Back by special request: Dry

[rugman]

Part I

From Ken (kenrug), December 15, 2002

I believe I finished this in August 2001.

I do sincerely warn you: This story was originally written for a Yahoo club/group that had a distinctly dark theme; so only read if you accept that fact. Proceed at your own risk, and stop when you feel it goes too far for your own taste.

A few final notes: This story is completely fictional (duh!), and I do not, in any way advocate the events herein. It was developed to fit a particular style that was inherent in the original venue in which it appeared; a style I chose to experiment with. Also, by way of making sure that fewer people are offended, please understand that the depictions of our hero do not reflect what I think of myself, or any of you. Likewise, the women depicted are not intended to represent my personal fantasy women, nor should they exist anywhere outside of the careful supervision of professionals, or in the confines of fiction. Stories need motives and characters. That’s what I’ve presented here.

So, without further delay...

Dry

Mark looked across the floor of the club again, setting his beer on the dingy tabletop in front of him. As usual, he found himself having to remember to blink to keep his eyes from killing him. The price of staring so intently, so longingly at the basis of his affections.

You could not say that he was thinking anything at the moment. He hadn’t thought anything for a couple of hours now. But his mind was filled. He sat and stared and absorbed. Everywhere his furtive gaze darted he consumed the flash of buckles and the dull sheen of leather and vinyl. And he stared.

In rebellious defiance of Seattle’s now constant winter rains, and despite the beer in front of him, his mouth was dry. Swallowing had no effect. It just happened this way every time he came here and did this thing of his. This obsession. This perverse tendency to come to The Pit and watch the women dance.

Well, truth be told, it wasn’t just the fact of women dancing that brought him here. Mark came halfway across town every Saturday night, through the country’s worst traffic to sit immobile at a corner table and watch a certain kind of woman dance.

In Seattle, a notoriously Nordic part of the US, blondes are, well, rather common. And Mark thought he was in pig heaven. Then a bud of his brought him here a few months ago. At first he thought he’d walked into an Azrael Abyss look-alike event. But then he looked closer.

And Mark hasn’t stopped looking since. They, the women, that is, looked, well, intimidating. And for the first time in his life, Mark’s dark obsession with clothes below the knee found perfect synchronicity with the darkness above those knees. For the women were dark of hair, dark of lips, and oddly dark of intention. He could feel the subsonic resonance of ill will singing within them. Their pale skin contrasted with darkness of their boots, of their hearts. And he was possessed.

So he sat and gaped. For hours on end. It was only a matter of time before he was noticed. When the two young women walked up to him the first thought through his mind was not, he was surprised to find, fear of discovery, but wonder at how long it had taken for somebody to take offense.

It wasn’t through a sprit of brazen ogling that he continued to look at the boots of the two women, he just found himself unable to do much of anything else. And one has to take some small measure of pity on him. The boots worn by the two, presumably affronted women were spectacular members of their species. Thick soled and belligerent in presentation, the black leather boots being pinned to the floor under the women were never destined to walk a runway, worn by an anorexic, top-heavy fashion model.

No, as the shafts of the boots climbed the calves of the women they showed that they were intended to be worn, used, walked around in. As Mark studied the pattern of patina and scuffs his heart raced and he instinctively reached for his glass, to stem that damnable dryness in his throat.

Skirts. Yes, that’s what they must have been wearing, but he really couldn’t recall. Actually, he only managed to lift his gaze to their necks, pale and taut with ill-concealed wrath. But he dare not look into their eyes. Not now. Not ever. Then he really would be damned, and the world would come crashing down around and on him as his humiliation, his personal crucifixion commenced.

He had no idea how right he was.

[rugman]

Part II

“Freak,” Mark heard. His face reddened and he doubled his resolve not to look them in the face. For he knew that their word was not only a judgment; it was a statement of fact.

“She’s talking to you, freak.” And he realized that it was also the name by which they had chosen to address him. Again, he could hardly argue the point. But he did turn his head slightly to the side and look up through his mop of hair into the faces of the women who would judge him now, in this public place.

“You were looking at our boots. Tell me why.” The woman who spoke to him was almost pixyish in countenance and form, the deceptively (he was sure) delicate lines of her pretty features somehow conveyed both sweet innocence and an axe in his face. Her jet-black hair hung about her shoulders in heart-aching splendor. And as much as Mark’s attention usually dropped to a woman’s feet, the effect of a beautiful face on his psyche was indeed profoundly rattling. And rattle he did.

Or stammer, actually. What he said is not important. That he sounded like a mindless mushroom was. The alarmingly attractive woman reacted by raising an exquisite dark eyebrow as she turned to her friend. “Let’s sit.”

The expression of surprise on the other’s face, quickly squelched, did nothing to distract Mark from the unexpected drubbing his mind took when he looked on her. Far taller than her friend, the woman looked decidedly downward at him, both in terms of geometry and quite as a matter of personal appraisal. Most would describe her as statuesque, if statues had black waist-length hair and adorned their slim necks with necklaces depicting disemboweled men.

When the first woman addressed this imposing figure as Demise, Mark was not amazed.

“What will we do with him, Derision?” the living, breathing statue asked her diminutive associate (though, now that they were sitting on either side of him, the difference in their height was not as obvious, especially considering that Mark was not at all feeling comfortable in the vice of their attention).

Mark thought he should be sweating. In fact, that he wasn’t made him more tense than he’d previously thought possible. He started to wonder if there wasn’t something seriously wrong with him. He clasped his hands below the table and was stunned at how cold they felt.

They hadn’t sat close to him. Each was to his side, a third of the way around the table. They regarded him with arctic detachment, as if waiting for him to justify himself to them.

Yeah, right. Mark knew he couldn’t justify himself to the bathroom mirror.

[rugman]

Part III

“Look, freak,” began Derision, “you’ve been here before. All the girls,” she paused to gesture at the crowd milling about, “ have noticed you salivating over our boots. Which is pretty damned freaky. And I’m not even going to ask you why.”

“As if,” interrupted Demise, “we needed an explanation.” Mark felt heat rise to his face and brought his hands up to his cheeks to stem the chill numbing his fingers.

“So, you’re a boot freak, right?” finished Derision. In reply, Mark microscopically studied each grain of wood in the table, silently wishing to evaporate more quickly than he already was.

“Listen, Derision. I’m not going to waste any more time on this guy. You said it would be fun, but it’s getting a little lame.”

“Do you hear that, freak? Demise is about to leave, and so am I.” They pulled their chairs back as Mark uttered the kind of words that define fate.

“Wait… please.” That this was audible at all was more a miracle of the unusual acoustics in the warehouse-turned-club, than in any wish Mark believed he had of really being heard.

“Okay, for another minute, freak, but you have to be entertaining, at least a little,” said Derision, rather more amiably than Mark would have expected. “So we know your big secret, freak. You like our boots. And what’s not to like? They’re bloody fantastic.”

“Yes,” Demise offered, “but how much does he like them? I think he has to tell us or we’re going to walk away, right now.”

Mark twisted on the gibbet of his desire, his throat closing up on him, the blood pounding in his ears as he struggled to choose between one kind of death and another.

“Okay,” Demise spat, “I’m out of here.” She got up and turned as Mark, unfortunately, both won and lost his battle with his need and said, well yelled, actually, “I want to lick your boots!” The unusual acoustics of the building had one odd aspect that Mark immediately discovered.

Mark’s plea virtually echoed during a brief lull in the music and heads snapped around to gawk in his direction. Silence reigned, but only for an instant as first Demise and then others close by erupted with the most pristinely contemptuous feminine laughter ever to fall on a man’s ears. The men, however, generally shook their heads and turned away in apparently sympathetic embarrassment. Women, in small groups, continued to snicker in Mark’s direction for several minutes. Demise and Derision merely looked at him with expressions wavering between disbelief and predatory amusement.

Demise sat back down and looked Mark in the eye. She leaned back in her chair, raised her legs and crossed her boots on the table, leaning back on the two rear legs of the chair. “Be my guest,” she said as she aimed her open hand toward her boots.

Mark, now soulless with self-loathing, began to scoot his chair over toward Demise’s boots. “No. No you don’t,” she corrected. “You do this thing you do, on your knees. For chrissakes, you’re going to lick my boots, don’t you think you should be kneeling to me while you do it?”

Mark looked at the floor, slid out of is chair and felt his knees crunch on the debris-strewn surface. He worked his way over to her feet and approached the reflective leather of the foot of her boot. As he neared, Demise struck out with her boot and caught him in the face. A blaze of red fire swelled before his eyes as he clutched his hot nose in his chilled hands and howled in misery. “Freak, you are not allowed to touch the tops of my boots. For you, there are only the soles. They’re dirty enough for you, and you sure as hell are not good enough for anything better.” Her tone changed to a softer, more lilting cadence as she said, “now, continue.”

