her seat to take a desperate gulp of air just at the point it was beginning to lose consciousness, about to be surrounded by a darkness even blacker than that Chanel dress that had been pressed against its disorientated face. She greeted Steph with a kiss on each cheek, taking the opportunity to inhale her perfume as her lips lingered against Steph’s soft warm flesh. They ordered some drinks at the bar and headed towards some more comfortable seats to catch up. As the barmaid took them through the wine list, somewhere, unseen behind the bar, her chunky boot heels cut deep into an exposed stomach. It was a little like standing in heels on grass she thought, they just sank in to a certain depth and then you could stand comfortably in the same spot for hours. It was when you had to walk around that it got tricky, not knowing with each step whether the heels would sink in deep or find something solid to rest against. She strode off to get the wine, a few short steps, a few faces, a few chests, sometimes the heels sank in deep, sometimes they didn’t.

Kate sat down on the back of one of the naked men on all fours. She slipped off her ultra high black patent heels and, without a glance, handed them with her beautifully manicured fingers to a second slave who knelt just to one side. His tongue eagerly and professionally got to work, running across the still warm insoles, sliding across the shiny leather, dancing across the well worn soles. Kate’s stockinged feet came to rest on the upturned face of a third slave, whose tongue sprang automatically to work with the same hunger and well practiced movements.

Steph sat on the back of a slave opposite and listened to Kate talk about her day while the slave licked, sucked and kissed her friends shoes. She couldn’t help but glance across to see his tongue lapping against the soles, removing every speck of dirt without any thought for what Kate may have walked over. It was quite something, he wouldn’t let up for a second, for as long as they chose to sit there he’d keep up the same discrete yet slightly frenzied pace. It was simply what he did, what he was for. The aroma, the taste of the soles, that was his life, his world, his purpose. Kate didn’t acknowledge him in any way, would not have noticed him any more than she would a coffee table. Steph wouldn’t have either normally, but her reminiscing earlier had made a think a little.

She remembered sitting in a similar bar with Mark. She’d told his that, as a treat, he could leave the house and come to the bar with her to meet a couple of friends. Any suggesting that this was a change of heart lasted only as far as the taxi, only as far as being told to lie on the floor while Steph planted her feet firmly on his face while doing her makeup during the journey. Still, at the bar he was allowed to sit next to her on one of the comfy leather sofas and to buy her a drink.

Steph’s friends soon arrived. Mark was surprised to find that one of them was male but then that wasn’t that unusual in those days. The conversation went on around him, but Mark was ridiculously happy just to be out of the house and to be being treated something like ‘normal’. The other woman left after about half an hour, leaving Steph and the man chatting and enjoying their drinks as Mark sat and watched, not really part of what was going on, but there none the less. Sure, this wasn’t what going out with his girlfriend used to be like, but it was a big improvement on how things had been for the last few months, maybe things were changing after all.

As the evening went on, Steph started to flirt with the man quite blatantly, not just the way she talked, but she’d leant over a couple of times and taken the man’s hand when talking about how soft her own hands were, had brushed her knee against him. Mark was seething inside, yet somehow paralysed, somehow unable to speak, to shout, to do anything. Then it happened. Without a word in his direction, Steph had casually slipped off her heels and handed them to him. Any confusion he may have felt about his role that evening was rudely shattered when she turned towards him angrily and simply said “clean them.” And he did. As Steph and this man got closer, he had licked the soles, sucked the heels cleaned, and kept going, too afraid to stop, tears rolling from his eyes, the taste of her feet in his mouth. She couldn’t describe how it had made her feel at the time to have one man drooling over her whilst another, her so-called ‘boyfriend’ was drooling all over her shoes. How each lick of his tongue against the leather was full of the passion and love he felt for her yet meant nothing t0o her, that all that she cared about was having some fun with someone else.

