Tonya's Toehold

[Eddie08]

Tonya’s Toehold

A brief out of body experience, in which someone—not me entirely—was looking down at the drama below in which my wife Tonya stepped toward me, or my consciousness-less body, and slapped my face.
“Wake up!” she shouted, slapping my jaw again, sucking me back into my corporal body, in its compromised position.
Damn it. She’d made me take her to dinner, and then when we’d gotten back home and gone up to our bedroom to undress, and I thought sex was coming, she’d kicked me hard enough in the face to drop me to the carpet, momentarily unconscious.
And now—her toes were smothering my nostrils. I turned away, but her heel followed my face, her toes grasping for my nose, my ear.
“Tonya,” I said, still on my back, shuffling away. “I’m into feet and all that, but come on.” My fingers tapped her soles and guided her foot away. I started to stand, and that’s when she’d kicked my jawbone—POW—and it immediately hurt like hell, the concussive blow knocking me to my knees, dazing me. WTF!? What is this about? I turned to her.
“I want a divorce,” Tonya said.
As I contemplated this troubling news, Tonya’s foot snuck in and jabbed my mouth, her toes pressing at my nose, my lips, I saw her butt muscles tighten, and I was disgusted as she pressed her foot down upon my upturned head. From my knees, I seized her ankles and heaved, sending her backward, but she somehow managed to land on her feet, taking a few uncertain steps across the plush carpet of our spacious bedroom. That agility of hers, that’s what I wanted to avoid.
“Tonya, let’s not fight—let’s talk about this.”
Tonya pivoted her hips, and I heard her chuckle as out of nowhere her hard heel came down upon my nose.
Lights out.

I met her at her lawyer’s a week later. Her lawyer, let’s call him a Mr. Scumsucker, introduced himself. I thought about not shaking his hand, then did, and we got started, or should I say, Scumsucker and my estranged wife, Tonya Tunney Espinosa, got started.
“You have no children, so it comes down to just the two of you. Mr. Espinosa, I presume you plan to leave my client, Ms. Tonya Tunney, no longer legally named Espinosa, your beloved soon-to-be-ex-wife, the Mercedes, the house on Bedworth Drive, and you are to pay her a sum of $600,000 annually in alimony support.”
“No way,” I said. “We’ll work it out in court.”
Scumsucker leaned in, trusting I wouldn’t punch him out of his chair, and whispered. “You know as well as I do, going to trial on this will be a helluva lot more expensive.”
As Scumsucker let that dangle, I sneered and turned to face Tonya.
“How dare you treat me this way after I gave you ten good years of marriage.”
Seated in a cushioned chair inside her attorney’s office, Tonya frowned at me. Oh, I so wanted to punch that bratty freckled face of hers. She crossed her legs. They were gorgeous legs, but right now I was so fucking angry—
“Mr. Scumsucker, may I call you Scumsucker? May I have a minute alone with my lovely wife Tonya?”
Scumsucker smiled wickedly, and strolled into an adjoining room, closing the doors behind him.
I squatted in front of Tonya’s chair and said, “You have gone too far—” With her legs crossed, she lifted her top leg so that her shoe’s stiletto scraped my chest, I pushed her leg away and moved into her face, so that my lips where right over hers.
“You wanna get serious?” I hissed. “I can get serious. You can have the Mercedes, but the house?
“You will never get that house.”
Tonya didn’t shy from my intrusion. She kept her eyes focused sharply on mine, then she moved her chin forward so her lips were just inches from my nose. “Wanna know what I have to say about that?”
“Go ahead,” I said.
Tonya hocked and spat, right in my face, her sputum covering my nose and lips. A disgusting looghie, warm and mucousy.
I brought my hand up to slap her but she thrust out her palm and jammed my bicep. Before I could follow up, her opposite hand came around to strike me, the Prav Maga that I’d paid for, the palm of hand stinging my cheek, just as Mr. Scumsucker re-entered the room.
“So it’s settled then, is it?” the lawyer said.

Two months later, after I’d just been served a restraining order prohibiting me from stepping within a hundred feet of Tonya, and not set foot on the grounds of my former home, I pushed aside better reason and decided I needed to sneak inside what was rightfully MY house and reclaim some business plan documents that I needed for when I presented to the board early next week. I had to have those plans, a lot of money was riding on them, and what harm could come if I just snuck inside when Tonya wasn’t home and grabbed them?
I still had a key to the basement, and assuming Tonya hadn’t thought to change the lock on that antique-looking hatch leading into the cellar, I could enter, go up the basement stairs, grab those plans and be off.
It felt strange walking through my former house now occupied by the woman who had defeated me in every sense of the word. Early on, she’d brought magic and excitement to my world, romantic evenings where she’d taken her shoes off, humiliated me at sweet little games of poker, and asked me if I would rub her feet. And I would do that for her, and I’d look into her green eyes lovingly, pondering the freckles on her cheeks as if they were constellations. And sometimes her feet smelled ripe, but I didn’t tell her it bothered me because my dick was hard and that was all that mattered.
We’d made love twice, and then drifted apart, and then we’d run into each other at a coffee shop one day and had ended up together. Boyfriend and girlfriend. Skipping ahead—
On our wedding night, I’d massaged her white stockinged feet for twenty loving minutes, then helped her out of her clothes until we were both stark naked. And then we’d made love, her on top the whole time, her scraggly brown hair sweaty, her freckled face taunting me as she thrust her slender hips down upon mine.
Beautiful love.
And then, three weeks into the marriage, she’d told me that she never wanted to have kids.

I lived childless for ten years, but on the positive side, I’d been banging a woman who religiously sculpted and maintained her body like a movie actress. I’d bought her everything she’d asked for. New shoes, new dresses, new coats, new cars, gym membership, let her run her own business—and what did I get in return? A fat lip and fuck you very much!
It was noon and Tonya had presumably left for a pre-lunch workout. Assuming that she’d follow her regular routine that would likely mean an additional 30 minutes at The Wrap and Salad Shack, and that would give me about an hour and a half to find the folder I was looking for. Plenty of time.

I stared at the folder in my hands, kissed it, then turned for the door. I was greeted by a rumbling noise—Tonya’s car. She’d come back early, way early, perhaps she had forgotten something… what difference did it make, though I hadn’t worked out an escape route. I heard her car door slam, heard the soft clack of her sneakers on the pavement, the opening and closing of the front door.
Shit? Where? I glanced around, then slipped into the double-door closet in my office, and I silently slid the doors shut. Today I’ll wait the bitch out, confront her another day.

Something changed in my psyche when ten minutes later she tore open the double doors of my hiding space and reached for a handful of my hair. I grabbed her wrist and turned it, capturing her arm, and I pushed her out into my office, then shoved her against the desk. “I just came for my folder, it has important valuable information inside, I’m just going. I’ll leave, no harm, no foul,” I said.
I let her go and made for the front door.
Her hand tugged at my shoulder, spinning me partially around. My hands came up to protect, but she was just holding me there, so she could tell me something.
“I had a feeling you might try to get into my house after the restraining order—you never could play by the rules, Eddie.”
I stared at her, incredulous. Her freckled face and neck glistened with sweat, her tanktop was damp—Shit, she’d gone to the gym earlier than usual today—perhaps she really had known I’d try to get inside.
I glanced down at her darkened shorts, where she’d perspired during her covert workout, her thighs, too, were damp, her shins, her ankles wrapped in gray socks that seemed to be dampened right above the sneakerline. Tonya lifted a leg, her slippery knee caught my jaw, knocking me onto my back, oww, my hip.
Tonya stepped onto my chest, a printout from my folder, stuck to the sole of her sneaker, now pressed to my sternum.
“Before I call the cops, I want to beat you up some more,” Tonya spat.

Tonya trampled my chest and face in her running shoes for a full hour, and feeling like my ribs were broken, and throat permanently damaged, I tried to get up and get out, but Tonya intercepted me, snapping a kick to my head, dropping me to the floor. When I awoke however long later, she was in her socks, dark gray and fuzzy, yet fouled with her sweat and I started to raise my hands to deflect only to discover she’d handcuffed me while I’d last been unconscious.
I shuddered because I didn’t trust her anymore. I had no doubt that if she felt she could get away with it, Tonya “no-longer Espinosa” Tunney would and could kill me.
The sweaty socks came off, one at a time, and Tonya shoved one of them in my mouth, making it even harder to breathe as she then piled the entire folder I’d come for onto my chest and then stomped it into me, ripping and crinkling its documents, effectively making them unpresentable.
I scowled up at her, and she giggled, covered her mouth bashfully then stepped onto my face, her bare feet dripping from her sneaky, very recent workout.
“Bithhh,” I managed despite her sock in my mouth. “I’ll get you for thisss.”
“Oh why don’t you shut up?” Tonya hollered, and stuck her sweaty, smelly foot inside my mouth.

Another hour later, or had it been longer, never mind, she left me, only to return ten minutes later. She slapped my face hard, then spat in it, knowing that I was still cuffed and unable to stop her.
“Ha-ha-ha-ha,” Tonya heckled. “I just spat in your face and there’s nothing you can do about it.”
From my knees, I said, “Let me go, let me retrieve what’s left of the folder and go, nobody says anything to the police.”
“Why, of course, I am going to call the police, Eddie, just not yet.” She gave my face another playful slap. I growled and tried to break free of the restraints, buck her off, but she slapped her palm over my nose and mouth, mushing the spit she’d covered me with and spreading it all over my face.
“First, I want to wash my feet in the bathtub—I’ve got the water running already.”
She put a choke collar around my neck, attached a chain leash and led me upstairs.

[tuvaletkolesi]

Thanks good start. Keep it up please.

However, would be even better if u didn't skip some details. Like, why she wants to divorce, what actually happens in those periods you don't tell such as "Another hour later, or had it been longer, never mind, she left me, only to return ten minutes later". Just seemed like you're going a bit too fast.

[macrina]

Good start, thank you.

[luxelysium]

Great so far!

[Eddie08]

Once the basin was filled with hot water, Tonya yanked on my chain so hard that my head hit the outside wall of the tub, collapsing me on the bath mat at the foot of the tub. She stepped on the side of my face with her bare sole and all I could do, my hands still pinned behind my back, was to turn slightly to see her wiggle her toes.

She said. “Before my footbath, I want you to lick the sweat from my feet.” She gave another tug on the leash and I complied by turning over so I was on my back, the top of my head pressed against the linoleum tub. She replanted her foot upon my face and dragged it down over my nose and mouth.

“Lick!”

Her toes, her sole, her heel, were all still slick from her workout. The smell was not all that different from expired parmesan cheese. “Tonya, no. Why are you doing this?”

“I said, Lick!”

I refused. My wife had never abused me for all the years we'd been married--at least, not until the past several weeks, starting with that time after dinner when she'd surprised me with that quick hard kick to the face. Could her feelings toward our marriage and the bitter ongoing divorce have created some kind of violent trigger?

“Lick!” She wiped her sole across my face, and when still I refused to lick her paws, she slapped my face with her foot, once, twice, a third time. “Lick.”

“No!” I said defiantly. “Let me go.”

Pulling on the leash, her freckled face contorted with effort, Tonya placed her foot on my throat, and tried to choke the life out of me.

I saw stars, then began to cough, wheeze, and was about to pass out when finally she stepped off.

“Try again?” she asked with a sneer.

I opened my mouth, extended my tongue, and Tonya placed her foot on my face. I licked her sweat from heel to toe, from in between her toes, from inside the wrinkles of her sole. Then, just as completely, she forced me to lick her other foot.

“Why?” I said.

“Because their sweaty from the workout—you know, inside my cute little socks and sneakers.”

“No, I mean, Why are you divorcing me? Why are you torturing me?”

Tonya dragged her slick heel over my face one more time, then dropped to her knees, right on top of my sternum, causing me to grunt.

“Because,” and she leaned her bratty face close to mine, her freckled knees pinning my chest to the bathroom floor, her scraggly brown hair damp with sweat falling on my face. “Because I’ve met someone else, someone who will help me spend your money after the divorce, someone who doesn’t have hands like a gorilla and knows how to massage a woman’s feet.”

I closed my eyes, devastated both physically and emotionally. “Who is he?”

Tonya smirked. “It’s not a ‘he,’” she said. “Her name’s Beth and I met her at the gym. We’ve been taking Krav Maga together, too.”

“Why didn’t you tell me you were unhappy? We could have-- .”

“Fuckface!” she interrupted. “There’s another reason why I’m leaving you.”

She cleared her throat.

I waited, her knees planted on my chest.

“Every time I look at you, every time I see you eat, every time you take an hour in the bathroom, every time I hear your voice, I just want to spit.” She brought her face close again, and then a ball of spit began to form on her lips, hanging—

“Tonya—”

Her lips made a popping, ‘pttt’ noise and the looghie fell, right on my nose. I heard her chuckle as her spit entered my nostrils.

Then, she ripped at the leash again, pulling me up off the floor, onto my hands and knees. I saw her step back and then swing her leg forward … the top of her foot punched my ribs. I sagged in agony.

She kicked me again.

“I’m going to take ALL of your money!”

Another kick.

“I’m going to take everything and kick you out of this fucking house!”

Kick.

“And then I’m going to kill you and get away with it!”

Her foot came up under my head this time, smacking my face, causing my temple to hit the hard wall of the tub. She stood alongside of me and pulled directly upward on my collar, forcing me to rise to my feet.

“Get in,” she said.

“No.”

She turned me around so I faced her, and then she rammed her foot violently up into my crotch. I dropped to my knees.

“Get in the fucking tub!” Tonya yelled.

I stepped inside the bathtub full of hot water, shoes and all.

“Now lie down.”

I tried to slide my hands out of the cuffs, jerking and straining. Tonya saw what I was doing and stepped forward, both pushing me and yanking down on the leash so that I crashed against the back wall of the bathroom. I slipped and tumbled down over the edge and into the bath, bringing a mighty splash. The hot water rushed into my nose and mouth. Bubbles everywhere as I sank to the bottom.

Now I was on my back, my hands fastened behind me, the near-scalding water covering my face. I lifted my head, surfacing with a gasp.

“Tonya,” I choked. “Don’t.”

Tonya stepped over the rim of the tub, onto my chest, one foot, then a second.

She flexed her toes, pinching my nipples, as she glared down at me.

“My feet hurt,” she said, then stepped onto my face, placing one foot on top of the other, her 130 pounds pushing my head underwater completely.

When the ripples finally cleared, I could see her through her toes, which were clenched over my nose: she was smiling and she had her cell phone pressed to her ear.

“Yes, hi,” she said into the phone. “This is Tonya Tunney of 55 Bedworth Drive, and I was wondering if you could send the police over.”

I coughed, and tried to shout, but the way her feet were contorting my face, all the water I’d swallowed, forbid me from pleading my case.

“I was drawing a bath and my ex-husband broke into my house,” Tonya continued. “Despite my restraining order, he came into my bathroom upstairs and tried to rape me. I’ve managed to subdue him.”

I saw her glance down at me, taking note of my helplessness, my condition. “I’m not sure, I may have even killed him—can you send someone over? … OK. Thanks.”

Tonya disconnected then tossed her phone away from the tub. From the sound of things, she must have made a perfect shot, dropping the phone right on top of the folded towels. She always was lucky that way. And me? I was in a ton of shit.

Tonya readjusted her stance on my face and continued to drown me under her feet.

[smother sitter]

Your stories are always great

[Eddie08]

Tonya stood on my face until I nearly drowned, then she got off of me, but only to take up another stance, and then I was drowning again. And so on. If it had been a pleasant experience I would tell you more about it. But it wasn’t. Almost drowning is not fun. Almost drowning sucks when the person who hates you--and you now hate in return--is standing on your face. When the first police officers arrived and came upstairs, Tonya stepped out of the tub, grabbed my hair, and then pulled my head out of the bath water.

I coughed, choked, dry-heaved, water pouring from my nostrils, everything stinging.

Tonya slapped my cheek. “Don’t even try to lie about what happened here tonight,” she said. Then, still gripping my hair, she pulled me toward her, and leaned me over the rim of the tub. She padded carefully toward the door, took a red terrycloth bathrobe from a hook and put it on. Then, she let the police officers into her bathroom.

