rugman
05-30-2007, 3:42 AM
I banged this out last night as a quickie answer to this thread (http://www.mistressdestiny.com/forums/showthread.php?t=68736) in the Discussions Forum, but once I was done I realized it was probably more of a "story" than an answer, so I decided to re-post it over here where somebody might enjoy it.
It's been 2.7 million years since I actually wrote a "story" - so I'm a little out of practice. But, eh, it answered the question at hand.
Okay, first it’s hard to say which would be my favorite because it changes over time. Also, I’ve had “ultimate” fantasies that actually came true (two women standing on me while kissing each other being one of my fondest). That said, my current favorite is kind of unusual for me – in that the women involved aren’t dressed in what I usually prefer – but that ended up not being the point.
I do tend to like those fantasies best that are at least remotely possible to actually accomplish. And if I suck up to Mistress Sara, who knows? :D
Casual On The Beach
Mistress Sara and I, and five of her real-life female friends have managed to trip on down to Sunny San Diego, on Mission Beach. We’re staying at one of the swank bungalows you can rent right on the boardwalk – mere yards from the sandy beach. But as cool as the bungalow is, fully loaded – including a damn good bar – the women love to hang out on the beach.
Fine with me. In fact, even better.
Most of the women know what I like, and most of them have expressed an interest – either having walked on me before, or into the idea of it. So before the blankets, coolers, and the rest are set up I’m told to dig a hole. And sure enough, in the hole I go, to be covered (entertainingly by the women kicking the sand back over me) almost completely by a layer only a few short inches deep. All except my face, which sticks up at most a couple inches above the surrounding surface.
It’s not all that deep and I know it’s not going to give me any real protection at all. The women begin to set up their little beach camp, and, inevitably, Mistress Sara whispers to a couple of the other women and casually walks directly across my belly and chest on her way to setting out one of the blankets. Following suit, a friend – an experienced trampler – steps heavily on my chest as she also heads across the beach to set up a blanket.
That’s really all it takes to get the other four women into the groove of setting up – everybody must help out, right? As I’m laying there, I’m being stepped on, and sometimes walked over, by women coming from all directions. I don’t know where the next woman’s going to come from, and so I barely have a chance to prep for her flip-flop landing – and I never really know where. The experienced women are specifically targeting my crotch, stepping down heavily, and twisting even more harshly than they would by just walking. Several women make a game of seeing how closely they can step next to my face without actually hitting me. It gets a little harder to hear, and to move, as the sand is packed under their tread.
When they’re done the sand over me is completely trampled flat, and the sand cracks as I breathe beneath it – it’s now even less deep than it had been. And now that they’re done they gather at the center to talk about what they want to do next. Mistress Sara steps right onto my chest, facing one of the less experienced women who decided to take a spot right on my crotch – making a point of shifting her feet as she talks. They decide they need to go get some supplies, and Mistress Sara turns on me to leave, her flip-flop shaking sand into my face as she moves past. Three of the women make a point of stepping on me, and the last, one of the new women teasingly swings her foot over my face while she grins prettily down at me.
They’re gone for a few minutes, and I’m getting a little bored. I feel movement at the top of my submerged head and look up into the smiling face of Mistress Sara. In a calm voice she tells me, “Get ready, this is going to be hard for you.” I’m thinking, “uh oh” and the sole of her flip-flop descends quickly down onto my face. Her weight pushes down and I feel my head pressing down a bit into the sand. Helpfully the now-packed sand around my head keeps it from shifting. Mistress Sara has stepped full weight on my face before, so I know she’s there now, and I can feel her weight shift to my chin as she treads over me, her other foot landing on my stomach.
Not that I have time to think about that because as I’m resisting her step, I barely catch a flash of a sarcastic smile as another flip-flop comes right down onto my face, the sand trying to get into my eyes. I get the immediate realization that the women are taking their time, apparently having been convinced that my face can take whatever they have in mind to give. That woman competes her relaxed step, only to be replace immediately by the next... in line? I can’t tell because women’s feet are falling onto my face faster than I can recover from the last, my nose grinding under the soles of their footwear. And I’m sure that I’ve finally counted more than six crushing, full-weight steps. Only when they’ve done ruthlessly using their weight to torment me, as they stand around looking at me – for a reaction? – do I realize that Mistress Sara must have looped around, followed by the others, for another go at my poor trampled face.
One of the women is holding an apparently fully-loaded cooler - which she was carrying as she crushed my face underfoot - yikes. And they’ve brought an iPod and battery-powered speakers. I see the cords dangling from one of the women’s hands, and they all follow my gaze at the music player. Looks get exchanged between them once they’ve realized what I’ve seen... and they smile.
Off to my right I realize they’re starting a fire, about three feet away from me. One woman digs a shallow indentation in the sand while others bring in wood, now not caring at all whether they merely step close to my face, or crunch right down on top of it – from whatever direction, and on all parts of it randomly. I was already in pain before this, and now that I’ve had a chance for my skin to react, the grinding of the tread of their flip-flops, combined with the ever-present grit, my face is being sand-blasted every time a woman carelessly steps on me. Music starts to play.
It’s Garbage. I’m in trouble.
I hear clinking as the women pass around coolers, glasses and I see bottles of liquor – but at my angle, and with the decreasing light, I can’t tell what kind. The women spread out around the fire, but it’s kind of hard to see where each is until two simultaneously step onto to me and find a place to sit, Mistress Sara on my crotch and one of the less experienced women sitting on my chest. Oddly, it’s almost harder to breathe with a woman sitting on my chest than it is for several to be standing on me.