“Hey, are you listening to me or dayfreaming?” “What? Oh, of course I‘m listening Kate.” They worked their way through a bottle of Malbec, chatting, laughing, as the shoe slave licked and Kate’s stockinged feet rubbed constantly on the face beneath them, her toes darting in and out of the toothless mouth. They talked about food, about holidays, about fashion. Kate rolled her eyes as she remembered the fashion, a few years back, for penis-heels, they’d all worn them at the time, but now they just seemed so naff. The fashion now was for needle thin heels, elegant, decadent. Penis-heels were unavoidably chunky given each heel was made of a male’s member coated in some special substance to harden it and keep it in an erect state. Nothing was wasted, the testicles went to make the insoles, to support and comfort stockinged and bare feet alike. Sure they’d all worn them at the time, but tastes changed. There had even been a fad for a while, amongst the wealthy anyway, to use the cocks of famous men. Steph laughed as she remembered that Victoria Beckham had had an entire collection of shoes made using the cocks of the former England Football Team. With the number of shoes she owned she must have worn each pair only a couple of times each, they gave everything just for her to wear them on the red carpet to one movie opening.

Kate stopped dead in the middle of a sentence as the juke box came on. Without a word she grabbed Steph by the hand and started to drag her toward the dance floor, pausing only to unceremoniously grab her shoes back from their cleaner (leaving a long crimson heel scratch across its face as she did). The two women, one in heels, the other in stockings, walked across the living floor. A line of slaves felt the warm smooth pressure of Kate’s feet followed by Steph’s hard cold soles. Kate stopped at the edge of the dance floor and placed her shoes on the chest of the nearest slave. Immediately, without being asked, two slaves appeared either side, kept permanently on the verge of orgasm they were finally allowed to release themselves, firing their pent up foot lotion into the shoes, pausing only to see it slide down the insoles towards the pointy toes. Kate didn’t even look, didn’t even register it, why should she? Holding Steph for balance she plunged her foot first into the right, then the left, not noticing the spurts of blood that met each slender heel as her full wait crushed down upon the unfortunate piece of the human dancefloor. All she wanted to do was dance.

[kasia43]

I love you man.

The best story ive ever read!!!

Could I translate it into my language?

[Miss_clinton]

Love your writing.. :)

[chaosmonkey]

Kasia - thanks, glad you're enjoying it so much, go ahead and translate it.

Misstress Clinton - it's an honour to make you happy. I was a bit worried by the lack of comments, but yours makes up for that a thousand times over.

If anyone has an ideas for this story I'd love to hear them...

[jbush23]

chaosmonkey- I thought I would chime in here as well. i think your story is AMAZING. there are very few on here that REALLY speak to what i like- and yours is definitely one of them. And it is VERY well-written! I love the attitudes of these women- the "naturalness" (is that a word? lol...) of there USE of these men as lesser beings...VERY hot!!!

As for ideas...idk...i just like them using men as objects...here's one for you- i remember an old Benny Hill sketch where a bunch of hot women went into a niteclub where men worked there as dancers & servers, etc.- and they basically used the men as objects. Like the one woman went into the restroom & looked around for a towel after washing her hands and could find one, so she slammed her knee up into the male bathroom attendant's groin and used his breath to dry her hands...(to a huge amount of laughter on the laugh-trach, of course...) Then all the women left the club and used various men as transportation to get home- like one woman turned a man a the bustop into a motorcycle and sat on him to ride him home, etc...Anyone remember that Benny Hill skit? Man, that turned me on when i was a kid and saw that! LOL!

Anyway, how about a scene where these women go into the restroom- and it a really spacious, opulent restroom, with a BUNCH of male slaves locked in there as captives to serve their every need behind that door...foot massages, pampering, etc. Slaves to sit on and relax while they wait their turn in the stalls... And maybe "environmentally-friendly" slave-powered cars and carriages for the ladies to take home?? :-)

just some thoughts...

[danhager]

This is excellent work. I love the theme of objectification - which doesn't get nearly enough attention on femdom sites.

Many thanks.