The officers were blurry—one was dark-haired, the other a black man—and they stared at me, felt my pulse, gauging whether I needed CPR or an EMT. “Ma’am, are you all right?” one of them shouted.

I was on the bathroom floor, still coughing. Tonya squeezed between me and the two officers and said, “Yes, I’m fine. And sore loser here was under for only a few seconds—he should be all right.”

I tried to argue, couldn’t—hacking.

The officers studied Tonya standing barefoot on the tile floor, in her red bathrobe, with her pure white skin, her cute dimples, her pleading green eyes, then concluded that I did not need any medical attention, and yanked me to my feet like a criminal.

“Ma’am, we’re going to take your assailant to the car and wait for back-up,” black cop said. “One of us will be back in to get your statement in a little bit. OK?”

Tonya nodded, then, as the officers helped me up, I saw her step onto a second mat by the sink, where she theatrically wiped her feet before leaving the bathroom.

[stivalo]

this is great!
thanks a lot for posting

[macrina]

Thank you, very good storie.

[Eddie08]

For you to understand Tonya you would have to know that she'd been a tennis pro for a couple of years, a housewife and was now a caterer and fancied herself a fledgling actress.

She was beautiful, I’d admit that. And using my money she’d pursued her interests: yoga, weights, dancing, kickboxing, and the Prav Maga or Krav whatever she called it. It was hard not to love her still, but I could tell she now hated me …she’d made that clear after we’d left the restaurant a couple months ago when her fucking bare foot had connected with my nose.

Tonya was a genius.

No, really.

She is more cunning than any other creature I know.

Her lawyer phoned me directly. I put Tonya’s lawyer on hold, called my own lawyer and conferenced the three of us together, and listened to what Scumsucker had to offer.

“Mr. Espinosa, my client has been most generous—and now we will agree to waive 20 percent of what we originally planned to sue you for, if you would agree to go before a live TV audience on Divorce Court.”

What?
Divorce Court?

I asked the scumsucking lawyer, “Excuse me, but am I being naïve? Why does Tonya want to do this in front of everyone?”

“As you should know, Mr. Espinosa, your wife, my client, has a goal to become a successful actress—a realistic goal, wouldn’t you agree?”

He had a point there. Tonya had appeared on a luxury car commercial, playing a housewife whose family had passed her the Guitar Pro so she could play a jingle against her will. She had a unique look, and pervo guys were writing in asking what that actress’s name was, the one from the car commercial where she’s strumming and swaying her hips?

Scumsucker continued: "Another television appearance is just what Tonya needs as a stepping stone to TV shows and the movies."

I cleared my throat. “Twenty percent off, you said? Bill, what do you think?”

My attorney on the line, William Mann, said, “I think it’s a step in the right direction, but we reserve the right for further negotiation. I suggest we thank Mr. Sutton—thank you, Mr. Sutton—and discuss alone.”

“Thank you, Mr. Scumsucker,” I said, hanging up on the lecherous lawyer Tonya had hired with my money.

“Take the deal,” my attorney Bill Mann said. “I don’t like your wife, either, and I especially do not like Gerald Scumsucking Sutton. The man’s been a burr in my side for ten years. I’ve got a plan to flush the bitch out and take that asshole Sutton with her.”

[subfootstool]

I don't think this is going to turn out well for you. Bring it on

[tuvaletkolesi]

please more! and longer chapters!

[stivalo]

this is gonna go better and better :)

[Eddie08]

“Eddie Espinosa is a hard-working businessman, who claims his wife is framing him. Beating him when the cameras aren’t watching. Eddie wants the participants of Divorce Court and everyone watching to know that He is the victim—ladies and gentlemen, here is our defendant, Eddie Espinosa.”

I walked onstage to mixed applause. Sat down at the table next to Bill Mann. Waited.

“Tonya Tunney is a housewife who claims her husband is obsessed with her feet. He won’t stop trying to rub, kiss, and suck on them. Tonya got a restraining order, but she still can’t keep her husband, the overzealous footstool, away from her feet. He even broke into her house and tried to rape her. Ladies and gentlestools, here is our plaintiff, suing for a divorce worth an approximate three million in assets and compensation, Tonya Tunney.”

Seething with anger, I watched my soon-to-be ex-wife walk onto the TV show set, which itself was a mockery of a courtroom, a mockery of justice. She took the chair on the other side of her lawyer, Scumsucker. I stared at her for a moment—she was wearing a white blouse, navy skirt, white stockings; sensible, matching navy shoes; her hair recently styled, wavy, with very subtle orange streaks. She looked young, innocent, trying, no doubt, to play the good girl.

“Take it away, your honor,” our host, the emcee, Phil Philson said, turning it over to the judge.

Judge Rhonda Watts was an attractive fiftyish black woman, a former county judge whose career had been shaky and who’d seen Divorce Court as an opportunity for someone just like her, and Divorce Court had seen the flip side. Rhonda Watts was emotional, biased, privately bitter, and looked great on TV. Bill Mann had tried to get the other Divorce Court judge—conservative Dominick Gratzio but Scumsucker had politicked for Watts. Watts had the better ratings and everyone from the judicial district to the producers of the show had sided with Scumsucker’s choice. Bill Mann had told me not to worry, but I was worried.

“This court is now in session,” Judge Rhonda said. “Mrs. Espinosa--”

“Tunney,” Tonya said with a cock of her head. “I’ve gone back to using my maiden name.”

“Yes, thank you, Ms. Tunney—Ms. Tunney, please take the stand.”

Tonya pushed her chair back and took the stand, where she raised her hand and was sworn in.

Judge Rhonda asked, “Can you characterize the problems you experienced at the hands of your husband during the course of the marriage?”

Tonya leaned forward in the witness chair, then cleared her throat into the microphone, “Yes, your Honor—Eddie and I have … had been married over ten years and the whole time he refused to love me—he insisted on playing with my feet the whole time.”

I jumped to my feet. “That’s a lie! She--!”

“Order!” Judge Rhonda shouted, banging her gavel. “The defendant will put a sock in it, until it is his turn!”

Having been silenced, I glared at Tonya. She smirked, then made a gesture with her hand as if she were forcing something into her mouth. Reminding me. Obviously, she’d appreciated Judge Rhonda’s ‘put a sock in it’ comment.

“Please continue, Ms. Tunney,” the judge said.

Tonya dabbed under her eye with a finger, stared at the fake tear. “He wouldn’t give me any children!”

“That’s another lie!” I shouted.

Bang, bang.

“Mr. Espinosa, another outburst like that and I’ll find you in contempt.”

I fumed. Tonya continued her fib: “All he ever wanted to do was put himself at my feet. Finally, I lost it and told him No!”

“And he wouldn’t stop when you said No?”

“That’s correct, your Honor.”

“Then, what happened?”

“I kicked him in the face,” Tonya glanced at me. Turning back toward the judge, she explained, “At first I just wanted to talk to him, but he kept grabbing my ankles. I clearly warned him to stop touching my ankles, to keep his hands to himself, only he wouldn't, so I kind of kicked him until he couldn’t try anymore.”

Stirrings in the court. I turned to Bill Mann and whispered, “Bill, I don’t know how I let you talk me into this, but do something. Now!”

Bill Mann stood. “Your Honor!” he shouted, silencing the murmurings.

“Silence!” Judge Rhonda banged her gavel. When the mumblings died down, she gestured to Bill Mann. “Yes, Mr. Mann?”

“Your honor,” Mann began. “You need to give my client an opportunity to speak. That was part of the condition upon which we agreed to appear before this specific court, under these specific circumstances.”

“Noted, Mr. Mann. The plaintive will conclude her testimony quickly.”

Mann sat down. “Don’t worry,” he whispered to me. He slid in close, cupped his hands outside my ear. “Judge Rhonda can be fair—I wouldn’t have made the trade-off unless I felt we could trim twenty to thirty off of their asking price at the very least.”

I scoffed at this. The way this was going made me want to burst out of my chair and throttle someone.

Tonya met my eyes, then continued.

“I can prove it--Let me show you my ankle,” she said. She started to get up, then paused. “Permission to leave the bench?”

Fucking bitch!

“Granted,” Judge Rhonda said.

—Scumsucker had coached her well.

Tonya came around, right in front of the judge’s chair, in front of me, within leaping distance—oh, I would put a bruising on her body if given another chance—

Tonya leaned down gracefully and removed the shoe from her right leg.

What was she doing?

She removed her other shoe and flipped it. A soft clack filled the courtroom.

My blood boiled as I watched her—I hated every speck of her now. Those fucking freckles on her legs—I could see them right through the white hosiery.

She caught me looking and walked toward me.

“Careful now,” Judge Rhonda warned.

Tonya nodded, but kept coming, then hoisted herself on the table right in front of me, her ass on my notebook.

Her back to me, ass in my space, she faced Judge Rhonda. I hissed silently as my wife crossed her right leg over the other and began to peel the stocking from her thigh. Her calf. Her foot.

“See! Right there!” Tonya said, pointing anxiously to her ankle.

“What is it?” Judge Rhonda asked. “Some kind of bracelet your husband got for you?”

“No,” Tonya said. “It’s a bruise.”

Judge Rhonda gave me a sharp look, then came down from her chair. She came around and studied Tonya’s bare ankle. “How did you get this bruise, honey?”

“Objection!” Bill Mann roared.

“Overruled!” said the judge. “I repeat, Ms. Tunney, how did you get that hideous bruise on your ankle?”

“My husband gave it to me—when he broke into my house and tried to rape me. It’s not the first time he’s hurt my ankle.”

Judge Rhonda stared at me. Everyone in the courtroom seemed to be staring at me, mouth agape.

Everyone except Bill Mann, who calmly whispered in my ear. “To win, we have to prove you never touched her. Judge Rhonda may be fair, but if there’s abuse against women, forget about our chances. Tonya will win on every point.”

I sighed.
Great. Just fucking great.

“And the police showed up?” Judge Rhonda continued as if she were Tonya’s personal attorney, leading her on.

“Yes—and the police arrested Eddie for violating his restraining order, trespassing, threatening, assault, and for attempted rape.”

“Did the police take pictures of the bruise at that time?”

“Yes, your Honor.”

“Do you have those photos now, as evidence for the court?”

“Yes, your Honor,” Scumsucker interjected. And Tonya’s lawyer brought a manila envelope forward.

As I watched Judge Rhonda examine the police photos, presumably taken of Tonya’s ankle, Tonya kicked her leg forward and pulled the stocking back on. Then, she hopped down to the floor, recovered her shoes and returned to the witness stand where her hateful green eyes remained pinned on me as she slipped back into her shoes.

[Eddie08]

Much later— Slightly behind me and to my right, Phil Philson stood, talking to his cameraman again, doing a wrap-up for the television audience.
I’d never before been so angry, felt so helpless and humiliated in my whole life.
“Ladies and gentlemen, Tonya Tunney got a toehold on this proceeding early on,” Philson said. “And she never let go. Today Judge Rhonda sides with Ms. Tunney awarding her ALL of the three million she asked for.”
Tonya drifted past me. I sat slumped in my chair, stunned and broken.
Then, I heard Philson say her name. I turned my head slightly to follow their conversation.
Philson said, “Tonya, tell us how it feels to be out of this painful relationship?”
At first I couldn’t hear her, but then—
“… so when my husband’s foot fetish became obsessive, dangerous, I had to act. Women shouldn’t have to be squeeze toys, mere objects for the pigs they’re married to.”
Shit. The whole fucking world was listening to this load of crap. I never thought she’d stoop so low. And when I’d had my turn at the witness stand and had tried to convince the judge, the world, of the abuse I’d suffered at Tonya’s hands … no, her feet … the “Honorable” Judge Rhonda had cut me off early, or moved my testimony to different subjects. Fuck!
I spun to Bill.
“Go ahead,” he said.
“Bill, get me out of here, before I do something I’m going to regret. I’m outraged.”
Bill Mann stood and placed his hand on my shoulder. “Let’s find a room and debrief—follow me, I’ll help you avoid the reporters.”
I got up and followed Bill toward the exit, but not before I heard Tonya’s latest vicious lie—
“Feet and gay porn, that’s what Eddie was into. He used to leave the computer on with the stuff still on the screen.”
She noticed me watching, listening and glaring at her, and she hesitated, then Tonya said: “When I went down to tidy up the entertainment room which he always left a pigsty, I’d see horrible images on his screen—sometimes the images were of chil—“
Blatant lying bitch.
I charged her.
Commotion as Scumsucker lunged forward, trying to intercept me from reaching her. Someone in the audience screamed. I dove for Tonya.
She braced herself against the wall, leaned back.
I growled in anticipation, just inches from tackling her into the wall.
Her foot came up and met my face, the square heel of her shoe cracking my lip.
Huh?
Staggering, blinking in disbelief, I fell forward, hitting the floor the same time as her shoe, which had been dislodged from her foot by the impact.
I rolled over, blinking. Lights were flashing. Cameras.
So sleepy now.
So very sleepy.
“Fuck you!” I heard Tonya croak as she landed a good last blow, her warm, damp stockinged sole stomping down upon my nose, crunching it, before someone yanked her off and away, leaving me alone and in blackness.

[Sauur]

This is such an amazing story! Fantastic job!

[stivalo]

great! great! great!
:D :D :D

[Eddie08]

Imagine the state I was in that following Sunday, dreading my return to work where I would have to appear before the executive board early the next morning. My pulverized nose was set and bandaged—the damage from Tonya’s two kicks had been so widespread across my face that the bruise extended to both of my eyes. My ex-wife’s hardwood heel had ripped open my lip with the first blow—a cut that had required six tiny stitches—and her second ‘shoeless’ blow had broken my nose and left me with two black eyes. Only through the use of painkillers did I get any sleep, and even then, I awoke at 3 a.m. Monday, with a headache and the bones and cartilage in my face feeling as if they’d been pulverized by a baseball bat.

Making matters worse, I was under sudden scrutiny by the board, whose members weren’t pleased with all of the business matters I had let slip while attending to my messy, bitter divorce.

To my shock, as I began to update the board on matters of quarterly results and execution on business plans—including the costly delay on the strategic endeavor Tonya had stopped me from retrieving the paperwork for from inside HER house—the chairman James Meriwether III cut me off to make an announcement.

“Uh, Eddie, at this time, the members of the board would like to thank you for your service over the past two years, but at this time we unanimously feel a change is in order.”

A change?

“Effectively immediately, the board has decided to remove you from the office of chief executive officer, to be replaced by myself until which time a new CEO can be identified, hired and sworn in.”

I swallowed, or tried to, but it was a big, bitter pill.

When I left the board room to clean out my office an hour later, no one in the hallways spoke to me or even looked at me. I was the proverbial dead man walking.

But I could hear their whispers.

“Poor guy—nobody deserves that kind of public humiliation.”

“Divorce is never pretty—it screws up your whole life, from how you eat and sleep, to how you do your job.”

“Did you see what she did to him on TV?” I could hear one intern saying to another. “That was embarrassing. I don’t know how that poor guy can live with himself after that.”

I cleaned out my office, placing all my personal belongings into boxes and then carrying them out to my car. Then, I went home to my modest apartment where I’d been staying since Tonya had evicted me from my home. Leaving the boxes I’d packed up from the office in the car, I went inside and began to drink.

Heavily.


***

For the next week, I lived the life of a hermit, staying indoors except for rare trips to the grocer or liquor store. I stayed offline, refusing to turn on my computer or the television where I would be sure to encounter news of my own demise or the media circus following Tonya’s rising star. The phone rang occasionally—condolences from friends, family, and former coworkers—but I didn’t answer and deleted the messages before the well-wishers could aggravate the consuming bitterness inside of me.

Then, eight days after my dismissal as CEO, I got a phone call that changed everything. It was from my lawyer, William Mann, saying he had a new opportunity for me. After listening carefully to Bill’s vague message, I picked up the phone and called his office. Bill’s secretary put him right on.

“What’s up, Bill?” I said. “You mentioned an opportunity? I could sure use one right now.”

“Thanks for getting back to me so quickly, Eddie.” The lawyer paused. “Are you sitting down?”

I sat down in the chair of my home office. “Now I am.”

“Good—Eddie, as you know your ex-wife was using Divorce Court as a stepping stone to a bigger career in show business.”