Mark looked into his hands and saw small droplets of blood spattered across them. But his need was great, and he went on to his task. The two women watched in stomach- churned fascination as Mark touched his tongue to the intricately molded sole of Demise’s right boot. They watched his dirt-stained tongue withdraw into his mouth and re-emerge, again to attend to the boot.

“Good god,” Derision commented, entranced by the loathsome display. Demise, unable to directly watch the gruesome task under her foot leaned her head back, a contented and rather arrogant smile on her dark lips.

As Mark labored he was a spectacle of endless entertainment for not only Demise and Derision, but for quite a number of other women who either happened by or made a point of watching this display up close. The men were too brittle of spirit to view the event. And, after a time had passed, and Mark had fully consummated his act of worship (under the careful supervision of Derision, who was in a position to inspect his work), he fell to his hands and knees, head bowed in shame and guilt. And then it happened.

Drops fell from his face and splattered on the floor. At first he thought that his nose was again bleeding, but when he touched his hands to the small puddles mixing with the dust and grit, and brought his hand toward his face he found that the liquid was clear. He could barely swallow, his hands were dry and cold, but he had plenty of capacity for tears.

[rugman]

Part IV

Derision looked under the table at the sad tableau developing at her friend’s feet and laughed.

Demise lit a cigarette, grinning eerily through the wafting smoke as she looked down at Mark, whose shoulders convulsed arrhythmically.

“It looks as though we’ve broken him, Demise,” announced Derision, quite failing in her attempt to hide the creeping malevolent pleasure she seemed to be experiencing.

“No, not yet, my dear.”

“Oh,” Derision responded. They both locked eyes and started to chuckle.

Mark’s ears burned with the disgrace cascading down onto him from the laughing women. Quiet sobs of pathetic despair escaped from him, as he fought to prevent his further debasement in such an open manner. But he failed, as he usually did. He knew that he was a small man, physically and otherwise, but he’d always been able to maintain the façade. Now it lay, dissolving in his own tears on the trampled floor of which he now felt so much a part.

Derision stood and strode over to place herself in front of him. He couldn’t help but look at the leather boots, high in length and meaning, planted before him. He noticed the dust and scuffmarks defining the life of the boots and, despite his state, he found that he could not help feeling that churning inside of him. The familiar flames engulfed his abdomen as if the goddess Desire herself had once again took her hand and personally gripped his insides.

“Freak!” shouted Derision, shaking her head in disgust, “I don’t think I’ve seen such a disgusting display in my life!” Making no effort to restrict the sound of her voice, she continued “Demise has had those boots for a year, and I can tell you all the places that she’s walked in them! Stepped in goddamned everything I can think of. And now you come along…” Mark could tell by the twist of her booted feet and the cant of her legs that she was looking again at the soles of Demise’s boots. “… and you stick your face into her boot soles and lick them! You are one disturbed man.” Several of the women who happened to be passing uttered various translations of revulsion and scorn. Some even shouted their loathing at him from a distance. Epithets flew at him from all sides, cruel words that tore yet more weeping from his unwilling body.

Mark now knew that Derision had crouched low so that she could address him privately, “Freak, you still haven’t cleaned my boots yet, you know. Would you like to do that? They’re dirty, and getting more so as I stand here,” for emphasis she twisted her boots on the floor. “If you want to do that, to lick the soles of my boots… well, I guess there’s no ‘if’ about it, is there freak?” Mark’s bowed head bobbed in reluctant ascent.

“Well, then,” she continued, “here’s what you’ll do. You’ll crawl out of here on your belly, like a slug, and you’ll wait for us. When we’re done here, and if we’re still in the mood to have our boots cleaned, then we’ll see. Do you understand?” Again Mark’s head nodded in agreement.

“No,” injected Demise, “that’s not good enough. Use that hole in your face for something else than licking dirt off of people’s boots.”

Mark couldn’t find the ability to speak, though his will was self-destructively able. He croaked out “yes, Derision, Demise, I’ll be there, waiting.”

Derision stood to her full height and, at full throat, yelled “You pathetic boot-licking freak, get the hell out! If I see you here again, drooling over our boots, I’m going to ask the women here what they want to do to you. Maybe they’ll want to kick the sh~t out of you. Maybe worse. Maybe you better go before they get the idea! Oops, sorry, I see that they already do.” The small gathering of female onlookers applauded her as Mark, almost unconscious with pain, humiliation and desire, fell slowly to his belly and began his 20-meter slither toward the door.

[ckj03]

u seem to have a knack for being able to describe things so well but u spent too much time describing meaningless details rather than the actual base of the story if u focused u could make some great stories

[rugman]

Heh heh. Thanks for the critique. You caught me part way through the posting. It's long format, thus the detail. I feel it's justified, and necessary, when the story is as long as it is (approximately 28 pages, 76,000 characters). I won’t apologize for it’s length because it’s a voluntary read. And I believed the story, correctly and entertainingly told, needed lebensraum, a little elbowroom. Please remember, it’s not a yank-piece. It’s a think-piece.

I'll be posting off-and-on for the balance of the day.

Ken

[rugman]

Part V

Immediately he encountered the black forest of booted legs of the observing women and waited for them to part, which, of course, they did not. He numbly heard their running commentary on his worthlessness as he moved around them, not one of them moving even a foot to ease his passage. As he moved past them a few followed, stepping close to him as they continued to verbally abuse him, now in earnest. Derision and Demise looked on with feigned relief as he left their presence, and covertly enjoyed the demonstration of human degradation going on at the feet of their former spectators.

Inch by belly-rubbing inch, Mark extended his hands and pulled his carcass on, pushing his weight along the gritty floor with his legs, all the while being escorted by a small but growing troupe of black boots, finally almost completely surrounding him. A woman stood in his path and he began to move aside and around her, but then she repositioned herself in his path once more. He paused to solve the oddly practical problem of avoiding her while still not approaching, and thereby offending, the other women.

The woman blocking his sorry procession stepped closer to him, and he backed away, pushing with his hands. And more quickly than his dulled senses could fathom he knew that she was standing with one of her boots on each of his outstretched hands. Mark winced in pain as the woman made no attempt to lighten the weight of her tread. In fact Mark began to realize that she was slowly raising herself onto the toes of her boots, crushing his hands.

An unseen hand grasped the hair at the back of his head. A fleeting thought coursed through his confused brain that it couldn’t be hers, the angle was wrong. But his head was jerked up and he found himself the toy in a cruel game of tug-of-war as his back arched in compliance to the pulling of his hair whilst his hands were solidly pinned beneath the feet of the young woman in front of him.

He looked up into the face of the woman astride his hands and realized that through the now constant tearing of his eyes he could not focus on her. But he didn’t have to. He was still well able to tell when the woman spat into his face and called him a perverted wretch. And as her spittle ran down his face his head was finally released and lolled forward again to strike the floor between her boots.

As his head rolled on the floor, the unfocused woman looked down on him and stated, simply “You shouldn’t even be alive.” She stepped off his hands, smacking his face with her passing boot in departure. His hands erupted in friction-inspired flame as her twisting boots left their last gift. Several of the women commented in general agreement with her adjudication and, though not willing to carry out sentence, they saw no harm in doling out partial punishment for his crimes.

Mark gasped as a boot slammed into his ribs and he redoubled his speed toward the doors. He now felt the frequent impact of the women’s moist disrespect as they continued to spit down on him. As he moved through the group, groping for the door, his hands fell under the feet of the taunting women, occasional brutal kicks pounded his ribs, and he realized that his actions had unintentionally dissolved whatever polite restraints that had previously inhibited these women.

A woman walked toward him, her impressively tall platform boots glimmering in the low light available down at his level. He made a move to avoid her but not quickly enough as her right boot rose beyond his range of vision. He reacquired knowledge of her boot’s location as her sharp heel struck between his shoulder blades, instantly crushing him to the floor and knocking the air from his gasping lungs. Her next step ground her other heel into the small of his back, catching a spot of exposed skin where his shirt had ridden up. Obviously, taking no precaution to tread lightly on her victim, the woman was just passing through, leaving him welted and bruised, incidental contributions of her casual contempt. Mark, back stinging from the sharp impact of her boots, began again as the group applauded their approval of the latest woman’s daring and creativity.

More kicks followed and he was aware of having been stepped on and walked over a number of other times. And there was always the constant rain of woman’s hell-wrought fury, though this was not caused by any scorn he had, but by the rejection of his pathetic, unworthy and apparently insufficient worship of them. Somehow, he sensed, they were offended that he’d not put them high enough on the pedestal above him.

At last he made the doors and slithered through, between and under the feet of people coming and going. Happily, the men avoided him. Somehow they felt akin to his plight.

Unfortunately, the women decidedly did not. In that last few inches his gauntlet intensified as numbers of women stepped and trampled over him in their rush to get in or to get out, and others tried to force him though the door on the toes of their now furiously kicking boots. That melee lasted longer than did the entirety of his passage along the floor.