[chaosmonkey]

He didn’t know her name. He didn’t know where she was from or what she did. Occasionally he’d catch snippets of her conversation above the music. She talked about film, about clothes, about the man in her life. She was enjoying the wine, relaxed, perfectly at home on the bar stool. He couldn’t see her friend, but she seemed to be laughing a lot, to be a little drunk maybe. They seemed to be City types, plenty of money, business suits and designer handbags. He’d overheard her say something about trading dividends, it wasn’t his thing, he didn’t understand. She was laughing now, pushing that long shiny hair back behind her ear, gesturing with those perfectly manicured fingers of hers. Maybe she was some kind of fund manager. He could just picture her stepping out of her convertible each morning, striding into some big financial institution, all eyes on that figure hugging pencil skirt, those stockings, those high patent black stilettos. That winning smile greeting underlings whose names she could never quite remember, who dreamed not just of her job, but of her. Maybe she lived in Mayfair, one of those big Georgian places, or something sleek and ultramodern in the City, open plan, roof terrace. He couldn’t say for sure. He didn’t even know her name.

He could speculate, he liked to speculate. But all he knew for certain was the taste of the soles of those high patent black stilettos and that she liked to rock them on his face to the music. He knew she smoked, he could taste it on her right shoe sole, taste the cigarettes that she had ground out beneath it. He knew that these must be one of her favourite pairs of shoes. The soles were well worn, full of little divots that trapped the dirt that his tongue dug out and he swallowed down with as little movement as possible. That was about all he really knew about her. He knew she’d been sat there for an hour, chatting, smoking. He knew his tongue had not stopped running up and down those soles the whole time, and that it would carry on as long as she choose to sit there. He knew he could take a lot of pride in how much cleaner they were compared to when she’d first sat down and rested them on his upturned face. The rest was just speculation.

He wondered what she thought of him, about where he came from, where he might live. He imagined her asking him, taking an interest, asking him about his painting. Maybe he’d tell her about the dreams he still had of being exhibited in one of the more prestigious galleries. He imagined her being impressed, asking about his style, who his influences were. He wondered what she thought of him. Whether she thought he was handsome, well dressed, that he looked after himself. He stopped himself. She hadn’t so much as glanced down once since she sat down. She had no idea what he looked like. He could have been anyone. If he passed her in the street tomorrow there would not be the slightest flicker of recognition on that beautiful face. She hadn’t so much as glanced down. He could have been one of her wok colleagues, an ex-boyfriend, anyone. What did it matter to her? She cared about having something to rest her feet on, she cared about having her shoes looked after. What else was there to worry about?

Her friend was laughing again. His tongue was growing tired, his lips felt raw, rubbed against those hard unforgiving soles for over an hour. He could feel the heat of her stocking feet through the thin soles. He wondered what they looked like, high arches, expensive pedicure. He imagined her slipping them out of her designer shoes, imagined her rubbing them all over his face, dipping her toes in and out of his mouth, teasing him. But she didn’t. She just chatted to her friend, drained her wine glass and swung her legs away from his face as they left. She didn’t look back. He blinked a few time, pulled a few faces to get the feeling back, swallowed hard and tried to generate some saliva. He didn’t have to wait long. She was wearing boots, brown boots with a block heel. She rested her foot on his face as she ordered at the bar, flirting with the barman as she ground his face into those deep treads. She sat down, both feet square on his face. It was going to be a long night.

[footfetis]

finish?? :(((((((
I wish to wiev pic-stories this...
I think excelent.. wonderful...
thank you and we wait...
:)

[hhhmmm]

chaos, I agree with foot . . . We're waiting for the next part, and can't wait to read about the new woman on the bar stool . . . Love boots, btw, so looking forward to the next installment!;)

hhhmmm:)

[chaosmonkey]

His tongue pushed out against her hard sole, trying to manoeuvre against its crushing power, trying to lick, to taste, to explore. He could hear her chatting high above, could just see up passed the boots to her tight blue jeans and leather jacket. She twisted her foot hard against his lips as she began searching for something in her handbag, ripping open his lower lip, crushing his bruised tongue painfully against his front teeth.

He tried to focus. He could taste soil, grass and, it sounded a bit crazy, but maybe there was just a hint of roses. She must have come through the park, maybe they’d laid rose petals for the women coming that way, or maybe she’d just taken it upon herself to stomp all over some flowers. She was perfectly entitled to, of course. Since the new rules had come in, a woman was perfectly entitled to stomp all over anything belonging to a man that she wanted.