I cut him off. “Bill, if you’re calling to pour salt in my wounds, you—”

“Don’t be so hasty, Eddie,” Bill Mann said. “I have in my hands a contract for you to sign. I’m sure your last meeting with Tonya didn’t go as well as we would have liked, but this new opportunity offers you a chance to recoup some of the money you lost and get even.”

While skeptical I was curious. “Go on,” I said.

“The producers of Divorce Court are starting a new show, based on the smash success of you and Tonya’s appearance on Divorce Court.”

“No way!” I spat.

“Listen first. The contract on my desk guarantees a million per appearance. All you have to do is show up and get paid.” Mann chuckled into the phone. “You have any better options?”

I exhaled into the phone. “What’s the format of the new show, Bill?”

“It’s called Battle of The Exes. The show is looking for men and women from high-profile divorces to compete in a series of live events.”

“Events like what?”

I could hear Mann turning the pages of the contract. “Well, let’s see here, Eddie—uh, there’s something called Freezer Box Food Fight-slash-Kitchen Brawl, another called Dining Room Domination, one called Bedroom Beatdown. There’s Master Bath Disaster, Attack in the Attic, Barefoot Basement Kickboxing, and another one called Backyard Burial.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” I choked, the bile rising in my throat.

“Look, Eddie—this woman has destroyed you, she’s taken nearly everything from you, and literally wiped her feet on your unconscious face, er, at least, based on what I’ve seen with my own two eyes and what you’ve confided in me. To make things even more infuriating, she’s slapped you with restraining orders preventing you not only from confronting her but from calling her on the phone and giving her a piece of your mind.” Mann paused, letting this sink in. “Battle of The Exes will give you the chance to win back some money, stay afloat, and most importantly to put that gold-digging bitch in her place.”

Hmm. What Mann said was true. I was powerless to enact any revenge on Tonya for all she’d done to me. The law was on her side. Perhaps the new show would provide me with a way around the system, so I could finally, once and for all, tan Tonya’s hide.

“Hypothetically … when would the show start?” I asked.

“As soon as possible,” Bill Mann said. “The producers want to capitalize on you and your ex-wife’s sensational ordeal while it’s still hot. Once I have your signature, the show could air as early as Friday night.”

Something didn’t sound right. I scratched my chin, moaned from the pain this minor movement brought to my entire beaten face, and tried to determine what I was missing. Then, it came to me.

“Friday? Bill, how can they air the show so soon?” I said. “Wouldn’t it take a couple weeks at least to find a location for these so-called events, not to mention build the sets?”

“There’ll be no need for any set construction, Eddie,” Bill Mann said, then hesitated, perhaps expecting the dissuading effect the final detail would have on me.

“The show will be filmed at your former home,” Mann said. “At 55 Bedworth Drive.”

[Eddie08]

A temporary waiver of conditions related to my restraining order came through, and hooray, the show was on. I could now finally confront Tonya—legally and on my terms. I picked up supplies I would need for the show and then returned to my former home at 55 Bedworth Drive at 7:30 for makeup in the well-lit kitchen, and then going downstairs with my duffel bag to claim the finished basement as my home base, I suited up to battle Tonya.

At 7:55 p.m. I won the coin toss, and smirked at my ex-wife and said, “I want to shove a banana down your throat, big-mouthed bitch, so I choose Food Fight.”

She put her hands on her hips and glared at me. She wore a black blouse, red sports skirt, with no stockings, and thigh-high black boots featuring four-inch stiletto spikes.

I looked up from those spikes, at her staring at me, her glare now a smirking smile.

“I’m glad you chose that event, little pervert,” she said, then turned to the cameraman, her connection to the outside world. “I’ve got a surprise for loser ex-hubby in the refrigerator.”


With cameras rolling, our first battle begun, and I sprung into action.
From the kitchen counter, I grabbed a banana from the fruit bowl, seized Tonya’s wrist and pushed her against the refrigerator.

“You want the whole world watching?” I shouted. “Here, take this!” And I grabbed behind her head with one hand while my other brought the banana up to Tonya’s lips. “You’ve got a lot coming your way, movie star.”

Tonya shrieked then stomped her booted heel down on my foot. It shocked me how that worked but the pain was instant and I recoiled in pain.

Tonya skipped forward and brought the toe of her boot up into my nuts.

Oww.

I dropped to my knees.

Tonya wiped her hands together, then stepped forward and grabbed my hair.
She yanked me to the kitchen floor.

“No!” I roared, rolling over, trying to get the production assistants or cameramen or someone to intervene. “Let’s start over—I slipped.”

“Slipped, my ass,” Tonya said casually, then seized my hair again, twisting my head, my neck straining, straining until my spine relented and I rolled onto my back.

“You bitch,” I stammered.

Tonya shuffled forward and kicked me hard in the chest. “Ohh, how dare you!” she cried. “Don’t you ever call me that. Fuckface!”

My chest … Oh, god, how it hurt.

Tonya turned to one of the cameras. “Want to know why I call him fuckface?”

No one answered.

“Of course, you want to know,” Tonya answered on behalf of all the people watching.

She turned and opened the refrigerator door, reached into one of the cabinets on the inside of the door. When she looked down at me again, she held a tiny jar of something. It had a black and gold metallic top, the glass below was transparent; inside I saw hundreds of small round black objects in some kind of blackish gel.

“No,” I panted. “Tonya, what is that?”

Tonya mewed, then started to twist off the top. She had strong little wrists and she got the airtight lid off with a popping sound. She brought the open jar to her nose and sniffed.

“Ahh, caviar.”

I sprang and was halfway to my feet, when Tonya drove her leg forward, the heel of her boot punching my chest, sending me back to the floor where the back of my skull struck the linoleum hard. Stars sparkled in the edges of my vision.

I tried to get up again, couldn’t. Too dazed. Must rest, then—

Tonya stepped over me, then positioned herself so she had one boot planted on the floor just outside each side of my chest. She leaned over my face with the jar and brought it inches from my nose and mouth.

Gotta move. I heaved, preparing to roll into her leg, knock her off balance.

Tonya tipped the jar over and the caviar spilled all over my face.

I shook my head and spat, while Tonya laughed heartily.

My hands came up to brush the fish eggs out of my eyes, and that’s when I saw Tonya pulling down her skirt, which she promptly kicked off, right into the lens of the nearest camera.

“Good old fuckface,” Tonya said, then turned around so her black-pantied ass hovered above my head.

She sat slowly—I took a good long breath, choking on a bit of caviar, then watched helplessly as my ex-wife’s tight, freckled ass descended farther, and farther, until finally her cheeks were squashing the fish eggs all over my face. She pressed, and her anus covered my poor broken nose, her pungent other slant busying itself on my lips.

Tonya bounced, humping my face.

“Weeee!” Tonya cried. “Take that perverted, foot-fetish fuckface!”

[Eddie08]

Tonya’s sitting on my face was an easy sleeper-hold maneuver for her. Deprived of oxygen, I quickly passed out, while Tonya continued to pound me with her pudenda, her vagina forming an air mask over my face, only an air mask set in reverse. She was in essence draining me of my final breaths with each pounce. When I came to again, I spat out, “Mercy.”

Tonya got off of my face, then standing up she kicked my face with her leg-long boot. My head lolled to one side.

“Nope, no mercy,” she said. “I told you already—I’m going to kill you.”

My hands rose—with a swipe, Tonya kicked them back down to the kitchen floor.

Gotta keep trying. She was going to kill me.

“Mercy,” I spat again, rising.

“You’re disgusting!” Tonya hollered, charging me, both palms coming up to my face, one hand catching me under the chin, her other whacking the bridge of my already broken nose. Again my head cracked against the floor.

Tonya stepped on to my face, and stood, her boot heels pivoting, pressing, smashing.

This is all being filmed. But would they really go this far on TV, show my destruction to the world, under the guise of comedic reality series?

Tonya’s boot spike poked at my mouth, I tried to turn my head away, but she guided it skillfully to my lips, then broke down my ‘gates,’ and I was sucking on her spikes like they were a good cigar.

“Do you give?” Tonya said. “One nothing Tonya?”

I didn’t answer.

She didn’t like that. I was supposed to have answered. Her boot heel belted my face.

More stars.

“Huh?” Tonya asked, high above, running her fingers through those fucking scraggly curls. “The scorekeepers are waiting.”

“The gloves are off,” I managed to hiss at her. “I’m going to kick your ass in the next event.”

“And that sounds like a submission by Eddie, and Tonya takes a one to nothing lead,” the show’s off-camera narrator said.

Tonya returned to the refrigerator, and removed another foreign food object. I strained my head to see what it was, but by the time I got a decent look, Tonya was on me, thrusting her hips forward, down on my chest. In her slender athletic arms, she held the piebox high over her head.

“I concede the event, Tonya. Get off. You won.”

Tonya licked one of her fingertips, then hopped back so she landed on my belly. She placed the box on my chest.

She carefully, skillfully, pried at the top, and was rewarded when it came off neatly for her. Using both hands, she removed the contents and held them over my already food-mortified face.

Quiche.

“Know what it is?” she said sweetly. “Smell it?”

I knew. God, I knew. I told you she was smart, but she’s also very wicked. This was the second foodstuff that my ex-wife had brought out and known I detested. She was going to make me eat things that she knew from being married to me for ten years would make me want to vomit.

“I dug out an old recipe from my catering business days, baked it myself,” Tonya said. “You know, to sort of celebrate my victory in the first event.”

The smell was making me gag. Why did it have to be quiche?

“Stop!!!” I screamed.

Nobody came to my rescue.

I guess No doesn’t mean No.

Certain not to Tonya, it doesn’t.

She tipped the quiche over onto my face, and some of it crumbled, into my eyes, my nose. I coughed.

Tonya giggled. “I’m winning one to nothing.”

Some of the eggs slipped into my mouth, sticking to the back of my throat.

“And now you have egg all over your face,” she said.

[stivalo]

this television stuff is pretty good :)

[Eddie08]

In her black, ultra-violent boots, Tonya trampled my chest for twenty minutes, squishing the foodstuffs she’d poured on me, turning the caviar and quiche into a paste that coated her soles.

Yuck.

She marched and pounded on my chest.

Then stood on my head and wiped, manufacturing more paste upon my face, her boot soles really grinding.

I grabbed her heels, yanked. Oww, mistake as Tonya’s heels dragged across my face, slicing, but at least it had gotten her off my face.

“Don’t touch me,” she said, reclaiming my face as her pedestal.

I left her booted ankles alone.

“You’re pathetic,” she said and remained standing on my face for a couple of minutes.

Finally, she stepped down from my face and onto my chest, bringing an oomph from me.

She spun to face me, then stepped away, waving goodbye.

She walked out of the kitchen, into the atrium and then was gone.


I slept off and on, right there on the cold kitchen floor. My breathing was ragged—all of my ribs ached … I think a few of them were broken. Yeah, I slept, but during those few hours, my nightmares continued and I jerked myself awake several times.

Then, just when I thought I was dozing off for good I heard the slam of a door inside the house. I rolled my head to the side of the floor to look. My brain registered a foul smell coming from linoleum, and perhaps from me, but the sight and sound of Tonya trotting toward me barefoot, and then whacking me across the mouth with her foot had me focused on more critical things.

Such as defending my life from Tonya.

She’d come back out on the warpath, kicking, another right across my brow, wearing nothing but an aqua bikini that complemented her eyes. The vicious boots had come off, but now I had another concern.

She looked REALLY pissed off.

She let out a high-pitched cry every time her bare foot connected with my grounded face, kicking, kicking, until my face was puffy, my eyes kicked shut.

“Eew,” I heard her complain. “I stepped right in that shit I made you eat.”

I tried to pass out, I didn’t want to have to experience this all over again. Not tonight. Not on fucking live television.

“Help!” I croaked.

“There’s no help for you,” Tonya said, kicking my face again, her toes climbing over my eyes and nose and flexing, her heel punching my mouth. She placed her heel on my lips. The bottom of her entire foot was speckled with clumps of quiche and caviar.

“That’s really disgusting,” Tonna said, flexing her toes again. “After you’re done licking the eggs off my feet I want you to wash my entire kitchen floor,” Tonya said.

Her foot slid over my face. “That’s right. Lick it all off and then swallow. Isn’t it disgusting?”

Disgusting wasn’t the word.

This was an atrocity.


My whole body trembled as I ate the mess from Tonya’s soles, one slurp and swallow at a time. Then when I had almost finished, she took a step toward the door, posed, one foot dangling behind her g-stringed ass. I stared at her freckled ass cheeks, hypnotized.

She swung her foot to get my attention.

“Come on,” she said. “Last time today, I promise.”

I struggled to my knees, brought my face toward her heel. It still wasn’t clean. She’d stepped in some more quiche—a big clump of it.

“Lick it off,” Tonya ordered.

I slurped the cooked eggs, now cold, from her heel.

Tonya took another step forward, I scooted in to follow, only to be met by her other foot as she swung it behind her. Her cute little kick stung my cheek, more eggs flew into my face, my eyes.

“Lick it clean,” Tonya said.

I obeyed but not without complaint.

“Wait until the next event, Tonya. I’m going to get you, biihh—”

“Aaahh,” Tonya cried, skipping forward, her opposite foot coming up under my chin to smack my mouth. “What did I tell you about calling me that name?”

She held her sole against my face, balancing herself perfectly, her foot pressing on my broken nose. Then, she wiped the last of the multi-species egg paste onto my face and padded barefoot out of the kitchen.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the show’s narrator cut in suddenly. “Tonya Tunney has taken the first event in convincing fashion. She really hurt her ex-husband over there by the refrigerator and then it was all downhill for Eddie Espinosa, who truly did get egg on his face tonight. This is Ron Reglund signing off for Battle of Exes and we’ll see you right back here, same time, same channel, tomorrow.”

“And cut!” someone else shouted.

I struggled to my hands and knees, then rose and started after her, only to slip on something slick—the quiche no doubt.

I crashed to the floor, where I lay in a heap, my face, arms, clothes covered in the foul-smelling paste that Tonya had stamped into me. I lay there for another several minutes, motionless, barely breathing, until at last one of the production assistants, Matt, wearing a pair of yellow rubber gloves, helped me off the floor and then helped me find my way down to the basement where I could shower and spend the night.

“We figure you’ll be safe down here,” Matt told me. “We’ve equipped the room with supplies you may need—toothpaste, toothbrush, soap, towels, et cetera, but what’s really important is you not try to drive back to your apartment tonight after the beating you just took.”

I sobbed, squealed, choking out, “But what if Tonya comes down while I am asleep? Holds a pillow over my face?”

“She can’t. It’s against the rules. She can’t touch you until tomorrow’s event.”

Matt started up the stairs.

“Use the time to recuperate,” he said.

[supy76]

wauw.. you are gifted. excellent story m8. please keep up.

[Eddie08]

I struggled out of bed the next morning, glancing at the clock, even that small movement bringing a sharp pain in my neck.

Ten a.m.

I went upstairs, into the kitchen. The scene of last night’s crime against me.
I’d not cleaned the floor as Tonya had tried to command, and I could see clumps of dried quiche and caviar still on the floor. By the counter stood a stranger—a mocha skinned woman, with long curly black hair; tall, pretty. She wore a peach color t-shirt, tasseled jean skirt and was barefoot.

Tonya sat on the counter itself, spooning yougart into her mouth.
“All right, boys, roll’em,” she said, replying with her mouth full. I had always hated that about her. A couple times I’d even called her a name. Barbarian.

Matt entered the room. “I’m the one who says when we Roll Em,” he shouted, waiting a beat and then—“And roll em.”

Extra light was introduced, and we were on the air. Tonya said to Matt, “I want to pummel that asshole ex-husband of mine some more, so Barefoot Basement Kickboxing.”

I jerked and hissed at her, “You’re on!” I had a quick mental picture, of me swinging Tonya around by her hair, then tossing her, toward the basement wall—

“Oh,” Tonya said suddenly. “Matt, did I introduce you to my roommate Beth?”

So that’s who the mocha skinned woman was? Tonya’s lesbian lover Beth. I had an uncontrollable wicked thought that I approved of Tonya’s taste.
Matt stepped forward to shake Beth’s hand, and introduce himself as the site director.

“Aren’t you going to introduce me?” I said to Tonya, bracing myself by the counter. Tonya had been rude again, acting as if I weren’t even in the room.