As he finally gained exit, bruised and beaten down, he crawled over out of the path of the club guests and propped his foot-worn body against the cold, wet side of the building. He ministered to his broken, trampled hands and bruised ribs as best he could.

It was raining.

[rugman]

Part VI

As Mark sat in the shadows he predictably took stock of himself and found the shelves bare. Beaten, kicked and walked over is how he viewed the entirety of his life with women. And instinctively, at his innermost core he knew that this, all this crushing distain was well and truly deserved.

As he carefully laid his head back against the brick wall he tried to search for that seed of pride, that kernel of outrage that he should have felt at having been so mistreated. But it wouldn’t come. He was the one being in the universe who could truthfully judge his soul, his existence, and he found himself irretrievably less than salvageable. How, Mark wondered, could he be offended by being stepped on by unknown women when that very act most accurately summarized the worth of his person?

Again he thirsted, his throat parched but eyes running with unstoppable tears of simple embarrassment and complex misery. When he looked upon himself objectively, examined every reflection of his concluded performance in the club, he was confounded and disgusted even at himself. Nausea held him close, his mouth still remembering the gritty rewards of his labor.

He searched the perpetually overcast sky for an explanation, eyes welling and heart breaking. What compelling twist of affection and lust could so drive a creature to such a depth? But he knew, even as he asked the question, that it was an evasion. He was not driven by come onerous external curse of nature.

He chose.

He withered in that shadow, realization and revelation battering him, wave after wave of conclusion and judgment. He stood naked before his mental mirror and hated the dirty, downtrodden mote he saw before him.

[rugman]

Part VII

And it was in this state, some hours later, that Derision and Demise found him, holed up in the corner between sidewalk and wall, a leaking downspout spilling forth its questionable contents onto his face.

“There he is,” whispered Derision, indicating the lumpy mess in the dark. “The perv fell asleep.”

“I’ll wake him.” As Demise walked quietly toward the reclining Mark she was watched by an attentive and curious Derision. As Demise neared, Mark stirred and mumbled unintelligibly. Demise clamped a hand to her face and crouched, holding her stomach.

“What?” asked, Derision.

Stifling the laughter which, if given heed, would surly ruin her fun, Demise stepped over to Derision and explained, “the freak said ‘boots!’” Temporarily losing composure, the young women gasped for control and a steady demeanor.

Wiping tears of pitiless mockery from their own eyes, they softly stepped to the sleeping Mark. In unspoken, but seemingly practiced, unison they each raised a rough-soled boot and stomped down on him.

He awoke to searing pain in his neck and groin as he, insect-like, scurried away from the unknown danger, howling his despair and hurt. The women followed him as he crawled through shallow puddles on the sidewalk, still almost unconsciously escaping the danger. They easily outpaced his pain-dulled efforts, stamping upon him wherever opportunity presented itself, knocking his arms from beneath him, dropping him heavily to the pavement.

Demise began to circle him, smiling. Mark whirled his hands in frantic supplication and pointless self-defense. “Please!” he wheezed, “I can’t take this. This isn’t right!”

Demise, having lifted a boot above him, paused. Setting the implement to the sidewalk, eyes narrowing in question, she looked into his face. “You know you don’t believe that.”

He froze, his recent self-discovery still echoing in his mind. For him, to know the truth was a bitter flaying. To have his weakness so apparent to others, especially these women who stood above him, knocked away the crumbling columns of his resistance. He closed his eyes and prayed for undeserved pity.

Demise, heart racing with the presentation of such a prize, spoke softly to the man at her feet, “yes, I thought as much.” Demise leapt above him. And if will could have defied gravity she would have extended that moment, looming over him, inflicting terror. Mark, having heard the sharp creak of leather opened his eyes. Her booted feet found firm and sure purchase on his chest and stricken face, grinding for balance before they stilled their embrace.

Mark was screaming in agony now, hopelessness filling his mind and prompting panic-compelled convulsions of self-preservation. But Demise was unmoved. She shifted her weight, heretofore balanced, to her boot crushing his head, eliciting more dire screams of protest and prayer. Demise closed her eyes, feeling the vibrations of his pleas through her boot, up her leg, and further still.

Derision, sensing the increasing publicity of their fun, stepped forward and slammed the toe of her boot into the side of Mark’s shrieking face. His eyes rolled upward and out of focus, as his wails become moans. However, not satisfied with his ability to still make noise, Derision pulled back again and delivered a quieting blow to their subject. At last, lapsing into stupor, Mark’s voice was stilled.

“Demise, we really can’t do this here, you know,” advised Derision as her friend finally relented. Taking no further concern for the man underfoot, Demise raised her boot from his chest, balancing for a moment, twisting and grinding for a few more seconds, and stepped off the canvas of her art.

Demise stood before her friend, dimpled grin animating her face, and said, simply, “okay. Later.”

Each woman grabbed one of Mark’s limp cold arms and they pulled him toward their car, thought a few detours apparently were required, over loose bricks and through the odd puddle.

[rugman]

Part VIII

When Mark awoke it was to the admittedly familiar scents of dirt, leather and rubber, but with a curiously strange, gritty and wet pressure on his face. His eyes tried to open, but the left eye was restricted by an inexplicable friction. He tried to focus but saw only twirling lights before him. A thump hammered his back and was matched by the pressure on his face briefly crushing down. As he progressed toward consciousness he realized that a pair of rough-soled boots were propped casually on his face and that he lay on the floor before the back seat of a car. The spinning lights were reflections of street lamps ricocheting through wet window glass and off the moist, muddy boot soles on his face.

He knew he dare not move, lest he rekindle the savage brutality of the women who had so thoroughly helped him destroy himself. He knew that, although he felt the need in every bone and muscle, he dare not moan. The boots that so placidly held his head to the grungy, sticky floor could just as easily pound down in a maelstrom of wrath and mud. And again the thirst returned, but with it also came the need.

The boot heels were there. Less than an inch from his face, and he loved the woman in them. Not personally, of course, how could he? He had no idea whose boots they were. Demise’s or Derision’s? But, as the women guarded their own mystery, he too cherished it. They remained unreachable, and that, he thought, was somehow proper. And propriety now seemed all he had left.

And as the wetness glimmered on those heels he cautiously extended his tongue to taste the bitter, compelling force of his perishingly small life.

He lapped; he stroked the heel above him. He tasted the filth that she, whoever she was, had carelessly walked through. What was so insignificant to her was all of life to him. And he felt strangely at peace, as if this was the summation of life for him, the completion. He forced self-awareness from his mind, that niggling objective judge with the disgusted sneer.

As the car drove along the road, the usual bumps and turns caused her boots to roll across his face. Gummy, half-wet dirt smeared across his cheeks, and he reveled in it. He was one with it, at last. Judge Sneer be damned.

[rugman]

Part IX

When Mark awoke next it was to the worst pain he had yet experienced. His eyes opened just in time to see those glimmering soles rise to their zenith and start down again to his nadir. His head exploded in cool fire as the wet soles impacted all across his face. He knew instantly that her left heel had caught his mouth wide open and he began to choke on the blood spilling from his gashed lips. Her right boot had crooned off his forehead, splitting his skin where the woman’s boot had found the traitorous traction of his eyebrows.

His hands flew up to fend off the fell strikes, and were caught in the harsh rain, stinging as they pointlessly engaged the boots. Again and again she stomped down on him, splattering mud and gore in her wake. And somehow, perhaps through the sound of her strangely calm voice he knew it was Derision calling to him, announcing their arrival.

His awareness wavered, but Mark knew himself to be pulled from the car, his head striking awkwardly on the footboard of the door. Then grating, tumbling, searing gravel. Then cement graciously rendered frictionless by the ever-present rain. When his head bounced upon the first stair he barely had the time or the strength to look up before he saw Demise’s boot fall heavily upon on his eyes.

As his head spun he thought it ironic that he could now, upon close examination, tell the lovely Derision and the intimidating Demise apart by the soles of their boots alone. This, he thought deliriously, was progress. His ability to focus no longer obeyed his will beyond six inches.

As the women kicked him in the legs and stomped on his back and arms he could finally understand that they were gently encouraging him up the flight of stairs. But each time he made progress one or the other woman would cruelly tromp over his shoulders, both boots empowered by her full weight, forcing him down part of the advance he had made.

But at last he reached the landing, and, through the cascade of boots, he acquired the door. Exhausted, he fell down the welcome well of darkness yet again.

[rugman]

Part IX

When Mark awoke next it was to the worst pain he had yet experienced. His eyes opened just in time to see those glimmering soles rise to their zenith and start down again to his nadir. His head exploded in cool fire as the wet soles impacted all across his face. He knew instantly that her left heel had caught his mouth wide open and he began to choke on the blood spilling from his gashed lips. Her right boot had crooned off his forehead, splitting his skin where the woman’s boot had found the traitorous traction of his eyebrows.