There’d been a story a few days ago about some old man who’d been carted off to a special hospital after two girls on a night out wandered into his antique models shop and destroyed every single piece of his collection, fifty years of his work, his obsession, ground out beneath their feet. They’d forced him to spread the entire collection out on the floor, put some music on and danced all over them before heading to a club. They’d carted him away in an ambulance, distraught, sedated. Not that he’d have got any sympathy when he arrived at the hospital.

It was the one in the financial sector, the one which provided a shoe cleaning service for all the nearby business women. The patients would be sent out to their offices to retrieve their work heels in the evening and would spend the whole night cleaning them before returning them early in the morning, just ready for stockinged feet and bare feet to be slipped back in at the start of the working day. He’d heard stories that the men would work nine hours straight on dozens of pairs overnight, ensuring that every millimetre was free from dirt with only their tongues, and god help them if there was ever a complaint. If so, the woman was given free reign to trample the poor bastard until she got bored. Few survived the stabbing heels, pointy toes and stomping soles. Still, such was man’s lot in the world, and he wasn’t one to argue.

His own life was happy enough. He’d rise at 5am, crawl through to his ex-girlfriend’s bedroom and lie down next to the bed. Sometimes he’d drift off to sleep again, only to be rudely awakened when she swung her long slender legs from beneath the covers to rest her feet on this chest, or his face, or wherever they happened to land. She’d sit for a moment, stretch, yawn, wonder what to wear. If one of her bare feet rested on his face he would lick the instep, either way, she would not acknowledge him in any way. What happened next would vary. Sometimes she’d want to use him as a shower mat, sometimes just to lie next to the shower for her to stand on when she got out. The shower could be nightmareish, her weight pushing his face down as the water level rose. He’d been lucky to survive on many occasions, passing out more than once as she calmly washed her hair, grinding her heels into his eyes. When she was done, he would position himself in front of the sink. She would step up on to his face with both feet and stay there as she brushed her teeth and hair.

He would stay as still as he could whilst she prettied herself, her feet twisting around to the songs on the radio, sometimes giving the occasional hard stomp just for the amusement of it. The pain was unbearable, every morning. Those soft warm feet would leave him bruised, blackened, stunned. Yet, the moment she was ready, he’d take up his position under the kitchen table, her footrest as she ate breakfast. Some days she would slide her feet all over his cock as she ate and read through the paper, always stopping just as he could feel the first wave of an orgasm building. When she was ready, he’d lie by the front door with a selection of her work heels on his body, she’d step into those she wanted to wear and head out the door without so much as glancing at him. He had it pretty good really, a couple of hours housework and then the day was his until the evening. Even then it was pretty standard stuff. He’d lay in front of the door again ready to clean her shoes with his tongue, and those of any of her friends she happened to be with. The rest of the evening he’d spend as a footrest, and then off to bed to do it all again the next day.

She wasn’t particularly hard on him, all she was interested in was her own comfort and he was there to supply it. He’d heard all kinds of stories about women who really went to town on their slaves, who spent their evenings dancing all over them, shredding them with the thinnest of needle heels, loving every moment of it.

It was only recently that she’d decided he should be doing something more useful in the evenings when she wasn’t around. So here he was, laid in front of the bar, face squashed against the floor by the boots of a woman whose face he’d never even seen, a woman who was chatting to the barman in a world completely apart from his. He closed his eyes as she shifted her weight, laughing at something, lifting her foot before bringing the bock heel down hard on his nose. If it hadn’t been broken a hundred times already it would surely have collapsed under that heel, but these days it was near flat at the best of times. She absentmindedly twisted the heel, the hard sole of her other boot still trapping his tongue against his teeth. Out of the corner of his eye he could see another pair of legs approaching, they seemed to go on forever before disappearing into a jet black pencil skirt.

“Steph!”

The boots twisted as one, spinning on the heels, tearing into his skin, crunching his cheek bones, covering his mouth and nose entirely, making it impossible to breathe.

“Kate! What time do you call this? Good timing anyway, I’m just getting some drinks in. What do you fancy?”

As Steph leant forward to greet Kate he caught sight of Kate’s patent black five inch stilettos, her sensuous toe cleavage, and two needle heels worn down to sharp metal spikes. It was going to be a long night, alright.

[macrina]

Great part, thank you.

[LuvsHerHeels]

can't wait to see Kate work on him.
thanks for the chapter and please continue.