Tonya didn’t make eye contact. “Matt, tell footlick here that I will not interact with him in between events. And he is not allowed to touch me, follow me, look at me for more than three seconds—pursuant my restraining order against him, and also tell him that I will happily reacquaint my foot with his face downstairs at eight o’clock when I stomp him in Barefoot Basement Kickboxing.”

I was nearly salivating for the chance to hit her. To pay her back for how she’d hurt and mortified me so many times over the past two months. To pay her for divorcing me and taking everything.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw her rocking her foot, high over the kitchen space. Right at face level. An offensive display to provoke me. I stole a peek at her sole.

It was filthy.

She flexed her toes, also coated in floor dirt. I could tell Tonya and Beth had been walking around barefoot all morning and possibly late last night.

Tonya reached down, pulling her legs in, and placing her heels on the rim of the counter, and with her fingers she stroked her own bare soles, then stuck her tongue out at one of the cameras.

Oooh. She was going to get it.

***

At eight o’clock sharp Tonya came down to the basement, still barefoot but now wearing a black leotard. She was followed down the stairs by a parade of cameramen. Husky fellows. Shit.

Gotta act now! I swung for Tonya’s head, but Tonya ducked out of range, her hips swirling, toned leg trailing, and she smacked her foot across my face, driving late with the hips for another punch of her heel, and grinding my neck back. My head hit the floor.

Just like that. I lost consciousness, and then I was back, huffing, wondering where I was?

Tonya’s feet were on my face, her heels pinning my chin to the unyielding concrete.

My hands rose in defense, but with one talented swing of her foot Tonya knocked both of my hands back down to my sides.

She got a toehold of my nose, then brought her other foot up, and stood on my face in a painful way, her strong pungent toes twisting my nose, her 130 pounds pressing on my skull and windpipe.

Tonya rocked, giggling. “Isn’t that a TKO, in like, one second? Isn’t that a record or something?”

She leapt.

And her heels came down upon my jawline, her toes squashing my nose.

Filth on my face, from Tonya’s feet, and then her toes pressed into my eyes, and she lowered her muddy sole over my mouth.

Like some stupid trained dog, I salivated and then extended my tongue and lapped up smudges of dirt from Tonya’s foot.

The laughter came first from the onlookers in the basement, Beth was one of them, and Tonya cackled as well then inserted her filthy toes into my mouth.

And then just as quickly she plucked her toes back, and then spun and seized my arms and tugged, and tugged, and lifted me to my feet.

I drifted in a circle, then suddenly realized this might be my only chance, and I swung at Tonya’s smug bratty face, missed, but managed to get an arm around her neck, I brought my hips into her, then tried to pull her around so I could put her in a bear hug.

Tonya’s elbow came up suddenly, into my throat. No sense going for the nose, she couldn’t possibly hurt me anymore there. But the blow to my air-pipe dropped me to my knees, and then, with further ado, Tonya kicked my face with her dirty bare foot.

“Two nothing Tonya?” she said, her hips swinging around the other way, the other foot whacking my head.


“Ladies and gentlemen, take your bets,” the show’s obnoxious narrator said, before heckling me again. “Tonya with a TKO in one second. I repeat—one second. That was a fine piece of fighting by our beautiful and talented contestant. You can take your bets, but with Tonya riding a two to nothing advantage, I’d bet on Tonya. Tonya, what do you have to say to the people out there?”

Tonya took a new stance upon my face. This time her toes were flexing on my chin, while she used her soles to pin my head to the basement floor. “Look, all I have to say is I’m getting paid two million dollars an episode to have my fuckface ex-husband lick shit off of my feet. And something I haven't told you yet, but because of the alimony agreement I get half of his measly take from the show.”

Huh? What was that?

“I can’t imagine a worst way to humiliate him. I mean, let’s think about it, forcing someone to eat all the house dirt from your bare feet.” Tonya did a quick victory tap dance on my face, and then amazingly reassumed her greedy toehold on my helpless face, her big toe and long one capturing my broken nose and pinching, clenching, her heels hovering a few inches above my mouth.

“You tried to punch me—twice—you fucker,” Tonya accused, with an evil chuckle.

“Self de--”

She stepped off of my face.

Knelt down then squatted on my chest.

Leaned down.

Spat on my throbbing nose, the expression on her dimpled bratty face one of hatred.

Pttt. Again.

Pttt. A spray this time, her spitballs were on my chin, lips, cheeks, under my eyes, in my eyes.

Pttt. A big one on my forehead.

I reached for her arm.

Her palm cracked across my face, whacking my left cheek, her fingernails pecking my lips. Bitch. I tried again to lunge at her.

Tonya palmed my face, pushing the back of my head back down to the basement concrete.

She rose to her feet.

“Time for my spit shine?”

I blinked.

Tonya laughed and then stepped on my face. “See, spitshine?” she said, capturing her balance, then pressing the dirty, smelly flesh of her now spit-slickened soles into my face.

“Lick my feet clean and I promise I’ll be merciful and swift in the third event.”

My tongue came out and took its punishment, Tonya’s filthy sole dragging over my tongue’s dry, dirt coated surface, Tonya’s saliva the only lubricant. I’d thrown up once in the middle of the night last night, and felt like I might again.

Tonya yawned. “But for now,” she said. “Lick them until they’re totally clean.”

She flexed her toes, then angled her foot and shoved her disgusting piggies through my lips, into my mouth.

Aaahh.

“I don’t care if it takes the entire episode,” she said.

She shifted her ankle, shoved her foot deeper into my mouth, her toes punching the back membrane wall, then finding my air passage. Plugging it.

Uhh.

More camera flashes, publicity shots; loud giggling from Beth, who then walked over and stepped onto my chest. Tonya turned to meet her—thank god, I thought, catching a breath--and each of them leaned their pretty heads forward and started to kiss—sensuously—as I had to watch after having licked the filth from my diabolical ex-wife’s invasive toes and feet.

[macrina]

Super work, thank you.

[Sauur]

This story just keeps getting better and better!

[supy76]

one of the best I read.. go on friend.

[Eddie08]

Through my partially closed eyelid, I watched them, swaying, holding each other, kissing deeply, so lost in their passions that they no longer remembered they were standing on my chest. It was as if for them their feet were no longer touching the ground, as if they were floating in ecstasy.

Meanwhile, for me, their dirty feet and combined 270 pounds were straining my already bruised ribs to the breaking point.

I licked my lips with parched tongue, and then said, “OK, you won again, Tonya. Time to take your girlfriend and leave my room. And Matt, call an ambulance. I think my ribs are busted.”

I could see Tonya’s pink-toned heels, still smeared with filth, continuing to press on my upper chest, while Beth, facing her, stood on my groin and belly. But at least my words stopped their kiss. Tonya turned to look down over her shoulder.

“What do you want foot sponge?”

I grimaced at the insult. Then the anger overtook me. “I want you to take your fish-tongue friend and get out of my dressing room … better yet, get out of my house while you’re at it!” I yelled.”This house is rightfully mine!”

“Why don’t you make us?” Tonya said, spinning around so her toes were crunched against my chin and throat.

“Yeah, why don’t you make us?” Beth echoed, standing behind my ex-wife.

Tonya frowned down at me, her hands on her hips, that fucking ridiculous leotard! Fucking bitch, I cussed to myself. I’ll get you if it’s the last thing I do. Then I caught whiff of something, searched, and there it was right under my chin: Tonya’s filthy stinking toes.

I rolled my chin on my chest, turned my head at an angle, and swallowed her toes.

Then I bit down.

Tonya screamed.

I continued to bite down on her toes.

She kicked my face with her free foot, a good shot, then another, but I refused to release her toes from my mouth.

“Let go of her!” Beth shouted, coming around and kicking the side of my head. Now they were both kicking me, and at some point, Tonya yanked her toes out of my mouth—without too much damage, I knew, because I couldn’t taste any of her blood, only the dirt that had covered her feet. All of the damage was being done to me ….to my already beaten face, my near-collapsed chest. The two women were teaming up to kick and stomp me, blood was pooling on my face, some of it from new lacerations, the rest from earlier wounds that the two women had aggravated.

“Don’t you ever bite me, you fucking faggot!” Tonya roared, kicking my face again, and again, and again, while Beth performed a giant leap and landed on my chest, bringing a sickening crack.


Sometime later, someone called an ambulance—I noticed the blinding red lights—and then two medics slid me onto a gurney and took me to the ER. On the ride to the hospital, they inserted a tube through what was left of my nose, and gave me a shot for the pain, but for some reason they didn’t notice or care about the copious amounts of spit Tonya had drenched my face with just prior to their arrival. I wanted to wipe it off, but the medics had strapped me down.

I remembered that bratty face getting really close, just as the medics had knocked on the front door.

“Next time, it’ll be a hearse coming for you, fuckface,” Tonya hissed, and spat on my bruised, puffy face. I heard Beth laugh and start up the stairs, and Tonya smiled wickedly, then lowered her head and spat again, her sputum covering my bloated left eye. Her lips moved to my right, and she treated my other eye to the same outrage.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the narrator said in a hushed tone. “Tonya Tunney has humiliated ex-husband Eddie Espinosa in this second event to take a two to nothing lead. A shocking side story—callers-in and fans online are talking about how disturbing it was when Ms. Tunney was able to get away with spitting in his face while he was so helpless—my lord, what a desecration! … that’s right, fans, the victorious ex-wife spat numerous times in her nearly unconscious ex-husband’s face … but more germane to the competition, folks, Tonya and her tag-team partner have inflicted a crippling amount of damage on Eddie.” Ron Reglund paused, then: “I don’t know if Eddie will be able to make it out of the hospital in time for tomorrow night’s event or if he’ll even be able to tell us what event he’d like to try … because our latest reports from St. Francis' Hospital tell us Eddie has a tube down his throat and our sources also say the two ladies may have collapsed Mr. Espinosa’s lung. All of us here at Battle of the Exes want to wish Mr. Espinosa a speedy recovery.

“This is Ron Reglund and good night.”

[macrina]

Great, thank you.

[Eddie08]

I ‘came to’ under the brilliant lights of a hospital room. My mouth was filled with something mushy that tasted like copper. Using my tongue I probed the object, there was one balled up on each side of my mouth—gauze, completely saturated with my own blood. Tubes were still in my nose, helping to oxygenate me. Intense pain shot from my ribs every time I took a breath.

A man in a surgeon’s mask leaned over me. “Hello, I’m Dr. Bergman. How do your ribs feel?”

“Terrible,” I stuttered.

Dr. Bergman nodded. “Yeah, well, you’ve had a rough few nights.” He looked back over his shoulder. “Nurse, more Tramadol—another 25 mgs.”

“Doc,” I managed, and Bergman leaned in close. “Why is there so much blood in my mouth?” I said.

Bergman cleared his throat, gave me a shifty indirect stare.

“Tell me,” I hissed.

Bergman sighed. “Mr. Espinosa, your wife knocked out four of your teeth … and loosened three others. As soon as we stabilize you, we’ll move you to a different wing where an oral surgeon, a Dr. Hedstrom, will attempt to reattach and stabilize them for you.”

My tongue probed my gum line. To my horror it found several gaps where when I’d last been conscious I’d had healthy adult teeth there. Some of my other teeth, my top right canine, for example, were loose. Fucking bitch.


I remained in the care of St. Francis’ Hospital for three more days, and only on my final day did I switch on the TV facing my bed to check on the world.
Well into my channel surfing odyssey, as the pain of my injuries shook me from jaw to kneecap to the top of my left foot where Tonya’s boot spike strike still stung, upon a final desperate click of the remote, I stopped and then cussed when I saw Tonya in a guest chair on The Morning Show.

The host, Missy Sanders asked Tonya how much real martial arts training she had done in preparation for Battle of the Exes.

Tonya’s bare leg wagged nervously, as she turned away from her host, stalling for time to come up with an answer. Yeah, bomb tonight you bitch, I thought.

Tonya clapped her hands together, laughed shrilly. “Oh, I’ve got it!”

The host watched anxiously as Tonya unstrapped her calf-high sandal.

“See here?” Tonya said, removing the shoe. Her toenails were painted a rubyish valentine red. Tonya had never worn nail polish when we were married. She plead with the audience, “Aside from the pedicure I got for the show tonight, my feet are really worn. Can you bring that camera in closer?”

Fucking. Shameless. Bitch.

Tonya’s foot took up most of the TV screen over my bed, her heels shoved in the faces of the world, her toes flexing. Her fingers came forward to stroke her soles starting at the heels. This time her feet weren’t dirty, but her soles were yellow in spots.

“Can you see all the callouses?” Tonya asked.

The female host didn’t even look.

“Those are from kicking the Wing Chun dummy I’ve been keeping in my basement.”

Some might see the bitch’s humor in that. But not me. I was going to get better and get out of this hospital prison, where I was now a prisoner to my injuries, and then I was going to get my ex-wife in the same place where I’d willingly massaged her feet hundreds of times over the years, and for which she had almost never invited me to fuck her afterwards.

Well, things were going to be different real soon.

I reached over for the bedside phone, croaking from the strain it brought my ribs, the tube tugging back on me, ripping at my nostrils. I got my hand on the phone, then remembered my smartphone. I looked for it, saw it on the counter on the other side of the room. I rang the nurse, and a few minutes later that phone was in my hands.

“Bill,” I said, getting my lawyer on the second ring.

“Eddie, I was just going to call you,” Bill Mann said. “I’ve just slapped Tonya with an injunction. Get this—she will no longer be allowed to tag Beth in to an event. She’s going to have to beat you woman to mano.”

“Bill,” I repeated. “Tell Matt, I’ll be ready for Sunday night. Tell Tonya I’ll see her in bed.”

“Excuse me?”

“I choose Bedroom Beatdown, Bill. Make sure you tell them.”

I disconnected and glanced back up at the TV screen where Tonya was showing the male guest who had now come on the show the fucking blisters on her feet.

[Eddie08]

It’s amazing how quickly a man can recover when he has a compelling objective. Three days after Dr. Hedstrom re-implanted my recovered teeth and stabilized the ones that were loose inside my mouth, and with my ribs still sore but on the mend, I left St. Francis’ with plenty of take-home painkillers.

I returned to my apartment and waited, waited for my return to 55 Bedworth Drive. It would have been nice to do some exercises to limber up after several days in the hospital but my aching ribs wouldn’t allow me to do a single push-up or sit-up, even after taking the drugs. I was forced to rest most of the day.

However, during some of my more lucid periods, I did go to a sporting goods store where I purchased a mouthguard … just in case Tonya landed another lucky shot before I pinned her to the mattress and harpooned her with every inch of fury I could muster. I also stopped at a hardware store where I purchased a power drill, the quietest one the clerk had to sell.

Back at my apartment, I called Bill Mann and his assistant fetched him. “Yeah, Eddie?” he said.

“Bill, I need a ride to the house tonight,” I said. “I need you to distract Tonya and the smuck Matt for a few.”

“Now, Eddie, what are you up to?”

“Nothing, Bill—it’s all legal, but yes, I do have a plan.”


While Bill Mann sat Tonya, Scumsucker, Matt, and the entire Battle of the Exes crew down to discuss some trumped-up condition he urged them to follow, I snuck upstairs, into my old bedroom that I’d once shared with Tonya, and then I moved a chair under the door to the attic, pulled down the ladder attached to the hatch and climbed up into the darkness, carrying the drill.

I found the light cord and yanked on it. A pale yellow light illuminated me and a narrow slice of the attic. I dropped to my hands and knees, searched the floorboards a little, then started the drill. Working quickly, I carved through the panel and into the bedroom airspace, then swiped the sawdust away. I glanced through the peephole.

Perfect.

I could see the bed below and most of the bedroom.

I glanced at my watch. 7:51 p.m.

Nine minutes, bitch, I whispered to myself.

I hustled back down to the bedroom where I returned the chair to Tonya’s vanity, then climbed back up into the attic where I switched off the bulb above me and waited for my ex-wife.

Within minutes, I was perspiring up in that hot, dark attic, but not once did I remove my eye from that tiny peephole, and at a couple of minutes before eight, Tonya strode into her bedroom. She stopped at the foot of the bed and glanced around suspiciously.