His hands flew up to fend off the fell strikes, and were caught in the harsh rain, stinging as they pointlessly engaged the boots. Again and again she stomped down on him, splattering mud and gore in her wake. And somehow, perhaps through the sound of her strangely calm voice he knew it was Derision calling to him, announcing their arrival.

His awareness wavered, but Mark knew himself to be pulled from the car, his head striking awkwardly on the footboard of the door. Then grating, tumbling, searing gravel. Then cement graciously rendered frictionless by the ever-present rain. When his head bounced upon the first stair he barely had the time or the strength to look up before he saw Demise’s boot fall heavily upon on his eyes.

As his head spun he thought it ironic that he could now, upon close examination, tell the lovely Derision and the intimidating Demise apart by the soles of their boots alone. This, he thought deliriously, was progress. His ability to focus no longer obeyed his will beyond six inches.

As the women kicked him in the legs and stomped on his back and arms he could finally understand that they were gently encouraging him up the flight of stairs. But each time he made progress one or the other woman would cruelly tromp over his shoulders, both boots empowered by her full weight, forcing him down part of the advance he had made.

But at last he reached the landing, and, through the cascade of boots, he acquired the door. Exhausted, he fell down the welcome well of darkness yet again.

[rugman]

Part X

Too soon it passed and Mark realized that it must have only been for a few moments. His face felt the cool firmness of the floor under him as he strove to breathe under crushing weight and knobby, twisting ache. He heard the jangle of keys skewering a lock and endured the women compressing him as they spoke to each other excitedly.

“Don’t forget to wipe,” laughingly reminded Derision. And the crunching boots wiped on him and pounded down on him, parting with much of the grime they had acquired in the last hours. He thought it unreasonable that one of the women would try so hard to wipe both her boots on the back of his head when his shirt would have worked so much better. Mark was sure he had heard giggles.

Once inside, Demise and Derision looked down on him. “We should leave him right there, you know,” Demise commented. “I’ve never seen so many boot prints before.”

“It’s kind of picturesque, isn’t it,” added Demise as she stepped back toward Mark and raised her foot slightly over his back. Mark searched for the strength to cringe but could only muster a sigh as Demise slowly lowered her boot to his muddy shirt and added yet another, though far fainter, footprint to the ensemble.

“There. Now it’s complete.” And as Demise turned on her heel and walked into the house Derision bent down and grabbed Mark’s hair at the base of his skull.

“I’ve heard that girls lead you around like this, freak,” she smirked as her insistent tugging urged him thought the doorway and into the entry hall of the women’s apartment. Once there, she simply dropped his head, which thudded but did not bounce.

Doffing their coats and stepping roughly over him to close and lock the door, the women chatted casually while ignoring the pain filled sack on their floor. Mark’s jaw crunched each time he tried to swallow. He realized belatedly that it had been fractured either under Derision’s boots in the car or beneath Demise’s outside the club. Fortunately, it was now numb.

But that couldn’t be said of his ribs, nor of his creaking neck. Of his legs the reports were less certain. The confusion and pain waxed further within him from all points. So filled was he with the swelling realization of agony that, though surely strained or even broken, he could feel very little of his legs at all. If he tried to move his arms they hung limply, sprawled on the wooden floor like misplaced squid. He watched the rebellious limbs, fingers curling and clutching as if driven by their own demented will.

He tried to convince himself that he would get up and walk out if he were only able, which he decidedly was not, but the pit of black doubt in his heart called him a poor liar.

And as if summoned out of its layer that black struck out and spread through his chest, grasping him in unseen talons and ripping from within. His face convulsively screeched across the floor as he coiled himself reflexively. And as Mark uttered a sigh of total fear and realization, knowing what the beast within was now doing, Demise walked over to him and looked down, curious as to the new entertainment.

[rugman]

Part XI

Demise set her feet near his face to be closer to his agony, basking in it, though she could only suspect the source of its welcome intercession. Mark panted his duress in heaving blows that drew a pale haze on the toes of her boots. Squinting her ire Demise raised a boot, placed the arch across his face and rolled him onto his back. Mark continued to wheeze into the sole of her boot as she applied pressure to his face.

“You will not breathe on the tops of my boots, freak.” More pressure descended. “Ever again.” She lifted herself, buoyed by the suffering face underfoot, enraptured by his impending, delicious end.

For balance she rested her other boot on his neck and Mark began to vigorously gag.

Mark’s entire being was split asunder. Part of his consciousness was spitted upon a pike of fire through his chest. Another facet was being ground under the boots of the woman who, he suddenly realized, not only wanted him to suffer, she wanted him to expire.

The rest of him sardonically reflected on the appropriateness of his method of exit. He felt brotherhood with the countless insects that had left existence with as much honor.

As he lay under her feet, his face afire under the cutting lugs, he tried to see around her tall boot, and what he perceived, though blurred and misty, was precisely what he had feared. Demise was smiling down on him, savoring the red feast of his torture.

Whatever infinitesimal atom of his senses that had remained unfilled was now overwhelmed with the surrealistically loud clomping of Derision’s boots approaching across the hard wooden floor.

Demise looked up from her repast and smiled in unhindered ecstasy at her friend, eyes blazing with the spoils of conquest. Derision returned the regard, stepped close to their victim and bent close to witness her friend’s victory.

Mark beheld, in hauntingly beautiful focus, the face of Derision near him. She poured into his eyes the seeming detachment of a callous schoolgirl dissecting a frog. But as she watched she changed. Though she only stared he could feel the revulsion she had for him and the bliss she derived from his torment and degradation. Her eyes shone with delighted malice. Her heartbreakingly pretty face was the harbinger of darkness incarnate.

But soon all focus left as he rejoined his battle with the monster in his chest and the boot on his neck. His choking became less insistent as his lungs roared for air. He felt Demise’s boot begin to achingly twist on his face. His head blasted pain as she ground him underfoot and began again to shift her weight to his entrapped skull. The pressure peaked and, despite the killer loose in his chest, all his mind was focused on the crushing, destroying boot mashing him further into the floor. He smelled the rubber and tasted the filth that had managed to remain despite her fervent wiping of before. His lips split again as Demise’s enthusiastic pulverizing multiplied in power.

[rugman]

Part XII

Demise had stepped off his face more than a minute before he was aware of it. Blood dribbled down both sides of his face as he thought to clutch his chest, barely able to realize that he had been drawn by mean force to lie beneath the kitchen table. There under he believed that he had been made a footrest. He was aware of a slim ridge of pain cutting across his up-turned ear and felt two boots riding his arrhythmic efforts to breathe. He could hear them talk.

And toast each other.

And laugh.

It was, apparently, a time for joy.

Demise looked over the table at her friend who shimmered with cruel anticipation of absolute triumph. “It’s getting better, Derision. Feel,” Demise offered.

Derision uncrossed her legs, leaving the one boot heel caressing the side of Mark’s head and placed her other boot on his chest to feel the sensation of his waning efforts to live. Nether could see him, of course, but that wasn’t important. Feeling was all. Derision’s foot tingled with the pleasure that her boot was giving her. She subdued the urge to doff her boots and feel directly the passing of the man barefoot. But again, she resisted. Though she didn’t credit her boots with anything more than raw, naked, brutal power, she felt it appropriate that he die under the weapons that had doomed him. Maybe some other time she’d feel the last breath beneath her bare feet.

There’s time enough for all.

And so they sat, feeling the labored breathing beneath their boots until something unexpected and, frankly, unwelcome happened.

Mark was too seared with pain and fear to note the withdrawal of the fiend that had been smearing his chest in hues of luminescent pain. But he sucked in sweet, leather scented air, lifting the feet upon his chest in his pleasure at this simple act. His heart leapt with joy even as the torment of his thirst returned, supplanting terror in favor of want.

Derision’s eyes narrowed in suspicion and she had to look. Mark saw the flowing dark hair pass below the table, and his returning clarity soon beheld the stunning face of Demise gazing down at him with obvious calculation. Plans were being laid, plots formed, and Mark’s eyes lost focus to tears of crushed hope.

Derision waited for her friend to lift her head again and allowed her face to expose the mischief that drove her soul. Demise followed Derision’s expectant gaze to the front room. In unison they both whispered, “we’re not done.”

[rugman]

Part XII

Somewhere, deep in the crevasse of loss in which Mark now found himself he discovered the strength to say one murmured word, “water.”

Demise, having been occupied with locating something beyond Mark’s ken, nevertheless stopped. She walked toward the supine, beaten body in the center of the front room and paused one step short of again crushing him. Her sight flicked over him briefly as she lifted her boot and began to absent-mindedly stroke his face with the sole. Her eyes looked into the distance as she contemplated his request.

“Yes,” she said to no one in particular. “Yes, but later.” And she returned to her inexplicable seeking.