I saw her turn and then heard a door opening. The walk-in closet. Additional light spread across the bed and carpet below. She was looking for me—in that spacious closet where she kept her laundry and all those fucking shoes of hers. Racks and racks of them.

An odd time later, she came back into view, still uncertain, but now barefoot and wearing a white negligee. I could see something in her eyes, a recognition, almost as if she sensed my presence. Somewhere. Near.

She tried the master bath. I wasn’t there either.

Tonya returned to the bedroom and stepped up onto the bed. Crossing her legs, she sat upon the cover. She stretched for the bedside table and from the drawer removed a white bottle with a pump on top. I recognized it—her rose-scented body lotion. She pumped several squirts of the pink lotion into her palm and liberally applied it to the soles of her feet. I could see her flexing those fucking toes of hers, her nails lacquered red for The Morning Show … and for me in battle.

But never in love.

Tonya revisited the bottle, pumped some more lotion onto her fingers and slathered it all over her soles, kneading it in good.

I turned silently, vacating my spy hole, then crawled a few steps where I knelt just above the closed hatch leading to the bedroom.

To Her.

A final glance at my watch. 7:59:56.

One.
Two.
Three-----and I threw open the hatch.


“Bitch!” I hollered at eight sharp, dropping from the attic, purposely missing the steps, so that I would be on top of Tonya before she could realize what was happening.

I landed on the mattress just missing her legs, and the bed creaked and sank from my momentum, then I bounced a little, which was fine, because I then used the spring to launch myself at Tonya.

She shrieked, and from below I heard a commotion, the cameramen coming up, shouting. “Hurry up—it’s on!!!”

My hands found her wrists, and I drove my weight into her, my body bullying hers, pushing her down, my face over hers, my chest and legs covering hers.

“Now, how do you like it, bitch?” I croaked. “How do you like being on your back and—”

The cameramen burst into the room, their recorders on, followed by Reg Reglund with his microphone, and Tonya and I both turned for a moment. When I glanced back down on Tonya, I caught her smiling under those scraggly brown curls hanging down over her eyes. She looked like a wild woman, barbarian and unkempt.

“Don’t give me that smug look, bitch!” I shouted. “I’m on top now—”

Tonya rocked back, slipping her greasy rose-lathered legs out from under mine, lifting her feet behind me, her face contorting with effort. Realizing what she was trying, I scooted forward … too late.

Tonya’s legs wrapped around my waist, and she grunted and squeezed on my broken ribs.

I coughed and wheezed from the pain.

Behind my head, Tonya clenched her feet together, the toes of her bottom foot curling and pressing into the sole of her top one. She grunted again, tightening her grip on my battered ribs.

“Ahh, Tonya, let go,” I cried piteously, pawing at her knees, her thighs, trying to break the hold.

Her bratty freckled face, just inches from mine, formed a mischievous smile and then she let out a husky cry, turned her hips and scissored my ribcage with all of her womanly might. We both heard a crunch and I let out a desperate wail. Pure delight formed on her face in acknowledgment of her success, as my hands slipped off of her slippery legs and fell to the mattress.

She gave another hard tug on my ribs, and then retracted her legs. I lay there under her feet, wheezing in pain, clutching at my broken ribs only to discover that touching them only made it worse.

Tonya scooted forward so her crotch was behind my head, and then she applied her merciless scissor around my neck.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Reg Reglund said from somewhere in the room. “The beautifully lethal Tonya Tunney has got her hated ex-husband in a head scissor and it’s just a matter of moments before—”

I tuned Reglund out. I had to move fast, concentrate. Tonya’s powerful thighs were squeezing my neck, my jugular veins, part of her leg wrapping under to cut off my air pipe. In another second or two, I’d be asleep. With my vision getting fuzzy, stars in the corners of my vision, I looked for something I could grab, something I could exploit.

Tonya’s thighs were crossed over my belly, her feet cinched and pumping with each constriction, her heels grinding into my crotch.

“I’m going to knock you out,” Tonya said behind me, and then placed her moist, rose-scented palms over my nose and mouth, forbidding me to breathe, as her vise-like legs attempted to twist my head from my shoulders.

I gasped.

“Three to nothing, fuckface!” Tonya spat. “It’s going to be a clean” – she jerked and tightened her grip around my neck, bringing more stars – “fucking” – another quick sharp squeeze, darkness filling my world – “sweep!”

[macrina]

Fantastic, thank you for your great work.

[stivalo]

thanks! please keep it on :)

[Eddie08]

When I opened my eyes again the first thing I saw was the camera’s lens, its red light on; filming. Fucking voyeurs! On the bright side, Tonya’s “killer” legs were no longer wrapped around my neck. I tried to lift my head from the bed—

Oww, fuck! —the pain was too intense. The bitch had done something to my neck, crushed my upper vertebrae or something. I rocked onto my side, then crawled toward the edge of the bed.

I managed to get my feet down to the floor, then I lurched across the bedroom carpet toward the door.

“Where is she?” I asked the cameraman, who ignored my question but followed me, recording me for the show.

I turned angrily to face him, instant pain in my neck. “Shut that goddamn camera off—now!”

I saw the cameraman smile. With a growl, I turned back to the door and stepped into the corridor.

My lawyer, Bill Mann, was just coming up the stairs. When he saw me, he said. “Eddie, thank god, you came to.” Then, placing his arm around me and walking me down the upstairs corridor, he whispered, “She’s in the walk-in closet. I saw her go in there while I was watching on TV. Don’t know what she’s doing in there but she’s been in there a long time.”

I turned toward the bedroom door—oww, too fast—and I felt my eyes tearing from the pain. Tonya had broken some new parts of me with those fucking legs of hers squeezing my waist and neck. I re-entered the bedroom and tiptoed across the carpet, pausing just outside the door to the walk-in closet.

There’s no doubt in my mind that had I reached Tonya at that moment I would have put a hurting on her, despite my condition. In the closed quarters of the walk-in closet, where I could just bully her against the wall, overpower her and then grab a pair of her shoes from the shelves and whack her across that annoying freckled bitchy face, I definitely would have had some success. Problem is—I never got the chance.

From behind, I heard a war-like shrieking sound and wheeled to see Beth leaping up and onto Bill Mann’s shoulders, her thin but muscular, mocha-skinned legs immediately tightening around my lawyer’s throat. Beth squeezed and I watched in shock as Bill fell to his knees, gasping, while Beth made a devilish face and pumped her legs again.

“That’s cheating, Mr. Mann!” Beth hollered, tightening her grip. “I heard you tell Eddie where she was.”

This was all the warning that Tonya had needed, and I never got my chance to catch her off-guard. On the contrary, she surprised me. As I was turning back around toward the walk-in closet, her hard little fist caught me right on the mouth and sent me stumbling backwards, right into Bill.

Beth kicked me in the back of the head with her bare foot, then reapplied her head scissors to my lawyer. Oh, this wasn’t going well for the guys, I thought, and that’s when Tonya trotted over, high-fived her partner Beth, and then seized me by my scalp.

Not going well for the guys at all.

Tonya dragged me into the walk-in closet, then tossed me down to the floor where I collapsed like cabinet full of china.

I was still dazed from her surprise punch, and I remained on my belly for a moment trying to collect my senses, my scalp aching where she’d yanked my hair. Then, the ceiling collapsed… or that’s what it felt like.

Clunk! across the back of the head. I rolled onto my side to see what it was, and another hard object caught me perfectly on the nose.

A fucking shoe!

Then, in a torrent they all came raining down—Tonya on her tiptoes by the wall of the walk-in, sadistically sweeping all of her shoes down from the shelf, onto my body.

Clunk in the forehead by a pair of her high-heel sandals, smack across the bridge of what was left of my nose by her tan ankle boot, boom on the chest by indeterminate pair of somethings, thud by a familiar pair of mules that stayed together as they fell, smacking the side of my skull. I rolled onto my back cursing.

Tonya stepped from one side of the closet to the other, using my chest as a bridge and then as a stool so she could reach the adjacent shelf.
She swept more of her footwear down onto me, careful not to hit her own feet planted on my chest. Her pair of thigh-high burgundy boots did the most damage. The sharp heel unluckily poked my right eye out, and I closed my eyelids and did not open them for a while.

Only when Tonya knelt down upon my chest and held something over my face did I open my still-working left eye. She clenched the sole of the shoe, and was forcing the leathery scented inside down over my nose and mouth. I recognized the navy blue shoe at once—it was one of the shoes she’d worn during her appearance on Divorce Court. The interior of the shoe smelled sweetly sour, like a mix of sweat, urine and cowhide. I coughed and struggled, but my neck was too broken and stiff, Tonya’s knees too encumbering, the pressure she was placing on the shoe and my face too forceful.

“That’s right—are you getting this?” Tonya said, probably to the cameraman. “I’m making him eat shoe leather.”

I lay there and took it. There was nothing I could do.

Tonya sprung to her feet, leaving her sensible navy shoe from our day in court hanging on my nose as if it were a hook.

When she returned, she was carrying her laundry bag and it was teeming with used garments.

Oh shit, I croaked.

Using her foot, Tonya swept her shoe off of my face, then tipped the bag over and her dirty clothes began piling on top of me: blue jeans across my chest, a sock bouncing off my nose, brown pantyhose softly whipping my cheek then falling off to the side. She gave the bag another shake and—ahh shit—a pair of her light pink panties landed on my chin and remained there, followed by another sock, rolled up, which caromed off my brow. A damp T-shirt covered the panties, then a pair of damp shorts, probably from the same fucking workout.

She kept shaking her laundry bag—its contents limitless, it seemed—and soon heaps of my ex-wife’s dirty clothes covered my legs, chest and head. I was buried under the stench of female exertion with a scant trace of urine from the crotch of her panties.

I coughed, nearly gagging and a pair of Tonya’s white panties slid from my face. I heard her chuckle then felt her hand come down to remove a pair of black pantyhose that was also partially strewn across my face. I saw the bitch smirking down at me. In her hand was a white pair of pantyhose she'd picked out of the pile; they were balled up at the waist, with the leg and feet portions dangling down ominously.

She smiled contemptuously at me, and said, “You know how long this pair of pantyhose has been in my laundry bag, fuckface?”

I didn’t answer. I could only glare at her silently.

“Since after I kicked your ass in court,” Tonya answered, and she pushed the crotch portion of her pantyhose into my face, pressing, pressing, until my lips were forced open and—uhh—I could taste the crotch sweat and urine soiling the pantyhose’s reinforced front. The scent of urine was so strong on that front patch of white hosiery I wondered if she hadn’t pissed right through the silk before stuffing it into the laundry sack weeks ago.

“That’s right, fuckface!” Tonya shouted. “Swallow my smelly pantyhose! You know what that smells like?”

I didn’t.

“Victory,” she said, and collected the hosiery’s two dangling foot portions and shoved them inside my mouth as well.

I choked, struggling to breathe, unable to do so with Tonya’s victorious white Divorce Court pantyhose jammed down my throat.

She placed a foot on my face, forcing my lips shut completely under her weight, leaving me no way to cough or spit out the soiled, silken obstruction in my throat. Then, I felt her full weight upon my face, and through the diaphanous material, I could see that my ex-wife had placed her second foot over the first. Through the sheer white silk, her feet smelled like roses, the lotion she’d slathered onto her soles earlier.

Her pale, freckled arms rose in triumph.

“Three to nothing,” she said, announcing the obvious. “And for the fourth and deciding event in this four-game sweep, I choose Backyard Burial, Matt.

“You hear me, Matt,” Tonya spat, her strong toes pressing harder on my smashed nose, disgust spreading across her bratty freckled face. “Tomorrow, I am going to bury my ex-husband so I never have to look at his ugly face again.”

[Sauur]

WOW!!!! This story is literally beyond awesome! Five stars!

[smother sitter]

Your stories are alway great. Thank you for posting this.

[Eddie08]

I crawled out of that walk-in closet, my head, neck, back, limbs, every fucking part of me shooting with pain. But I didn’t fear the pain. The pain was good for it told me I could still feel. And if I could still feel than Tonya hadn’t yet crippled me for good.

It took minutes to reach the bedroom carpet, and another few to turn the corner of the bed, where across the tall plush carpeting, which to my slithering wreck of a body seemed like overgrown grass, I spotted Tonya’s girlfriend Beth still scissoring the head of my lawyer, Bill Mann.

Still?

She must have been at it for a half hour, her latest jerks and squeezes now overkill, for Bill had long-ago passed out, and now, I suspected, Beth was doing permanent damage to the guy’s larynx, pharynx, collar bone and whatever else he needed to speak and take in oxygen. Poor Bill. He would never argue a case again.

I tried to crawl past Beth, to the door leading to the hall, but Beth hissed at me, “Where do you think you’re going, piss-ant?” and she placed her pink-padded mocha sole against the side of my head, impeding my way.

I kept wiggling and crawling, like an earthworm trying to navigate around the woman’s foot. Beth slid her foot back in, letting me go … but tightening her hold around the already unconscious Bill Mann. “Go ahead, Eddie-boy,” Beth said. “Tonya will get you. She’s going to get you good.”

I swam farther over the dense, synthetic grass, over the base of the bedroom door, and into the hallway. Gotta keep going. Get out this hell house quickly. Recuperate.

It took me a full minute to reach the top of the stairs. I turned so that legs-first I could start down.

Then I saw her.

Tonya, scrambling out of the upstairs guest bathroom, still in that lacy, white negligee that caused me to gasp just seeing her in it. She’d killed thousands, perhaps millions of my brain cells wearing that form-fitting thing as she’d squeezed my ribs and then my neck to the point of fracture.

“Where do you think you’re going, fuckface?” Tonya snapped at me, bringing her red painted toes to the carpet, just inches before my face, curling them as if to show off her celebrity pedicure. I was straddling the top step, my legs already hanging over the gradual descent. I glanced up at her bitchy face, her freckled cheeks posed in a smirk. “Looks like you could use some help,” Tonya said.

I waited.

“Help down the stairs.”

No.

Tonya wound up and drove the top of her bare foot into my temple … the blow drove me backwards, and then I was bouncing and banging and sliding down the staircase. My head hit the wall, went through it, but that didn’t stop my descent, as I next landed on the back of my neck, then my rump, tumbling, tumbling, while Tonya laughed from above.

I got stuck on the landing.

Tonya padded down the steps after me.

I tried to turn and crawl, but my ex-wife was too quick and she leapt … and her foot came down on my wrist punishing the bone, pinning my hand. She curled her toes again, and I glanced up in agony, more from my neck than anything, and saw her smiling wickedly.

“No more,” I cried.

Her face turned angry, and she stomped her other foot down on my second wrist before I could move it away. “There’s a lot more,” she whispered, and it was then I saw the cameraman trotting down the stairs behind her, filming the whole vicious beating.

“A whole fucking lot more,” Tonya said—for the benefit of the audience this time—before she swung her foot back and drove it into my jaw.

Once again I was airborne—and then halfway down the second flight my spine collided with one of the jagged steps bringing an oomph and all new sickening break. I tumbled awkwardly, bouncing on my shoulder, separating it with an excruciating pop, then on my side, my elbow only partly breaking my fall, until the back of my head smacked down against the hardwood floor.

There I lay, my lower half slumped over the bottom three steps, my head and shoulders resting brokenly on the floor of the atrium below.

Tonya tiptoed down after me, gesturing for the cameraman to follow.

Grasping the banister for support, she stepped on my chest, then dipped her other foot down so it hovered just over my face. She flexed her toes.

“Still like my feet, hon?” she asked.

I choked in protest.

“What was that?” she teased.

“P-please stop.”

Tonya placed her sole on my face, and still gripping the banister with her right hand, balanced so she was standing on my chest and face. The pressure worsened the damage she’d already done to my neck and spine, while her bare sole humiliated my prone face for the cameras, her toes gigantic as they flexed tauntingly in my eye sockets.

“Tomorrow’s going to be the last day you will ever see my feet, darling,” my ex-wife said, shifting some of her weight to the banister so she could swipe her sole over my nose and mouth. Not just a single swipe, but a good stroking for the whole world to see, swipe, swipe, swipe, and a potpourri of scents that the watching world could not sense: a lasting trace of the rose-scented lotion, the pungent and slightly putrid odor of her foot sweat.

Swipe, swipe, swipe.

And then she hopped down to the floor and reached back to toss my legs over so that I crashed face down on the hard floor. Before I could even catch my breath, Tonya was kicking me—in the ribs, in the face, rolling me along the hardwood. Another kick to the ribcage and I reached the throw rug by the telephone table; she punted me again and sent me rolling toward the front door.

“Get,” Tonya hollered, kicking me again.

“Out.” Another kick.

“Of.” Another shot to the ribs.

“My fucking.” Yeah, another merciless kick.

“House!” Ahh, that one did it. My lungs. Can’t breathe, and I somersaulted until my head collided with the unforgiving front door.

Tonya stepped on my chest, and opened the front door.

She stepped off of me. I hyperventilated, praying that someone would put an end to this. If the shoe had been on the other foot … a man beating his ex-wife—

Tonya seized my hair and started to lift me off the floor, every bone and muscle and piece of cartilage in my body resisting but unable to do anything to stop her.

She got me to my feet, where dazedly, the room spinning, I teetered on the edge of collapse. Blurrily I met her gaze.

“Thanks for being such a sucker,” Tonya said, and then releasing my hair I saw her shuffle back, lift her right leg and before I could recognize what she was doing, her bare foot rose in a front kick to smack my face, knocking me outside, down the concrete steps and onto the walk.

Lying in a broken heap, stars blinking in my vision, I saw Tonya wipe her hands together with satisfaction and then twirl on her toes and slam the front door shut.

[Eddie08]

The next thing I knew I was in a car, racing down Main Street. I glanced out the window, my eyes partially shut but operational enough to tell me we were moving downtown. My attention turned to the driver’s seat where Bill Mann, his face purplish, was guiding the wheel with one hand while his other held a handkerchief to his bloodied nose.

“You back with us?” Bill said, glancing over at me in the passenger seat. “Stay awake until I can get you to a doctor.”

I nodded and closed my eyes.

Bill smacked my shoulder. “Stay awake, I said.”

I opened my eyes and tried to take a deep breath but the effort brought a sharp pain in my chest. “You OK, Bill?” I wheezed. “Your neck … it looked like you were—”

“Dead?” he said. “No, just angry. Really fucking angry.”


I don’t know what in the hell those doctors at St. Francis’ gave me, but the next morning I awoke in a heavenly fog, chuckling at the neck brace they’d put on me, my chest and extremities tingling with warm, fluttering pleasure. Ahh, the power of drugs. Sometimes they even make one have hallucinations.

When Tonya and Beth entered my room at 10 a.m., I thought it was just such a hallucination—both of them wearing tanktops and tennis skirts, Tonya in white, Beth in black. Mysteriously, none of the nurses were around; the hospital was silent, like a scene from a nightmare.

I turned to press the panic button but Tonya scrambled forward and beat me to it. She grabbed my fingers in hers and gave a quick jerk, and I heard a sharp snap that couldn’t have possibly have been my fingers for the pain was so faint, so remote, as if the broken digits belonged to someone else.

“What do you want?” I mumbled.

Tonya grabbed my chin so that she could look into my eyes; behind her Beth was stretching as if preparing for a jog.

“Beth and I have a doubles match over at the tennis center in an hour,” Tonya explained. “We challenged two schlubs from the network and we need a ball boy.” She squeezed my chin in her slender fingers, her nails digging into the flesh over my jaw. “Guess who’s going to be fetching the balls as we smear those two chumps all over the court?”

I opened my mouth and tried to bite the bitch, but she yanked her hand back and slapped my face filling the room with a sharp smacking sound, bringing an annoying tickle to my cheek.

“That’s right, fuckface!” Tonya spat. “You’re going to be our official ball boy.”

She let that merciless revelation hang in the air for a minute, then added: “And when we’re done kicking ass on the court and we’ve worked up a good sweat, you’re going to rub our feet.”

My frown was greeted with another hard slap across the cheek. “Got that? With everyone watching from the bleachers and on TV, you are going to massage my sweaty, former tennis pro feet.”

Tonya leaned in and grabbed a handful of my hair. Pulling me out from under the covers, off the side of the bed and to the floor where I barely managed to get my feet down before collapsing, she led me out of my hospital room, put me in a wheelchair and then rolled me down the corridor, out into the parking lot.

No one from the hospital tried to stop her. It was as if she had mesmerized the staff at St. Francis’ … just as she’d mesmerized every pimply faced adolescent who, through slanted eyes and shallowing breath, had been watching her on TV.

[macrina]

Thank you, great storie.

[Eddie08]

Confined to my wheelchair, I had to endure the spectacle of Tonya trotting out onto the stadium court … that flattering white tennis skirt of hers flapping, her calf muscles flexing, her socks and sneakers each a different shade of pink. She was trying to win over the audience, both male and female.

It was a hot day, the sun blistering over the stadium, but it was a good crowd on such short notice. Drunk men were calling out Tonya’s name; a few for Beth, too. I started to cry, for every part of me hurt, and the sun was roasting me. Advertising sponsors had suited me with their 'wears.' A cheap striped t-shirt, cotton shorts, sneakers—no socks, no hat. I felt the radiation on my face, burning all the bruises.

Tonya’s body was already laced in sheen, her ‘nest’ of hair damp and frizzy and back in a short ponytail. She scooted forward and slammed the ball over the net and past one of her male opponents. Just warm-ups but the unreturnable shot was probably an omen. I didn’t know how good Beth was, but the women looked more fit than their two male opponents, who kept batting the balls into the net.

“Hey, ball boy,” Tonya said, scratching her lower back. “You might want to position yourself on the loser’s side of the net—that’s where all the balls are going to end up.”

I wheeled the my chair across the court, quickly as I could, fearful Tonya would come over and beat me in front of the thousands of spectators inside the arena. I grunted as I reached down for the ball. Got it. Then I rolled myself back to the sideline, where I turned to face the action, and wait for the next netted ball.

It was still warm-ups. Beth served … a sizzler, and one of the male players got his racquet on it, got it over the net. A weak shot, but a surprising tally of Beth’s near-ace. Tonya charged, her ass low to the ground, then, at the last moment, she rose on her tiptoes and spiked the ball past the other dude.

“Let’s play,” she shouted, pounding her palm against the netting of her racquet.


***

“Here are the rules,” Tonya said into the microphone, her voice amplified for the crowd, for television viewers. “Beth and I have already agreed to let Mr. Stark and Mr. White take us to dinner if they win. If they lose, they have to get on their knees in front of all of you and rub and then kiss our feet for fifteen minutes.”

On the other side of the net, Mr. Stark and Mr. White waved her off. “Bullshit!” one of them shouted.

Tonya jogged into position, and one of the ad sponsors came onto the court to relieve her of the microphone for a while.

Beth tossed the ball skyward, her body torqued and she slammed the fuzzy yellow rubber ball on a line past Mr. White.

Shit. It appeared as if Beth had been saving herself during warm-ups, and that she had a killer serve. I thanked what was left of my lucky stars that I wouldn’t have to go after the backstop shots. That I wasn’t the one playing against them.

“Ha-ha,” Tonya taunted.”Fifteen love.”

“Not over yet, pretty lady,” network executive Michael Stark said to my ex-wife.

Beth whacked the ball. I barely saw it, and neither did Mr. White. Another ace.

“Thirty-zero,” Tonya shouted, then chuckled. “Get ready to rub my feet, Mike.”


It was embarrassing. Never before had I seen a woman … or women … so thoroughly dominate men in a feat of athleticism. The ladies took the first game, then built a 5-0 lead with Mr. Stark and Mr. White not faring to well in the hot sun, against the athletic former tennis pro, Tonya, and her lover, Nubian Amazon goddess Beth Wood.

“Six-love … set goes to us,” Tonya announced. She always had to rub it in, state the obvious, at parties and now in front of big crowds. I was glad I wasn’t out there playing against her, and was glad I was no longer married to her. In fact, right after the few million from the show was mine, Tonya’s cut included, I was going to get the fuck out of this town, out of this state, go start over. Forget about my ex-wife.

Tonya served, and it sent Mike Stark fetching … he got his racquet on it but the ball bounced limply on his own side of the net, and settled under the fishnet.

I rolled out onto the court, picked up Tonya’s winning ball, then wheeled back toward the sideline.

She grunted on her next serve, and the ball had a lot of backspin—Mike Stark nearly paddled himself in the face trying to return her slow, deceptive curve, and while his face was spared injury, his ankle was not, and the slightly overweight man collapsed backward onto his butt, groaning in pain, holding his sprained lower leg.


The audience applauded as Mike Stark, the best player on the guy’s side was helped off of the court.

Tonya was up by the net, speaking to John White, a balding man in his fifties, about what would happen next.

“He can’t go on,” White was saying. “Let’s finish the game another time.”

“With all these people watching?” Tonya said, into the microphone this time. She was appealing to the crowd. “These hard-working people who are paying their hard-earned money to watch us play? Really?”

“He sprained his ankle, Tonya. You tell him, Beth.”

Beth shrugged, then said, “Why don’t we get the cripple over there to fill in?”

All three of them glanced over at me. Slowly a smile formed over Tonya’s face.

“No way,” White crowed. “He’s damaged goods, too. How about I call Ric Blaze in sales—”

“No!” Tonya spat. “Not if you want a chance to take Beth to dinner. It’s gotta be Wheelchair Eddie.”

White stared at Tonya, then at Beth in her tight black duds, then back at Tonya. “All right, but under one condition.”

“What’s that?” Tonya hissed.

“If Eddie and I win, I get to take both you and Beth to dinner and then you both have to come to my apartment for a nightcap.”

“Done,” Tonya said. “Beth, you OK with that? It’s not like they have a chance in hell?”

Beth stomped her sneakered foot down into position, then the other. “Let’s finish these pussies.”

The euphoric painkillers has worn off some, but I still had a bit of fight left in me. I rose from the wheelchair, picked up Mike Stark’s racquet, and hobbled onto the court.”

Tonya said, “John, tell your fuckface partner that it was Mike’s serve, so I guess that means it’s fuckface’s serve.” She guffawed at the notion of me serving. “I gotta see this,” I heard her whisper, studying the racquet in her fingers.

Angrily I tossed the ball up and smacked it, my neck screaming in pain, its voice exiting my mouth in a shriek. The ball flew into the net.

“That serve was as limp as your dick,” Tonya cried for all to hear.

I rushed the next one, wanting to drill the ball right through Tonya’s mocking face, instead hitting a floater that Tonya camped under and thumped right back at me ninety miles per hour. Ptt. Off my forehead. I blinked.

Then fell.

“Ha-ha-ha-ha,” Tonya gloated, her voice trailing off in a squeal. “Fifteen love. Try again, fuckface,” she spat.

I did try again, and failed. Still playing like a professional, Tonya belted my next three serves through gaps in our defense and the ladies took the first set, fifty-love.

We moved to change sides, and as Beth passed me along the sideline, she ducked her head toward me and spat. Right in my face. Spraying my nose, her spit was smelly, like stale milk or something worse.

Again, Tonya haunted me with her high-pitched laughter. “Good one, Beth. Wish I were in range. Your serve, girlfriend.”

Ace.

Ace.

John White’s return landed in the net.

We all stared at the ball.

“Well?” Tonya called to me, a smug look on that bitch face. The sun had fertilized the patches of freckles on her face, spotlighting the sheen covering her face, the lather on her well-toned limbs. “Aren’t you the ball boy?”

I walked toward the ball, taking my sweet ass time. Then, trying to move quickly I picked it up and fired it at Tonya’s head.

The shot missed her, and she placed down her racquet and ran toward me—her eyes focused on the net for just a second as she hurdled it—then bore down on me before I could finish saying, “Tonya, we’re in the middle of a match—”

Tonya’s fist belted me across the side of the head, her sweat-slickened knee came up into my groin, her elbow swung into my skull—by my ear. Owwwww.

I fell onto my back. Ears ringing. Flashes from the sidelines and stands.

Tonya stepped onto my head, one foot at a time, her sneakered feet forcing my skull at a weird angle, leaving it so my eyes could read her sneakers’ treads.

The crowd was oohing.

Fucking bitch!

I grabbed Tonya’s ankles, my fingers tracing those damp, pale-pink socks. A method to my madness: my thumbs found the nerve under each of her ankle knobs.

“Don’t touch me!” Tonya spat, and stepped off of my face. Too late. I’d missed my chance to hurt her. Oh, the pressure had been great. Oh, she’d smooshed my face. Stars twinkling all around me. I got up, just in time for live play.

Mr. White’s serve. He built a thirty-love lead, acing Beth once, and then forcing her to hit it into the net. Tonya glared at me, waiting.

I jogged around the net, knowing I’d not be able to hurdle it as Tonya had. I tossed the ball to the sideline, then returned to my side of the net. God, give me just one good shot at her. I didn’t deserve this. No man did.

White served, Beth smacked the ball at me, I deflected it toward Tonya. Tonya charged the net and hit a scorcher that whistled over the net, bounced, and hit me in my nutsack before I could even bend over.


I endured Tonya and Beth’s comeback. Thirty-all. Thirty-forty. Game.

God, where are you?

“Six love, one love,” Tonya squealed. “Can we get that on the scoreboard?”

And as if by magic, the digital scoreboard came to life, showing the ladies’ lead.


“You know you’re going to have to fill in for Mike on my foot massage?” Tonya said, with the score six-love, five-love, one more game and it was over. A total fucking domination. I couldn’t stop the tears of pain, shame, and self-pity from flowing. And the embarrassment, which I considered a separate category. What was happening here was even more embarrassing than anything Tonya had done to me before, especially on account of the lesson she’d taught me after the first game, second set. Hopping the net like that with everybody in the stands and on TV watching. Me cringing in fear as she’d punched and kicked me onto my back and then stood on my fucking face in her dusty, grit-covered sneakers. But even more so, it was the dread of what I knew would come later this evening, when Tonya said she’d finish me for good in an event called Backyard Burial …


Tonya served and I sprang toward it, my hip giving out, then my knee, all from previous beatings, and I collapsed to the floor of the court with nothing to show for my efforts.

“Fifteen love,” she said, with a slight pant. “Hurry up and get up—I’m about to serve again.”

A few seconds later, I was leaning, unable to balance myself, the sun, the heat, the lack of fluids and my numerous injuries wearing on me like day at the crucifixion.

The ball hit me in the throat. Uhh. A high velocity shot. I choked and dropped my racquet. My hands shot up to my windpipe.

“Ha-ha-ha, ha-ha-ha--”

I caught my breath. Picked up my racquet. Bent my knees. Her serve came and I nailed it, right back at the bitch. She scuttled back, then drove her hips forward and launched my return right down the middle.

“Forty zip, fuckface.”

Then—

Ace. A perfect screamer beyond my clumsy diving forehand.

“Weeee” Tonya squealed. “The ladies win! Six love, six love. What a ball-kicking we put on you two homos.”

I stared at her. “Look, who’s calling who a homo?” I muttered.

From the sudden flush of red-hot anger on Tonya’s sun-freckled face, I instantly realized what a mistake I’d made.

Tonya cleared the net, racquet and all, and chased after me, with me scrambling like a chicken with its head chopped off. She whacked my ass with her racquet, then caught me in an evasive turn, and kicked the back of my knee. The pummeled joint locked, creaking, creaking, and then I fell, elbows first, onto the concrete-like court.

I strained my head around—as the crowd shifted and murmured in an uncomfortable din—and saw Tonya unlacing her sneakers.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Beth now on our side of the court, rushing John White and shoving him to the ground. Without hesitation, she stood on White’s chest. A victory stance, and from this position Beth, too, began to untie her sneakers.

I crawled toward the sideline.

Tonya kicked off her sneaker and it bounced off the court and clocked the side of my head. She ripped off her second sneaker and threw it at me. It caromed off the same part of my skull.

I started in a different direction, but Tonya sprinted over and stood on my hands and wrists, in her warm, damp socks.

“Feel that? Feel how sweaty my feet got?”

Helpless, I let my eyes slowly climb Tonya’s legs, shiny and slick, sweat dripping down her calves … into the fabric of her pale pink socks; her white tennis skirt, pleated and flowery; her belly button exposed, pooling with perspiration; her nipples so soaked with exertion that they showed through her shirt and sports bra.

She pivoted her hips and slapped my face hard.

The crowd oohed, more photographic flashes from throughout the arena.