Derision, however, chose to keep him company. She looked down on him and again pierced his mind with her intent glare. “How do you exist? Why hasn’t somebody put you out of their misery long before now?” She straddled his head with her boots and continued, “You lick women’s boots. And you enjoy it. When you had the chance to quit, to walk away, you didn’t. You crawled for us. Why in hell do you go on living?”

Mark could only stare up in reply. Speech, so long a cherished companion, had too abandoned him. Only his eyes spoke his entreaty, wetly expressed through silent weeping. He silently begged for unearned mercy, though he knew he could not refute the justice of her words.

Derision bent over him and carefully spat on his cheek. Then, as tall as an Olympian, she rose above him, lifted her boot and wiped her spittle over his face. “There. You asked for water.” As best he could he looked up at her, redoubling the intensity of his silent plea. Pausing her boot over his worn lips she explained, “it’s not as if you’d want it to come from anywhere else.” She continued to slowly swab her boot across his visage. “You said you wanted to lick my boots. And you’re so thirsty. My boot is wet, so lick it.”

His tongue approached her boot, but she drew it out of reach, over his eyes. He strained with all the effort left at his command to move toward his ambition. Finally, Derision relented and slid her boot over his mouth and he began to suckle shamefully.

“You are so disgusting,” she said as she slowly drew her boot away from him. “All that I can think of doing right now is sacrificing you, suffocating you. I would really love to slaughter you right now, here, in my own front room. It would be worth it.

“I could stomp you to death, or, I have this beautiful knife in my room. I could slice you from chin to crotch and dance in your entrails. You’d be all slippery under me, your guts squishing like mud. Would you like that, freak?”

He dumbly stared.

“I bet you would.”

She laughed aloud, kicked his head and walked away.

[rugman]

Part XIII

A blunt pain stabbed his right hand as, belatedly, his ears reported a ringing thud. Again the pain and then the sound as his mind strove to catch up. He rolled his head to the source of both impact and sting and saw Demise bent over his hand with a claw hammer. This time, though, he saw the stroke before he felt the pain. He tried to move his hand but tug as he might it would not budge. Demise noticed his attention, looked over at him and winked.

“Don’t worry, freak,” soothed Derision from above, “you’ll like this. It’ll be fun.”

Demise stood and strode toward him. Her boot fell heavily on his neck as she stepped casually over him to his other side. She chuckled as she said to Derision, “it crunched that time.”

Mark coughed and fought for breath as he felt the broken tendons in his neck screech in torment. His wheezing grew louder. He was able to draw breath enough to cry aloud at his hurt.

The blunt pain spoke again, accompanied by the horrific music of metal striking metal, this time in his left hand. As if to kindly distract him Derision lifted her foot over his neck. “I love crunching, but I didn’t hear yours. I’d like some more, please.” Her boot closed over his neck as she pushed down into him, grinding her foot and listening to the tell-tail sounds of disintegrating structures. As Derision amused herself with the sounds of his breaking he was truly distracted from the spikes of pain and hammering blows at his ankles.

Their special form of kindness was infinite.

He, in his desperation, focused on a fleeting, shimmering thought: One has only so much capacity to suffer.

Demise and Derision probably disagreed.

[wormee]

Kenrug! I'd forgotten how much I loved this story when you posted it in the Yahoo Group. I don't think I ever finished it back there.

[rugman]

Heya, Wormee.

Thanks for the nice comments! I've paused in posting it because I got burned out a bit from clipping it into post-sized bites, posting, proofing, etc. I'll resume soon (fair warning to the rest of you, heh heh).

Ken

[piedestal]

Hi Kenrug :)

Outstanding story :thumbsup: . Very exciting, very well written (in my humble opinion). Bare foot abuse would be the icing on the cake...
If I am not mistaken, you are TrampleBabe's property, aren't you ? Great girl, I have fond memories of past dialogues by mail and I miss her website (I used to be the human welcome mat on the front page :p )... Well, enough with those old memories, thanks a lot for your excellent story.

A merry Christmas and a happy new year to TrampleBabe and you.

Best regards,

Olivier

[door_step]

Hi Kenrug,

I remember the story quite well and yes, there is probably a bit to much on the dark side in this story. Same like in 1200 angry women.
Still, I like them a lot and I simply read “beyond” the dark side. There are so many wonderful and very arousing moments in those stories that imo, they are great.

Thanks for writing them.

doorstep

[ogilthorpe]

I too remember this neat story
guess I 've been lurking around in "dark" places
I don't mind the terminal theme. I don't think that what makes it so dark in tone. But I am somewhat sorry that that the ladies are so angry--just because they are crushing him doesn't mean they have to have contempt for him. The tigress, I hope, doesn't hate it's prey, but appreciates it as a tasty dish, that brings the tigress much pleasure, as it's purpose in life is to be devoured. I just wish these tigresses were a bit more fun loving and patient at feeding time

By the way, you are cutting and pasting more than needed. You should be able to get 1500 words or more on a post---3 or 4 of your chapters.
my chapters run 2500 to 3000 words and easily fit on 2 posts

[rugman]

Hi all,

And thanks for the comments. Although the story has been written for quite some time now (and consequently can’t be substantially modified – short of typos and such), I am listening to you. We all may not agree (and heck, I disagree with myself at times!), but that your comments are so specific and thoughtful is appreciated.

Ogilthorpe: A couple of comments: 1) I think you might be happy with where this story goes before it’s through. 2) My cutting & pasting is driven by two things: making the posts small enough to fit within the posting limitations, and making the breaks align with the natural story breaks I planned into the original. Like singing, sometimes you have to take a breath. Those breaths come at logical pauses in the music.

I’ll try to stuff the rest of this story into the forum-box in the next few days. I’m sorry for the delay; I’ve been lazy.

Ken

[rugman]

Hiya Olivier.

Thanks so much for the compliments! I appreciate it a great deal. Sorry, but you gotta know that the bare-foot thing isn't going to happen (I read ahead, so I know, heh heh). Mark's just not good enough to touch the soles of their feet, ya know? And if you had my own mind-picture of these two Villainous Vixens, you'd know why!

Yes, you remember correctly. Except that TrampleBabe became Ms Sara (she opened up a bit to the web). And yes, indeed, she's definitely great (and smart, and pretty, and nice, and hell's own head-stomping man-crusher!). I let her know about your post and she remembers you, easily. Since you mentioned the welcome mat gig you did for her, I remember you too.

So, you're right. As you say you were the welcome mat for the site. You realize, of course, that the vast, vast majority of site visitors were guys, right?

Heh heh! Just kidding. No offense meant. Actually, I've been told that I have a nice butt, but Ms Sara remembered your own rear from a pic you sent. That's something to crow about, you know.

Oh, as a side note: Ms Sara gave me a present. It's software that has a very sweet, sultry blonde dancing in time to the music I play on my computer. Though a bit distracting, she's fun to watch and has knee-high white boots. Yeaouch! (From the blow-up pic in the help file, she's cute too!).

Take care,

Ken

[piedestal]

Hi Ken,

Thanks a lot for your nice reply :)

And I am sooooo pleased to learn that Ms Sara still remembers me :D

Best regards,

Olivier

PS : Oh and don't worry, I will read the end of your story with pleasure, even if the ladies don't take off their boots :p

[Mistress Sara]

Hello olivier,

Of course I remember you. I'll have to dig that photo out and put it to good use once again.

Always Above...and Above you always~:D

Sara

[piedestal]

Hello Mistress Sara :)

Wow, a message from you ! Now, this is a nice Christmas present :p I am so delighted, all I can add is :worship:

... and I wish all the sweetest things you can think of for the year to come !

Always beneath You,

Olivier

[rugman]

Hello Lovely Ms Sara!

So that’s what the mangled photo on the floor under your desk is! Hmmm. Good use indeed!

Makes me think of a possible reward you could give to your most dedicated admirer (ahem… hint hint): “sentenced” to “Floor Time.”

Love, admiration, adoration and :worship::worship::worship:!

Your humble servant, kenrug

[KoKopeLLi68]

Oh come on kenrug... you can't leave us hangin' here! This excellent story is just getting to the good part!!! PLEASE CONTINUE SOON!!!

[rugman]

Thanks for the compliment! I knew I was being lazy. Sorry for the delay. Now, without further ado:

Part XIV

As Mark jerked and rolled involuntarily under the beating, thumping impacts of the women’s boots he tired to struggle. But it was already lost. Crucified supine on the floor, he found no options to his anguish. He was aware only of loud music and the rhythmic impact of boots on skin as he was danced upon.

Bliss seemed to move the feet of the women over him. They looked only at each other; spoke nothing to him. They drew to one another as he lie beneath them, a soiled dance floor important in nothing he truly was.

The boots tore at his skin as heels drove and feet pounded. As again his vision blurred with the pain of loss he longed for succor, for relief, for life. He feared death and for the first time, as brutal and unending as the punishment was, he had presence of mind during his assault. Sadly this allowed him to consider the true danger in which he found himself. He knew at last, in present time, that he might die. And as much as he longed to press his torn and pounded lips to the soles of the boots over him he wept for his life and his need.