Another slap—with her other sweaty palm.

Then, a lift of the leg, my hand free but unable to come up in time, and Tonya’s socked foot putted me under my jaw.

I tumbled onto my back.

Tonya stepped onto my chest. My head lolled in defeat and I could see Beth now standing in her black socks on Mr. White’s face.

Oh, the humiliation. I am so sick of this smelly c—

Tonya stepped onto my face, her pink socks drenched in sweat. A rubbery synthetic odor from the inside of her sneaker mixed with the stink of workout foot odor. She flexed her toes; giggled.

“Hey, someone want to bring me the microphone?” I heard my fucking gold-digging ex-wife say.

Footsteps on the playing surface, someone approaching. Tonya flexed her toes again, grabbed the mike from the kid who’d fetched it, then said, more loudly this time, amplified by the stadium PA system. “Man, it is hot. Lucky for these two turds, we didn’t have to work too hard—I’m sweating like a pig as it is.”

Another flex of her toes.

I endured …Tonya’s sweaty socked feet, receptacles for the run-off from the rest of her dripping body, pressing on my face, on my beyond-broken nose, on my unhealed orbital sockets.

Through her wiggling toes, I saw her bend down gracefully, her fingers peeling at the top of one of her socks. She brought one foot up and yanked the sock off. She repositioned herself on my chest, and in front of the thousands of onlookers, Tonya Tunney stuffed her saturated pink sock into my mouth.

An overwhelmingly salty taste invaded my mouth, my throat. With the same grace, she leaned down and removed her second sock, which she laid across my nose and eyes.

“This is what you’re going to be massaging for the next hour, fuckface,” Tonya said so everyone could hear. Then, she placed her left foot over my face, tiny pieces of wet pink cotton smearing my nose and lips like miniature sponges, additional pink toe jam dropping from between her tauntingly wiggling piggies and into my eyes.

“No-ohhh.… Mmmmmph,” I groaned.

“That’s right,” Tonya said with a satisfied chuckle, her other bare foot sliding over the top. “Get a good whiff of my sweaty, smelly feet.”

More camera flashes.

Help.

[Eddie08]

No one helped me, and the minutes passed like days, Tonya’s perspiring feet covering my face, her toes flexing in my eyes, her soles squishing my nose and upper lip … pushing her drenched socks deeper into my nose and into mouth, down my throat, causing me to gag. She was in as much control now as she’d been during the tennis match, her untouchable, sweat-slickened, pink heels anointing my lips lower lip and chin. She really had sweated like a pig, and her odor resembled damp corn chips, with a trace of rubber from her sneakers’ padded sole further gassing me.

“I’m going to let him up now,” my ex-wife told the crowd. She stepped off of me.

“It’s time for my foot massage,” she said with a chortle, striding away.

She returned seconds later, sliding one of those fold-up chairs until its rod-like legs were resting against my waist. To my left, I heard another chair being dragged out—Beth no doubt, ready to demand the same humiliating services from the conquered Mr. White.

And then, something was blocking the sun. I lifted my head slightly and focused. Tonya’s foot dangled just inches above my face. She was sitting in the chair with her right leg crossed over her left, shaking her dripping foot impatiently. Into the microphone, she said, “Massage my feet, loser.”

“No fucking way!” I spat through her sock in my mouth.

Sliding her ass forward on the chair, she stretched and wham, her foot clocked my face, driving my head to the side. Oooh, from the crowd. She followed with the other foot, just as hard, but in a downward arc, driving the back of my skull into the concrete. Another chorus of ooohs from the crowd. More stars.

Tonya chuckled, then raised her freckled leg so her sole was before my eyes, her slimy toes flexing, demanding attention.

“Rub. My. Feet,” she said emphatically for the audience to hear.

I swallowed, took a deep breath through my nose and brought my thumbs up to her toes. I began to knead them.

“That’s right,” Tonya said. “Start with my toes, and spend a minute on each one.”

Fuck.


Cameras flashed intermittently as I worked on the ball of her foot, both pads, the wrinkly moist center of her sole, and that putrid pink heel that instead of caressing I wanted to bite until it bled … and transfer some of my pain to her. But my hated ex-wife was in control. One wrong move and wham—her foot would sock me across the jaw, nose, or brow. Without resistance, my thumbs kneaded Tonya’s heel.

“My heel especially hurts,” she said. “It burns—I want you to spend at least ten minutes on it.”

My hands were getting tired—she’d broken a couple of my fingers back at the hospital … but when I paused to try to rest, to soothe my fractured digits, Tonya struck again—a hard hook across the jawbone. Aaaah. More stars still.

“Don’t you fucking dare stop massaging my feet again,” Tonya spat. “You can rest your hands during the press conference inside.”

Press conference? Shit—when was this nightmare going to end?

Tonya yanked her foot away, and brought it up onto her leg, so her heel was resting on her thigh. Good, I’d made it to her second foot, at least.

She examined her foot from ankle to sole. “No,” she said callously. “Not done yet. Start over.” And she lowered her right foot back over my chest. “Start with the toes again.”


There was a time, long ago, another lifetime it seemed, when I had enjoyed being with Tonya, enjoyed massaging her feet even. Our wedding night, for example, when we’d checked into the hotel right after the ceremony/celebration.

We were free of company at last, and Tonya had plopped down on the bed only to whine how her wedding shoes had made her feet kill. She’d sat on the foot of the bed and I’d removed her white shoes slowly and then gone to work on her ivory-stockinged feet. I remember that her hosiery had had a slightly sweet, perfumed scent to them. One of her dress maidens had sprinkled her with some kind of floral body spray, from head to toe, and it had played well with her nervous wedding-day lather. I’d massaged her feet for a half hour, it seemed, until she was smiling in ecstasy, and then I’d tried to climb on top of her and we’d wrestled playfully and I’d eventually let her straddle me. Her hair up … like that of a princess … but the scraggly locks starting to fall down … that smug freckled face, which at the time had seemed so beautiful, looking teasingly down at me before she’d shot me a wicked glance. She’d struggled out of her lace and silk white panties and rode me for fifteen minutes until I was as hard as a wood cane and she was as wet as a layer of curd, and when I’d exploded I’d told her I’d loved her, and she’d jammed her tongue down my throat and I’d kissed her until I was ready to go again—

“Hey!” Tonya’s foot whacked me across the cheek, returning me to my present hell. “Did I tell you that you could stop?”

I was exhausted by the time I started rubbing her second foot. By then, I’d noticed that Beth had left the court, probably to go into the locker room. Even the unfortunate Mr. White had peeled himself from the playing surface, tail between his legs, and gotten the hell out of there. The fans were drifting out, too. They’d seen enough.

“Start with the heel,” Tonya ordered. “Stroke my foot from the bottom up. No more of this weakling semi-circle shit, or I am going to kick your head until it’s splattered all over the concrete.”

I stroked Tonya’s feet sensuously, her red-painted toes curling in pleasure, curling, curling, as if taunting me for all they’d taken from me over the past several weeks, all they’d done to me.

And then she did something more evil than before—her other foot settled down on my face, her heel raised, toes finding my nose and clenching my nostrils shut.

“Massage!” Tonya barked.

I choked, unable to breathe. Her sock was still in my mouth, and her toes were now clamped down over my nose leaving me no way to breathe.

I kept rubbing her feet, hoping she’d let me breathe after a few seconds, but the seconds turned to a minute, and the minute to two, and my hands fell down to the court and the bright sun over my world went black.

***

I awoke in a dark, shadowy place, but not the blackness of unconsciousness. It was noisy—I could hear the din of conversation, of footsteps, of chairs being moved around. I was indoors somewhere. I looked around taking in my surroundings, noticing that my ex-wife’s smelly sock was no longer shoved down my throat.

I was under a table and Tonya’s legs were crossed above my chest, her top foot swaying.

“Yes—next question,” an amplified voice said. “Ms. Greenwood, go ahead.”

“Uh, Ms. Tunney—how did it feel to whip your ex-husband so thoroughly today, and what does this mean for women’s tennis?” the reporter asked.

I couldn’t see her face, but from above the edge of the table I heard Tonya clear her throat. “It. Felt. Great,” Tonya purred. “I think this whole past week of events proved today that two women can beat two men at just about anything.”

I tried to roll, make it to the opposite side of the table, but my ex-wife had a sixth sense about her and her feet reached for me, her toes stretching, and she collected my head between her bare soles and yanked me back then dropped my head to the floor of the press room. She flexed her toes. “Next question?” she said.

A male reporter this time; same question only stated differently: “Given the abuse you took for so many years at the hands of your husband, how satisfying was it for you today to be able to humiliate him with the whole world watching?”

Tonya wiped her sweaty, now dirty feet over my face, one at a time, alternating as she spoke. “Like I said, it was very satisfying. Now everybody knows that Tonya Tunney isn’t the property of Eddie Espinosa … it’s the other way around.”

A murmur from the room, the reporters exchanging words and amused glances, no doubt. Tonya continued to wipe her still sweaty feet over my upturned face.

“Where is your ex-husband now?” another reporter broke in. “Did they take him back to the hospital?”

A few in the room chuckled at this.

Tonya shuffled her feet, then pointed the toes of one paw and angled them toward my mouth. I turned my head, but her other foot got a toehold on my nose and jerked my head back toward her. I watched the muscles in her legs tensing, flexing, those fucking freckles dotting her calves and thighs. And then, her toes broke through my lips and she inserted her moist, filthy foot into my mouth.

“And are you worried he’ll claim counter-abuse?” the same reporter added.

Tonya cleared her throat again, and I sensed she was playing with that scraggly brown hair of hers, sweeping it back and away from those fucking freckled ears, buying herself time to answer as skillfully as she could.

“Knowing my ex-husband, I’m sure he’s cowering somewhere, licking his wounds. But in terms of his espousing his lies and trying to tell everybody that I’m the villain—” She paused, then really scooted forward in her chair, jerking her waist and then jamming her slimy toes down my throat, the tips scratching the back of my throat and then filling my air passage, and I was forced to watch in horror as Tonya’s glistening pink heel pivoted just above my eyes and nose. More of her slick foot corkscrewed down my throat as she said. “That’s why I’m also slapping him with a gag order right now as we speak.”

Uhhh-ut, uhh…

[Eddie08]

Ladies and gents--a moment out of character. I'll be mercifully wrapping this up (at least for the time being), probably on Friday. Thank you to Macrina, stivalo, Sauur, Smother Sitter, and other readers and spectators, as always for your support. It's an honor reading and writing with all of the folks here.

[smother sitter]

Alright, we see it all on Friday. Thanks again for keep us entertained

with regards

Smother sitter

[Sauur]

This is like watching the season finale of something. Your excited that the grand finale is coming but a little down that's its going to be over.

GREAT job once again! Love it.

[Eddie08]

It was much later when a member of the tennis center’s custodial staff found me. He’d removed the table cover, then slid the table out of the way and discovered me lying there on my back.

Under the table, where I’d been the whole nightmarish time Tonya had toyed with me … unbeknownst to the roomful of media members interviewing her. Tonya’s little joke in which she’d shoved her whole fucking foot down my throat while humiliating me with her tongue.

I was wrecked.

Utterly humiliated.

I hated her, and as a constant reminder of how much, I had to endure the stench of her foot sweat still tainting my face.

The janitor, an older, Hispanic looking fellow, helped me to my feet. “Hey, senhor,” he said. “You under there the whole time while you’re ex-wife shit all over you?”

I pushed past him, dizzily stumbling toward the exit.

As I exited through the gate, I saw Bill Mann immediately. He was with a bunch of other guys, and they were holding up big signs and banners: messages of hope.

Shoe’s on the Other Foot; Men Can Be Victims, Too!

Abuse is a Two-Way Street.

Free Eddie!

I recognized the acronym and crest of Amnesty International for Men, or AIM, a burgeoning organization whose purpose was to ensure equal treatment for male victims of political, domestic and random abuse.

AIM had its own set of groupie reporters, six of them, four of them men, two women. One of the female reporters was a tall, attractive blonde woman in her early twenties, wearing a baby blue dress and white stockings, black high-heel spikes. The other was a cute, neatly professional looking woman, probably early thirties, with librarian glasses and big hair by today’s standards, and wearing a red dress, nude stockings and matching red shoes.

Bill Mann put his arm around me and helped me to the center of the large gathering outside the stadium.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I think you all just saw what an injustice was enacted upon my client. On numerous occasions--” and Bill emphasized the word ‘numerous’—“Tonya Tunney has cruelly and unremorsefully maimed and injured her ex-husband, who wants nothing more than to be left alone.”

“Mr. Espinosa,” one of the male reporters interrupted, “do you plan to enlist the aid of Amnesty International for Men to stop your wife’s abuse, and how do think this will work?”

I didn’t answer. I couldn’t. As I tried to tell them ‘no comment for now,’ I choked, then coughed.

Bill Mann intervened. “I’m sorry my client is too hoarse because the custodial staff found him unconscious only minutes ago under the press conference table.” Mann gave the reporters a stern look. “Ms. Tunney used my client as a foot rest for the length of the conference against my client’s will!”

“Boo-oo!” one of the AIM’s all-male members shouted. “This is an outrage against all men!”

“Yeah, lock the bitch up as if she were a man!” another cried.

Another reporter broke in. “What will your strategy be, Mr. Mann, given that your rival, Gerald Sutton, and his client Ms. Tunney have seemed to have outmaneuvered you and Mr. Espinosa every step of the way?”

Bill Mann smiled. “I’m going to get my client’s case heard in a part of the country that is more sympathetic to the plight of abused men, in front of a jury who will protect my client’s constitutional right to life, liberty and property, all of which Ms. Tunney has taken from him.”

“Where will that be?” the same reporter shouted.

Then, suddenly—

“Look, there she is!” a man in the crowd cried.

I turned, and, there, coming out of the gate was my hated ex-wife. I growled in a mixture of fear and repulsion. The bitch was still wearing her tennis duds, sweat-soaked shirt, wrinkled tennis skirt and all. She was still barefoot and she came at me quickly while Beth aimed for Bill.

Tonya connected first, her hard, small fist against my already throbbing jaw. The blow sent me down to my knees, and before I could comfort my chin, I saw Bill Mann drop down beside me, the victim of a Beth Wood haymaker.

There was shouting from everywhere and several members of AIM rushed at Tonya and Beth, restraining them, cursing at them.

And that’s when all hell broke loose!

The two female reporters jumped in, lightning quick, showing no hesitancy to wallop the nearest man, to turn on their male colleagues. Two more men joined Bill and me on our knees, and I saw the blonde remove her spiked heel and whack one of the AIM guys reaching for her right across his face. He went down, blood immediately pouring from his nose.

I heard a clack, then another, and suddenly the brunette reporter in the red dress trotted over to me in her nude colored stockings. With an angry grimace, she thrust her hips forward, bringing her leg up … her moist, nude-nylon-colored foot connecting with my face.

Ohhhh, I heard my knees pop as I fell over onto my back. The blonde reporter in the white stockings scrambled over my chest, her quick stomp taking my breath as she towed one of the male reporters with her. And then she threw him. The man staggered and Beth was waiting … she kicked him so hard with her tall mocha foot that the guy’s face exploded in a spray of blood that splattered across the pavement.

The melee was so chaotic now I could only ‘sense’ what was happening. The women were cleaning house, dropping all the guys in the lot like flies, and I sobbed as overhead I noticed the news chopper with its cameras aimed down, recording us.

Uhhh, as a pair of knees dropped onto my prone chest, adding to the screaming pain that was already coming from the torn cartilage in my knees. I focused on the woman kneeling on my chest, on her bratty freckled face.

Tonya.

She leaned down and brushed her hair back.

I hated her with every inch of—

Tonya spat in my face.

She gave a disgusted look, then pinned those fucking scraggly curls back again, and spat a second time.

She’d hit both cheeks.

“There’s nothing you can do,” she whispered tauntingly.

Ptt. Her spit clung to the bridge of my thrice-broken nose.

“You can’t touch me.”

I heard a final pop a few yards away, one of the rampaging women dropping the last guy standing. The fight … no, massacre … had followed the same cadence as a bag of microwaved popcorn, and the poor bloke who’d just been felled was the final kernel in our roasting.

Tonya hocked. Ptt.

On my lips.

“Open your mouth!” she screamed at me.

Wham! I heard one of the signs being used to bash a fallen man across the skull.

Tonya gripped my chin in one moist palm, the bridge of my nose in the other, and forced my jaw open. Oww.

“That’s right,” she said, her latest looghie sliding over my lips and into my mouth. “Swallow my spit.” And, still cradling my nose and jaw, she forced my mouth shut, then open, then shut, forcing me to swallow. “Ha-ha-ha-ha-,” Tonya ululated. “All the way down.”

Helpless, I closed my eyes and waited for it to be over.

[Eddie08]

(Ladies and gents--gonna take a break. Will finish this as soon as I can--later tonight or in the new few days. Sorry about the somewhat short entry but I am exhausted. Peace.)

[Eddie08]

The women left me alone for a short but indeterminate period, the last of the afternoon sun doing their dirty work for them, roasting my exposed face, frying the copious amounts of Tonya’s saliva that covered my face. I was broken and exhausted … unable to peel myself from the stadium lot’s pavement. Then, for just a second, I thought help had come—someone reaching down to help me up—

“Come on, dear.”

No! Tonya’s voice, her use of the word ‘dear’ riddled with scorn and sarcasm.

Her gentle ‘helpful’ hands turned rough all of a sudden, and she cupped my chin while pulling my hair, jerking upward on my injured neck, forcing my hyper-extended knees into a standing position. I screamed in agony.

“Oh, don’t be such a sore loser,” Tonya spat, still clenching my skull in her hands, leading me across the parking lot.

We stopped next to a car. A bright-red Mercedes Benz CLS—the $100,000, fully loaded, custom wheels I’d bought her before I knew things would turn so sour.

Beth appeared and opened the passenger side door, and together the two women laid me across the front seat, the back of my head resting on the driver’s seat cushion, my lower body somewhat scrunched against the passenger’s side door. Beth got in first, as Tonya walked around the rear of the car toward the driver’s side, while my ex-wife’s girlfriend sat on my groin area, and then leaned back and stretched her legs, propping her dirty, mocha feet up on the dashboard. Then, behind me, the driver’s door opened. Tilting my head back slightly, I could see Tonya lowering her ass toward my face, the back end of her skirt darkened with her sweat.

Then poof—Tonya positioned herself on my face, and I was immediately assaulted by the sweet salty smell from her ass and crotch. She skirted forward a little, bringing my nose with her, then reached forward and started the ignition.

“Where to?” Beth asked.

“Home,” Tonya answered. “I think I’ll take the long way.”

She shifted the Mercedes into high gear, and we left the parking lot doing sixty, slaloming now and then to narrowly miss some of the men who’d been beaten senseless on the asphalt pavement, finally reaching the highway where Tonya revved it higher and higher.


Tonya slowed and pulled off the interstate, and I assumed we had reached the exit that would take us to Bedworth Drive. But instead of going straight home, Tonya said to Beth, “You hungry, lover? We probably won’t have time for dinner later.”

“I could eat,” Beth said.

Tonya pulled into a parking lot, letting the Mercedes idle, then after a short wait, she inched forward and opened the window. I heard the tinny sound of the drive-thru clerk’s voice: “Welcome to the Wrap and Salad Shack—how may I take your order?”

Still sitting on my face, Tonya said, “I’ll have a chicken caesar salad—” a pause, then, “—and can you put some extra onions on that?”

“Yes, ma’am,” said the clerk inside.

No! I huffed under my breath. Tonya’s ass cheeks were pressing the pleated wet fabric of her skirt into my face, the once pungent scent of her sweat was turning stale.

“How about you, Beth?”

“I’ll have the same.”

“That makes it easy. Two large chicken caesar salads … heavy on the onions.”

I swallowed, then tried to take a breath. Uhh. Fucking bitch.

The car lurched forward. We arrived at the window and Tonya paid the clerk at the drive-thru register and then parked somewhere by the exit leading to the main drag. I could hear the two women chewing, Beth still sitting at an angle on my crotch, her own tennis skirt wet and leaching onto my clothing, her feet still up on the dashboard, I knew, from the way her weight was pressing on me at a 45 degree angle. Meanwhile, Tonya, never a polite eater, was wolfing down her own meal, crunching especially loud on the onions, talking with her mouth full.

“You know after we ditch this fuck-faced loser, let’s go on vacation,” she told Beth. “Somewhere expensive and tropical where we can walk around barefoot in string bikinis and mess with all the guys who hit on us.”

“Sounds great,” Beth said. “Where did you have in mind?”

“Oh, I don’t know, maybe the south of France?”

“Count me in,” Beth said, through a mouthful of salad, chicken and anchovy-cream sauce.

Tonya stuffed more of her own entrée into her mouth. “Uhh-oh.”

“What?” Beth said.

Pfffffffffftttttt.

“The onions,” Tonya said, and they both laughed, their asses shifting and shaking, their bellies rocking with hilarity.

Oh, the smell. I don’t even want to tell you what it smelled like. It lingered for a couple of minutes and then just when the air was finally clear of my ex-wife’s horrible intestinal gas, she let loose another fart on my face.

Once again, the women rocked with laughter, and my hand came up to touch Tonya’s leg, but I didn’t have the strength to move her. She slapped my hand back down, and continued to eat her salad.


Tonya farted three more times, gassing me to the point of barfing. But I held it in, and before the air cleared a lust-filled, teenage employee who knew Tonya from her frequent visits to the establishment came out to chivalrously collect my ex-wife’s and Beth’s garbage. When Tonya rolled down the window, the clerk, probably stunned at the sight of the two women sitting on me, said nothing, but I knew he was there gawking down at the sickly sadistic scenario. Tonya handed him the garbage and I heard the kid cough from the foul gas escaping from the car, and even this admirer of my ex-wife had no stomach to stick around.

We left the parking lot and drove straight home. Tonya parked and as she got off of my face, her skirt bunched up and partially stuck in her crack, I noticed the camera flashes start up again.

She turned and grasped my hair, then pulled. The dashboard clock said seven.

Slowly I slid out of the car, headfirst. More flashes.

Beth came around to help, and within seconds the two women had me on my feet, walking toward the front door of the house.

“W-where are we going?” I stuttered. “Tonight’s event is outside … on the lawn.” I wanted a chance to grab the shovel, whack the bitch across—

Tonya brought her hand back, then forward, pivoting her hips and she slapped me across the face so hard I saw stars. “Don’t you think I know that, fuckface? I need to go inside first to take a dump.

“On your fucking face!” she spat.


Beth used the downstairs shower, while Tonya led me up the stairs toward the master bathroom, where just weeks ago she’d nearly drowned me in the tub. My heart had grown cold, my will to live had evaporated. The bitch had ruined me and now she was going to do something to me that even she hadn’t stooped so low to do before. I’d heard about guys who had weird fetishes like getting shit on by women, but never in my wildest nightmares had I ever fathomed the possibility it would be forced upon me. I was so weak that only Tonya’s firm grip on my chin and scalp enabled me to stay upright and climb the stairs along with her—but I had to do something to stop her. Now.

We reached the first landing, and she tightened her grip around my skull and gave a quick little incapacitating twist. I simultaneously heard and felt something in my neck snap, and my hope for escape was suddenly and dramatically reduced. Still, if I wanted to stop my hateful ex-wife from crapping on my face, I was going to have to muster some strength somehow….

At the top of staircase, I threw my hands up in a desperate swipe, and jarred Tonya’s hands free from my head. Nice! I had caught her off-guard, caught her thinking I was too beaten down to resist, and I quickly followed by bending my knees and rushing her, my palms coming up and striking her chest, sending her flying back, into the second-story balcony, and then over it—

Yes!

I watched my ex-wife soar over the edge, but then miraculously turn around in mid air and reach for the chandelier, her fingers locking on to its giant ring and then the whole expensive piece swinging away from where I stood at the balcony rail.

I watched utterly stunned as on the backswing, Tonya adjusted her grip and turned to face the second-floor landing—and me—her scraggly mop of hair still drenched with sweat, her face shiny from the tennis match and hot sun, her belly … her thighs … slick with her oils. At the last instant, her lower body jackknifed, and before I could take my hands from the rail, her feet slipped past my ears, her groin collided with my chin and she had me between her powerful, lithe legs, clenching, clenching, and then the chandelier/pendulum swung back, and over the rail we went, Tonya’s scissor hold around my neck the only thing preventing me from crashing to the floor.

“Try to push me off the balcony, fuckface?” Tonya hissed at me, her dribble spraying my face. Her powerful, warm wet thighs clamped down around my neck again.

Uhh.

She swung me back and forth, tightening her hold with each passing arc, her grip on the chandelier precarious at best.

Another tug from Tonya’s legs, and I nearly blanked out. Only in retrospect would I know that that would have been a blessing.

We were going incredibly fast, the chandelier chain … or its connection to the second story ceiling … creaking as if about to give, when to my horror Tonya released her hold and we plummeted toward the floor below.

The quick, dizzying descent took the air out of me, and when we crashed, the back of my head was the first thing to receive the impact of the hard floor, my spine breaking, my legs crashing down next, and Tonya’s groin driving into my neck, which absorbed the full impact of the fall.

I choked for breath, unable to move, paralyzed for good this time, and Tonya laughed at the result of her flawlessly executed reversal. I’d tried to send her off the edge, to her death or incapacitation, and instead she’d locked onto me and used me as her safety mat.

“That worked perfectly,” she said, boastfully. “Not even a bruise on my pretty little kneecaps.” Then, she climbed off my broken body, her damp, stale-smelling skirt dragging across my hyperventilating mouth, my nose, my eyes, as she scooted forward and then rose to her feet.

She turned and stood over me for a minute, contemplating her next move. “Hmm, now how am I going to get you out to the lawn?”

I became suddenly aware of others in the room, cameramen shuffling close to film my plight, and my ex-wife in all her triumph. But that was the least of my concerns. For I couldn’t breathe and the realization of my death was filling my dimming consciousness in much the same way the scalding bathwater had filled my lungs a couple of weeks ago.

“Here, let us help you, Ms. Tunney,” I heard one of the cameramen say. “Do you have a mattress we can use? Me and some of the other guys will use it like a gurney and move him outside for you.”

I gasped for breath, my pain, suffering and bewilderment far too intense to put to words, and then Tonya’s next words hit me like an additional blow, one spiked with battery acid.

“That would be awesome,” she said. “Take him out to the ditch I had you guys dig earlier. Then, come back inside for your cameras. I need you guys to get a lot of good close-ups … show all the people watching on TV fuckface’s perspective as I bury him for good.”

[macrina]

Thank you, Eddie, great work, my friend.

[Eddie08]

Four, strong cameramen carried me out to the lawn, balancing my broken body on a mattress from the basement. They put me down gently near a tall, wide pile of dirt, which had tufts of grass shooting out from its base. Someone had left a shovel stuck in the side of the pile, closest to a rectangular trench that had been dug. And my wheelchair from the hospital … Somebody had dropped it off, wheeled it out onto the lawn. Should I be thankful?

Someone grabbed hold of my hair—I could see a slender, mocha-skinned arm. Ignoring my spinal injury, Beth slid my mangled body up off of the mattress, and to my feet, holding me up, my useless arms and legs dangling like a marionette’s. A triangle of tripod cameras were already set up, they surrounded us, all focused on the shallow, shadowy ditch in the middle of what had once been my beautiful lawn. A few of the cameras were attended, while from the house the ‘mattress/pallbearer cameramen hustled back outside, now carrying their handheld recorders.

The front door opened again, and Tonya strode out, still barefoot. Bitch. She’s been walking around in her bare feet since our tennis match and her feet were filthy. As she approached, her green eyes locked onto me and she sized me up with a little cock of her head. Then, she skipped forward and with a pivot of her hips, she kicked her foot high and ptt … camera flashes … her filthy sole propelled me back, stumbling, back, back—

I collapsed into my pre-dug grave. No longer my puppeteer, Beth ripped the shovel from the pile of dirt, the spade carrying heavy soil which she tossed down upon my chest.

As I struggled against the agonizing pain and paralysis, to lift my dazed head, Tonya stepped down into the ditch, onto my face, one filthy foot, then the other, the first covering my forehead and nose, the second pressing down on my mouth and jaw.

More dirt landed on my chest.

Tonya curled her cruddy toes. “Lights out.”

“Nnn-nooo,” I managed, barely able to breathe, my ex-wife’s stinking feet pinning me to the bottom of the pit.

“Yes,” she corrected with another ten-toed double flex. “How can I collect on your generous life insurance policy unless you’re dead and buried?” Each of her toes wiggled in sequence, taking turns like a stadium wave, from one end to the other.

Smack, more dirt scattered across my belly, my groin. Smack, another shovelful rolled across my shoulders. Beth was a ruthless bitch; Tonya was the devil leading her.

Tonya and Beth buried me in a shallow grave while reporters showed up asking Tonya whether AIM had given her a scare. “Not at all,” Tonya said, bending her knees to add pressure to the face-stand, reminding me to stay awake for this. The stench was awful, like she’d stepped in raw sewage or something. “You don’t see any police cars showing up, do you? Federal agents of any sort? It’s perfectly legal for me to protect myself on my property from my estranged ex-husband.”

Tonya stepped off of me, onto the bank of my grave, which was growing shorter by the moment as Beth continued to dump dirt on me, from toe to neck. The two women were leaving my head uncovered … for what abomination I did not yet know.

I watched helplessly, my paralyzed hands and feet buried beneath three inches of dirt, and Beth stepped onto my chest. Unlike Tonya, Beth was freshly showered, wearing a mostly unbuttoned navy shirt, tightly fitting faded blue jeans and a pair of rubber flood boots. They were black and they stomped the dirt on my chest, turning it to concrete, and then Tonya returned and went right to work, stuffing a handful of dirt into my mouth. She scooped up another handful and pushed it down past my lips, this second load causing me to gag, the dirt to erupt through my mouth. Then, with both hands, Tonya excavated a double-fist of grave dirt and heaped it onto my face, into my mouth. With her fingers, my ex-wife sculpted the dirt, raising it into a peak, like one of those toy volcanoes she might have built as a girl.

Tonya patted the volcano growing out of my mouth, and then she poked a stick into its apex. At the end of the stick, flying over my face like a flag on its staff, was an index card. Something was written in clear black marker ink, but I couldn’t make it out. Didn’t care.

I hate you, I tried to project to her through a mouthful of dirt, knowing my next few breaths were going to be my last.

Adroitly Tonya reached under her tennis skirt, and pulled down her panties. She fired them at Beth.

She crouched, her labia and clitoris puckering, and then hot liquid splashed upon my face, my eyes filling with Tonya’s piss. I tried to move an arm. Couldn’t. More of her hot steady stream poured over me and the pile of tamped dirt on my face. It’s amazing how perceptive a dying man is. As my ex-wife’s urine leaked into my throat, down my gullet, somehow finding its way in through my eyes, I could taste and smell recycled sports drink—Tonya had obviously replenished herself after her victory on the court.

In a husky, contemptuous voice, she whispered to me, “When you die, I get everything. Like it says in your will and life insurance policy…. Sucker!”

“Ladies and gentlemen, what a thorough trouncing this has been. Tonya Tunney defeats her ex-husband Eddie Espinosa in a four-game sweep. This is Ron Reglund signing off for Battle of the Exes, and be sure to catch season one of the series on both Blue Laser and V-DVD this fall…”

Tonya Tunney leaked some more, her warm urine spewing down the sides of the volcano she’d shaped atop my dirt-teemed mouth, some of it splashing the index card credit that read:

Tonya’s Toehold
The End

[macrina]

Thank you, Eddie, for your wonderful work.

[zenonvip78]

Simply magnificent! Thx!

[mephistofele2]

masterpiece!! thanks :)

[Sauur]

Loved this story! Such a great ending too, great job! :)

[smother sitter]

Now for my two bits as well
Thanks you again for another wonderful story

[Eddie08]

Hi--just want to extend a final thanks to everyone. I want to include Tuval, who had some suggestions early on that helped. Maybe Tonya will be back some day, but for now I am closing the book. Eddie08.

[supy76]

thank you forthis wonderfull and exceptional story eddie.. ıt was one of the best I have ever come to read..

[luxelysium]

Liked this story, thanks for writing it for us.