This seminal moment of his life, so important and earth shattering to him, passed unnoticed under the dancing feet of the women above him. As his body contorted under their pounding, and his mind twisted around his destiny, which even he could clearly see, the women danced and danced, joyously oblivious to the tragic moment that they, beyond even distain, trod underfoot.

Exhausted, Derision fell into a chair and reacquired her glass. The golden wine swirled as she brought it to her severely red lips. Demise, still unfinished in her celebration, continued the dance as Derision watched. In her heart, Derision knew that she adored Demise. And emotion stirred within her as she saw the lovely woman dance so cruelly, with such utter abandon on the thing nailed to the floor. With each passing step she saw the naked form of their silently willing victim forever marked by their existence.

It brought home to Derision the importance of their life together. Some had fallen onto their path, been passed over and forever changed, but Derision and Demise were one.

Demise caught her friend watching her and played it up a bit. Stomping for effect, she exaggerated the violence of her footwork as a teasing enticement. Stamping on the face beneath her caused a flash in Derision’s eyes that was compelling and sweet. What more motivation was needed? Leaping and trampling, Demise beat out her intention.

But it was Derision who took the stage next. With feminine grace the sylph entertained like no other. Even Mark, done in with pain and fatigue had to marvel at the smooth and comely motions of the wisp of a woman dancing on him. His body stirred at the sight above him, such was the magnificence. And despite his mortal exhaustion he had, for the first time since puberty, a natural, normal physical response to the sight of a stunning woman.

Demise was bewitched by the soaring beauty before her. The tightness in her chest bespoke the mystery and glory of the attraction. Where Demise had been cool and soft she was now warm and firm, her body responding to the delight that her eyes encompassed.

And as Derision danced upon their plaything Demise rose to the compulsion no one was strong enough to defy.

Derision left the body beneath her and stood close, shimmering in the glow of her gifted exertion. Demise’s head swam with the nearness of the other, the sweet scent of her.

As they looked into each other Demise’s lead crystal slipped from her fingertips and fell to the floor, unnoticed through the clamor of her yearning. As she gently pulled Derision to her, glass crunched underfoot in counterpoint to their attraction. The music took on a gentler aspect and they drew together and explored.

Swept up in the bittersweet taste of their affection for each other Mark longed to be part of it. He watched as they wove together the canvas of worthy, respectful love. But he knew a woman would never look on him as they did each other. Silently mewling the expression of his pain he longed for some part to play, some way in which he could participate in the joy. The broken glass crunching under their boots reawakened his ardor and he wished to be part of it, the lovely caring of it.

That, of course, was impossible.

[rugman]

Part XV

Derision led Demise by the hand as they turned toward the hallway, in the path of which lay Mark. Tinkling underfoot, the glass adhered and persisted. The two women looked only for each other as each, in series, raised booted feet to his face, grinding shards of bitter glass into his skin as they retired for the evening.


Mark couldn’t even scream. His mouth stretched in a rictus of unbearable agony. His breath froze in his chest as he tried to shriek out the horror his life had become. Bits of pointed glass swished and cut their way across his left eye as it rolled in its orbit. His body convulsed in spasms of torment. He thrashed against his bonds. Against his own flesh binding him to the floor.

Even the wet of tears did not help him. And finally, when he cried out at last, his squealing echoing off the walls of the apartment, he knew that nothing could help him.

No one would help him.

His breaking sobs filled the apartment as he heard the women laughing out their pleasure in each other. As they laughed out their pleasure in him. Finding false relief in holding his eyes still Mark wailed out of his soul the stinging soreness that was his entire being. But the burden was infinite, and no matter how hard he tried he could not lessen the crushing weight of rightful judgment symbolized by a woman’s foot on his face.

[rugman]

Part XVI

“Jesus Christ, what a mess!” laughed Derision as she padded on bare feet out of the hallway. Carefully avoiding the debris on the floor she walked over to Mark and looked into his single open eye, and onto his shambles of a face, cut a thousand times by the glass she had tracked across it the night before. “You look like spoiled hamburger, freak. I like the look!”

Mark gazed up at her as she stood over him, her shirt coming below her waist, but not from his point of view.

“Oh, you want to see my underwear, freak?” She pulled her shirt up and off, exposing to him the glory of her bare form. And glorious it was, trim and lithe, Derision was indeed as beautiful below the neck as above.

“Go ahead and look, freak. Think about this, though… You’ll never get to touch the soles of my bare feet, much less anything else.” She strode around to his side to see his face from an angle that made conversation more intimate. “Look at the bottom of my foot, freak,” she said as she held the pink, well-formed foot mere inches from his face. “It’s soft and warm, and part of me.” She set her foot back to the floor and leaned over him. “And you’ll never get any closer to me than you just did. I’d rather walk through garbage than let you kiss my foot. I wouldn’t hold out much hope for your chances with other women, either, you know. What woman would kiss lips that had been sucking on another woman’s boots?

“No, no. You were right all along. You chose. You decided.”

She started away and then paused to add, “Sorry, but it had to be said. And what’s worse is that you know I’m right.” She giggled as she turned again and walked away from him.


Hard clipping sounds announced the arrival of Derision as she entered a few minutes later. Sporting a common pink housecoat and spiked heeled slippers she joined her friend in the kitchen. He heard the noises of breakfast and hopelessly thirsted yet again. Mark imagined that if he could have felt his hands that they would have been cold and dry. But the only thing he felt from that distant region was the stinging of the nails driven though his skin.

The soft sound of bare feet and the crisp click of heels foreshadowed the women’s arrival in the front room. But the oddly paced rhythm made sense to Mark only when he saw them carrying the small kitchen table between them. Both women avoided stepping on him as they set the table athwart him and brought in the chairs.

As they ate and chatted Mark watched their legs and feet hovering near, and occasionally, over him. The soft, sweet smell of their fresh skin tantalized and moved him. As feverishly perverted as he knew it to be he nevertheless wanted nothing more at that moment, not even pure water, than to close his split lips to the silky skin above him.

From time to time Derision would sneak a look under the table. She coolly appraised the man nailed to the floor and considered. Since the sense of touch was most favored in her mind she regretted not slamming her bare feet into her subject’s face, relishing the rough stubble of whiskers and dried wounds against her delicate skin. But the emotional, almost spiritual act of keeping this thing they tortured three or four inches below her feet gave her a greater sense of truly physical pleasure than the touch of skin against pain could offer her.

Mark looked up at Derision’s face as she left his realm for a moment, returning with a small crust of bread. This she set to the floor and wiped in great circles over the surface. Then, raising it above his willing mouth, she dropped it in and Mark chomped it eagerly.

Through the pain of his destroyed jaw Mark chewed and delighted in the savory flavor of the anemic crust. Only after he had swallowed did he remember what had been tracked across that same surface the night before. And as he gagged on the glass he could remotely hear the women laughing at the joke. Though Mark’s throat was now freshly wet, he was ungrateful for the drink that Derision had given him.

[livingfurniture]

Very cool story dude. We all must delve into the dark side once in a while. We just all hope to find our way back before it's too late.

[ogilthorpe]

go Derision go

[Tramplemenc]

Wonderful Stories. Thanks for taking all the time to post them.
I remember you and Tramplebabes Web Site from several years ago. She is a Lovely lady. I know we would love to see some pics of her now (hint-hint) or even some old pics that was on your site. I know there's alot of guys here now that have never seen her or you.
Again-Thanks for posting.:bananavic :bananavic

[KoKopeLLi68]

More... more... more!!!

[KoKopeLLi68]

:2guns: Im goin on a shootin rampage if no1 continues this story!!! :2guns:

[Footslave3000]

Ken will you please continue the story? I like it as well so far.

[rugman]

Hold on guys! I'm several thousand miles from the story and won't be able to continue it until I get home (Friday, PST).

Thanks for the comments (and the desperation, heh heh), it's nice to hear.

Ken

[Mistress Sara]

Oh darling ken...

I think that you are going to be a little busy on Friday, (sorry guys) you might have to wait because I can tell you, the story does get better, and I don't think that ken is going to be in any condition to post until later in the weekend, if I decide to let him up for air that is. :evillaugh


Always Above...

Sara

[Tramplemenc]

Make him Suffer--You wouldn't be Sara if you didn't. lol:thumbsup:

[rugman]

OMG!

Maybe I should change my flight!

:D

[Footslave3000]

Well Ken if you change your flight you will be in worst trouble with Sara.(LOL)

[KoKopeLLi68]

So how's goes it Ken??? Are you going to live long enough to finish... or is Mistress Sara going to get you???

[Footslave3000]

Well it looks like Mistress Sara isn't done with him yet. (Darn I wish it was me beneath her feet.) But I think Ken might live long enough to finish the story. Please Ken give us a sign to let us know that you are allright? Will you please continue the story if you are still alive?

[rugman]

Okay girls and boys. Sit down 'round the campfire and Uncle Ken will continue his tale of fear, pain and thirst…


Part XVII

Derision looked openly at the vision that was Demise. Dressed in fishnets, shiny PVC and elbow-length gloves, boots beneath her otherwise soft feet. Derision actually felt nervous about what was to come, wondering if her own need could digest the meal they had prepared. Oh, she felt no trepidation about the destiny of their human offering, the now-red carpet upon which they would enjoy a meal most rare. But she perceptibly trembled at the beauty of her friend. Her heart ached at the sight of the stately form before her.

As jumpy, though for different reasons, Demise took in the sight of the slight, airy woman in front of her. Physical beauty had always affected her so. Hard cruelty had stirred her soul for even longer. And Derision embodied them both in a seamless unison that evoked envy and affection in Demise. Her only worry was in holding off the urge to complete the act long enough to create the meaning that would define the future for them both.

But her feet ached to slam and drive. The feel of collapsing bone underfoot tore into her sensorium like nothing else. The conquering dance of victory rode so high in her firmament that she truly feared that, before the end, she’d screw it all up.

“You look brilliant,” said Derision, subdued by the import of the day ahead of them.

“Uh, thank you. You are wonderful, Derision,” Demise uttered quietly.

“You feel it, don’t you,” asked Derision.

“Yeah. I’m a little scared.” Neither mistook the other about what they meant. Their caring, their concern, revolved around each other. Luminescent tenderness and beauty filled the room as the two women regarded each other, gently caressing through the space between them.

[rugman]

XVIII

Mark howled as the claw hammer pressed savagely into his palm, freeing his hand. With the regained strength of adrenaline and rest, purchased with pain and blood from the night before, he struck his hand out and narrowly missed the calmly standing Demise.

“Me thinks he wants to play” quoth Derision.

“Me thinks you be right, fair maiden,” responded Demise with an amused smile gracing her face.

Twenty minutes later, kicked and trampled into quiescence, Mark lay in a broken and unpinned heap on the floor, free to move and strike at will. If he only could. If only he dare. If only he could convince himself that such would be appropriate.

It is hard to move with all of one’s ribs crushed to powder.

If the two women could drink in his misery they would almost have been filled. They watched as pink froth flew from his face with every painful cough. Derision carefully wiped her boot in the foam and spread it evenly over Mark’s face; delighting in the sheen it gave his tortured skin. Softening it somehow, bringing him to an earlier age in life.

“He almost looks,” began Derision.

“Innocent,” finished the other.

Derision looked longingly at her friend. “I need it. Now.”

Surprised and thrilled at Derision’s passion, Demise’s efforts to forestall her own yearning fell, unneeded, and she found the strength to say “Soon, dear. We have to go now, or none of us will last.”

[rugman]

XIX

Mark awoke in coughing spasms. Slowly he realized the need to raise his head. Out of the water.

The water.

“Jesus!” he thought, “Jesus God! I’m drowning!”

His head flew up in a spray of dark hair and silty mud. He gasped for air and light. Water streamed down his face as he tried to clear his monocular sight. His mop hung in his face as his head reeled from disorientation. Last he remembered he was being dragged. Lumps of unnamed hurt had struck his back, and later his face and chest. And then the peace had come. But even that was lost to him now.

Grey walls of bare cement surrounded him. Grey walls and mud below. Mud and water.

Water.

He slammed his face in the mud puddle and quenched his thirst.

His retching was brief but violent. The alkaline taste of cement tailings stormed his mouth and set up camp. Despite his most forceful efforts to repel it, the taste lingered and dominated.

Wheezing and groping for that one drop of clean water, Mark saw the boots. Four columns of feminine appeal and power rose before him, supporting the temples of his true life’s yearning. The boots bit the gritty dirt beneath them, shifting as their mistresses willed. Mark was truly, deeply terrified. His body shook with the fear and deepest dread felt only by those who know what comes.

[door_step]

Thank’s for this episode Kenrug.

I look forward to the next, although I’ll have to wait reading it until after my oncoming holidays, starting Friday 23rd.
doorstep

[rugman]

XX

Derision looked down at the prostrate stage upon which their act would be completed. She checked the fittings securing him to the bottom of the depression into which he had been laid.

“Is that deep enough?” she asked, somewhat worried that the trough was too shallow.

“It’s a little deeper than it needed to be,” responded Demise. “But the slab is poured tomorrow and I wanted to be sure.” Her boots crunched on the substrate above his level as she stepped close to him. “Hey freak!” she shouted, not knowing if he was fully aware any longer. Mark responded with a convulsive jerk of his neck, his face searching for the sound, facing only boots. Nearly insensate he dribbled pink goo and grey water down his chin, barely perceiving the fate to which he was surly destined, laboring on broken ribs.

“Freak! Listen! You need to hear this!” Sensing his delirium, Demise shouted down at him to drive in the words. He should know the purpose to which his whole life had been aimed. It only seemed fair.

“Freak! Listen!” She stood full up and waved her arms to encompass the structure around them, four cement walls sans roof. Although Mark was not able to see above her knees he felt her gaze upon the top of his head. “This place. It is all for you. Your life exists in this place, your face in that puddle of mud. Feel the need you have for us. For our boots. You know that this is right. You know that this is the land at the end of your life’s journey. Twelve inches below what will tomorrow be a thick slab of cement!”

Demise, in full form, stood tall over her victim, exalting in the glory of her accomplishment. “See, if you can, freak, what I have made. It may be small, but it is important. This club will throng with people just like Derision and myself.”

She paused and crouched once again over his head. “And do you know what this, this exact place will be?” Mark’s head bobbed with the effort to keep his head out of the caustic pool below his face, corded neck straining with the effort. “Cat got your tongue, freak? Or are you too busy staying alive?” She whirled on one foot, scattering gravel into his face.

Derision’s anticipation chewed on her as she watched her love in full display, prancing in pride and accomplishment before their stage, anticipating fullness, eager for all. Derision stepped over toward Mark and spoke softly, almost kindly, “you should know, freak, that you will be forever under the feet of women here. As corny as it sounds, we chose to give you the gift of the women’s restroom, under it, that is. So you will be under women’s boots for years to come, maybe forever. But you have to ask for it nicely, or we won’t grant this to you.”

Mark’s mind was full of fuzz, but somehow he was aware of the impending close. He swiveled his head, exerting his last to look up at Derision, almost seeing her lovely face. The sweat of effort mixed with the soiled water, trickling from his face. Though his crushed larynx, finally stomped into submission in the apartment, could no longer serve his purposes he conveyed tacit agreement. The poetry of the promise offered was undeniable, almost gratifying.

Derision bent lower and smiled kindly into his face. This time it was sincere and open, uncomplicated by ulterior motive or the anticipated joy of torment. She nodded slightly as she said, “you understand, don’t you?”

Derision stepped forward, the toes of her boots entering the stagnant water taunting Mark’s weary face. Derision joined her, boots presented to their accomplice, their stage, the facilitator of what was to come.

With his waning strength it was difficult, but he felt that in the last moments it should be done, and that this was a blessing given to him. Mark looked at the four boots in front of him and did the thing that he thought he would never be able to do. Head lolling on an unsteady neck he pressed his lips to Derision’s boots, kissing gently. Although totally without grace, he comported himself well as he pressed his lips to the shining leather of Demise’s boots, astonished that he’d been granted this boon.

[KoKopeLLi68]

:D As always... great continuation Ken. :D

[rugman]

XXI

Derision glanced at Demise, noticing the lip-prints on their boots. Whereas this had been an affront in times past, now it seemed a memento, an endearing expression of what all three of them have and will share.


Mark fought valiantly for life throughout it all. With his endurance and force of life he gave glory to the women he served. Even though he knew he was betraying his future for the present and the thought of secretly serving countless women in the hereafter, his mind was resolved. He would live as long as he could, as long as his saviors would allow. And he would be grateful for as much as he could give.

Derision had warned him that it would be hard. And it was.

They stood before his face, boots still gracing the putrid water beneath their feet when they embraced each other and took to action.

They were elated that he had chosen to serve them thus, but they both knew that had he not agreed it would have ended no differently. They had simply been fortunate. No mean feat, and they added that congratulatory joy to all the rest.

Mark held his head above the water, staring at the booted feet of the women who he had sworn to serve with his life, and the end of it as well. Cruelty, he knew, had not been removed from the equation. Even his feeble resistance had not been bargained away. But only a fool would deny the inevitable, and he was no fool. He’d agreed to worship them in their glory and support them in their happiness. No matter what the cost. But the price for his participation would be high. Indeed the highest.

He watched the boots leaping as the women embraced and exulted in their triumph.

Derision stepped heavily on the back of Mark’s head, her boot crushing into his flesh, distorting his scalp. Mark’s face was shoved into the wet murk; nose nestled in the soft enveloping mud, then crushed as it hit bottom. He held his breath as the lovely woman’s weight pressed onto his wobbling head. He could feel the gentle motions of her foot as she trod him, moving onto his back.

His head surged up, mouth agape with fierce will to suck air. Too quickly came Demise as she placed her foot on his head and shoved him callously down again into the foul water. He plunged into wet darkness and bore her weight, supporting her as best he could, suffering to give her a place to set her foot.

Demise held her pose, balanced on Mark’s head, forcing him into the water. She held Derision’s hand as their eyes locked in a mutual embrace of pleasure at the bereavement they were causing the “feak’s” loved ones, assuming there were such confused people. For the women not only defiled Mark, but dusty symbols of their actions would be seen on the minds of many others as well. Unseen numbers forever marked by the passing of their boots over this one, sad, lonely man.

Finally, Demise joined derision atop their stage, releasing the head underfoot, inviting it to breathe once again, for a time. Her boot left small rocks embroiled in his hair as his head jerked up and, again, struggled for air. But now two women stood on him, stood on his back as his crumpled ribs tried to resist the constant force of their very being.

[rugman]

XXII

He couldn’t help but cry sobs of regret as he felt the women’s boots firmly planted on his back, crushing what was left of him. Broken structures within stabbed pins of fire through him. He yearned for every breath, to continue to live the life he’d been given

They danced. And their booted feet roamed far and wide over his prostrate body as he tried to keep his face out of the water. But it was a losing battle. All of them were joined in the knowledge.

The cutting tread of their heels drove into his back and neck. Demise took great pleasure in grinding his neck, not quite submerging his face, teasing him with the fatal embrace of the restful water. Derision took her joy from stamping on his spine, trying to crush his vertebra. And despite her slight form, she finally succeeded, and his legs fell to numbness beneath her.

Again Demise trod his head, forcing his face under water. He shook and strained to discharge her foot but to no avail. She stepped on him as long as she wished. His lungs pealed alarms of distress as he fought off the temptation to breathe in mud and grime. He felt the heel of her boot gripping his hair, tearing it to maintain balance and traction.

Demise danced in place before Derision, for her enjoyment. She moved enticingly, punishing Mark for being so foolish as to place himself under the feet of women. She trod his neck, tantalizing Derision with the approaching doom of their pet.

Demise paused in her cavorting, one booted foot poised over the trembling head of their victim.

“Do it, please!” Derision exclaimed, heat imbuing her voice with intense need. Demise lowered her foot to the top of Mark’s head. “But wait!” Derision jockeyed herself to stand next to Demise on Mark’s shoulders, boots cutting into his flesh.

[rugman]

XXIII

Derision’s hand crept along Demise’s skin, now exposed to the chill air, and firmly held her close, a light of fear and excitement coming to her eyes. Demise pulled her friend’s head to her bosom, holding her in the embrace of shared moment.

Derision’s boot alighted next to Demise’s, ready. Waiting.

The hair that his mother had combed when he was a little boy lay beneath the feet of women who would take the sensual pleasure of his passing. His neck strained under the increasing weight. Drops fell from his eyes, spoiling the placid tranquility of the pool of murk. His mind reprimanded him for violating the peace of the welcoming wet.

His nose touched the water’s surface, breaking it and forming a meniscus, uniting again with the filthy water.

Derision’s face looked up into that of Demise. A full-lipped smile touched her face as she studied her love’s features. Both women felt the tingling of the mortal struggle under their feet as they enjoyed the pleasant roaming of hands and lips. Each discovered things about the other that were never known before as they explored skin and form, tightness and softness. And harshness.

As their lips touched, an unspoken consensus was formed, and they shifted their weight to one side. The same side.

Mark’s side.

Despite his Herculean efforts, booted feet pressed his face into the water, into the muck. He struggled to resurface. His neck strained, trying to defy the women standing on his shoulders, crushing his head into the water. Tendons, damaged already by countless thumping blows, strained and finally gave way, each parting with its former anchoring.

He held his breath. And held.

Derision and Demise entwined themselves amongst arms and bodies, keeping feet planted. Through the soles of their boots they felt it. The shimmering convulsive pleasure of it.

[rugman]

XXIV

The death struggle was on and all three of them knew it. Shivers passed up through the women’s legs and they could no longer differentiate between the ecstatic, involuntary movements of their own bodies and the struggling man offering them the sweet stirrings of Mark’s gift beneath their feet. All merged in motion and ambiance as their feet held and he writhed.

Mark’s eyes were bathed in the gritty, caustic water. Where he had expected murky darkness he had found the searing white light of terror and unrestrained pain. His mind raced for the hidden solution, that secret scenario that would extricate him from his blazing personal hell. He struggled and felt the stabs of pain in his chest, ribs grinding and lungs screaming. Mark’s struggling consumed what oxygen was left in him, it slipped away, but his mind had reached that pandemonium of fear and sorrow known only to the damned.

He screamed.

He breathed.

Demise looked down when Mark had quieted himself and directed Derision’s attention to the glossy bubbles that had formed on the surface of the pond. They gazed into each other’s eyes, now damp with shared fondness, and basked in the joy of the gift just given them, and the gift they had given him.

At long last Mark’s thirst was quenched.

[Net_Rider]

bravo !!!
this is exxxactly a masterpiece !!

[rugman]

Thanks, Net Rider.

I appreciate it.

For the record: I posted the last segments of this story before I was aware of the tragedy in Chicago. I apologize for any perceived insensitivity. It was inadvertent.

Ken

[Net_Rider]

what is "the tragedy in Chicago" ??

[rugman]

http://mistressdestiny.com/forums/showthread.php?s=&threadid=7869

[superpower34]

hi ken,

this is my first critic about a story. And i can say that wonderfull, wonderfull, wonderfull. Your imagination and dream are wonderfull. this story is the most effective story for the last years. i know you suspend this story but please go on . please . best wishes both of you and mark. i hope mark would be find his destiny. be well.......

[rugman]

Thanks Superpower.

Your praise is really welcome. In case you didn’t know, I had originally posted the ending, but suspended it for the above-stated reason. I’m feeling a little creepy about it right now (I also have other reasons for uncertainty), and I thought it best that some time should pass before I delve into that level of subject matter again.

But I do appreciate your reaction to the story.

Thanks again,

Ken

[Net_Rider]

kenrug...
I am really sorry to hear the chicago event. It is something really very very sad :(
My point of view is there is no connection between this tragic event and your story. Hope this will relieve you.

[rugman]

Thanks Net_Rider.

Yeah, I know there’s no connection, but it just makes me feel weird to be posting something that deals with this level of darkness (knowing it’s being enjoyed in a sexual way) at this particular time. It’ll be posted in the not-too-distant future.

Take care,

Ken

[rugman]

As y'all can see, it's back. And it's done. Thanks for all the positive comments, folks.

Ken

[tiburonfx]

Great !:)

[LE's rugboy]

WOWWWW!!!!

Wonderfully cruel and sadistic. Any pics? ;)

Does it give Mistress Sara any ideas?

Thanks for the story,
Lady Erotica's rugboy

[rugman]

Gawd! I hope not!

Heh heh heh!

Ken

[LE's rugboy]

Hi kenrug,

i'd love to hear some accounts of dirt-licking that you have been permitted by Mistress Sara.

Care to share? ;)

[Miss_clinton]

Very nice story indeed!

[cicci]

oh yes, i often remember this story.. it's one of those rare ones that stick with us...

great to read it again, thanks dude...

I hope you don't mind but I copied it to my computer, with the proper credits and disclaimers of course...

[floorofspikehh]

it's a great story,thanks

[Miss_clinton]

Once, again...this is one hell of a story.. :)

[submissive_male4u]

may i know which Yahoo club/group this story was in?

[rugman]

Thanks, Miss_clinton, for your compliment. I wish I had more time to write - it's been about 5 years now.

[rugman]

may i know which Yahoo club/group this story was in?
Maybe "Black Boot Trauma" or something? It's been so long, and I think the site has closed now. The "owner" of the site was an an Afghani-Brit woman who went by the name of "Pantagruella" (SP?).

[Miss_clinton]

Thanks, Miss_clinton, for your compliment. I wish I had more time to write - it's been about 5 years now.


You write really well... would be nice if you made time a wrote more, Cheers!
:):)

[shoe_licker]

The main reason for stories to become so long and is that their authors refrain from self-relief while they have written less than 10 parts.

[rugman]

Or... and this is just a thought... the story took that long to complete. (shrug)

[rugman]

You write really well... would be nice if you made time a wrote more, Cheers!
:):)
Thank you for the kind compliment, m'Lady. I don't know if there's much more in me creatively, but yes, it does take a fair amount of time. I'm away from home for a few months on business, so I'll have quite a bit of free time on my hands. So... if the muse demands, and there's anything left in that creativity jar, perhaps.