They pass the larger bottles around, followed by ice and (probably) coke. And they’re getting louder as time goes on. About an hour into this I can tell they’re starting to get a little tanked – potentially a dangerous situation, though I’ve certainly been there before, with every one of these women. I’m thinking that I sure am glad they all generally like me.
As if that’s going to help.
At the far side of the fire one of the women gets up and starts dancing and laughing, speech slightly slurred as she sings along. But she’s getting into it, and walks somewhat unsteadily over to my side of the fire. She leans over towards the women sitting on me and says over-loudly, “ladies, you’re sitting on the dance floor. It’s not dignified.” And everybody laughs, except for me of course. Both the women sitting on me get up and I remember how much more difficult it is to endure inebriated women trampling me. The girl on my chest is overcompensating her balance and her right foot slides over my neck, but then she recovers. Mistress Sara is doing her best to balance herself, while at the same time unintentionally (I think!) scuffing roughly over my crotch. Then they both vacate me, making room for the other woman, who I’m surprised to find isn’t even looking at me. She casually looks where she’s stepping, to make sure she ends up where she wants to – on my chest. She begins to dance, and I’ll freely admit that in the flickering light she looks like some kind of fire goddess, dancing on me. And it’s extremely erotic.
From the far side of the fire a laughing female voice shouts, “looks like something has come up!” pointing at me. Well, not at my face, more in the middle. The woman dancing on me stops as they all break out laughing. Several of them appear truly surprised as they exclaim that they really didn’t quite believe that I liked this, and how much I like it. And all restraint evaporates like spilled tequila.
They converge on me, looking for somewhere they can dance. It’s fairly crowded, with two women dancing all over my legs, three others spread around from my hips to my upper chest, and as I’m gasping at not only the weight, but the added impact of casually dancing feet – careless of any discomfort because now they’re convinced that the more they do the more I’ll like it. And Mistress Sara approaches from my left side, looking directly down into my eyes. Without a word, but a slight shaking of her head – as if saying “you asked for it” – she stands, putting my upturned, trapped face beneath both her feet. And she begins to dance.
Through the pounding of my heartbeat in my ears, past the trampled sand against my head, I hear them laughing and whooping with complete abandon as they begin their dance party on a man. I smell the rubber of flip-flops grinding on my face and spilled alcohol soaking through the sand. And they want to change positions, stopping for a second as the next woman stamps forward onto my worn face and then they start up. Again and again.
I have no idea how long this has been going on because my mind is focused on breathing, and enjoying what’s being done to me - as I lie helplessly beneath six women recklessly dancing all over me, on my face. I just know that at some point I became convinced, in my delirium, that six strange and beautiful goddesses had just permanently removed the word “mercy” from the English language.
It's been 2.7 million years since I actually wrote a "story" - so I'm a little out of practice. But, eh, it answered the question at hand.
Okay, first it’s hard to say which would be my favorite because it changes over time. Also, I’ve had “ultimate” fantasies that actually came true (two women standing on me while kissing each other being one of my fondest). That said, my current favorite is kind of unusual for me – in that the women involved aren’t dressed in what I usually prefer – but that ended up not being the point.
I do tend to like those fantasies best that are at least remotely possible to actually accomplish. And if I suck up to Mistress Sara, who knows? :D
Casual On The Beach
Mistress Sara and I, and five of her real-life female friends have managed to trip on down to Sunny San Diego, on Mission Beach. We’re staying at one of the swank bungalows you can rent right on the boardwalk – mere yards from the sandy beach. But as cool as the bungalow is, fully loaded – including a damn good bar – the women love to hang out on the beach.
Fine with me. In fact, even better.
Most of the women know what I like, and most of them have expressed an interest – either having walked on me before, or into the idea of it. So before the blankets, coolers, and the rest are set up I’m told to dig a hole. And sure enough, in the hole I go, to be covered (entertainingly by the women kicking the sand back over me) almost completely by a layer only a few short inches deep. All except my face, which sticks up at most a couple inches above the surrounding surface.
It’s not all that deep and I know it’s not going to give me any real protection at all. The women begin to set up their little beach camp, and, inevitably, Mistress Sara whispers to a couple of the other women and casually walks directly across my belly and chest on her way to setting out one of the blankets. Following suit, a friend – an experienced trampler – steps heavily on my chest as she also heads across the beach to set up a blanket.
That’s really all it takes to get the other four women into the groove of setting up – everybody must help out, right? As I’m laying there, I’m being stepped on, and sometimes walked over, by women coming from all directions. I don’t know where the next woman’s going to come from, and so I barely have a chance to prep for her flip-flop landing – and I never really know where. The experienced women are specifically targeting my crotch, stepping down heavily, and twisting even more harshly than they would by just walking. Several women make a game of seeing how closely they can step next to my face without actually hitting me. It gets a little harder to hear, and to move, as the sand is packed under their tread.
When they’re done the sand over me is completely trampled flat, and the sand cracks as I breathe beneath it – it’s now even less deep than it had been. And now that they’re done they gather at the center to talk about what they want to do next. Mistress Sara steps right onto my chest, facing one of the less experienced women who decided to take a spot right on my crotch – making a point of shifting her feet as she talks. They decide they need to go get some supplies, and Mistress Sara turns on me to leave, her flip-flop shaking sand into my face as she moves past. Three of the women make a point of stepping on me, and the last, one of the new women teasingly swings her foot over my face while she grins prettily down at me.
They’re gone for a few minutes, and I’m getting a little bored. I feel movement at the top of my submerged head and look up into the smiling face of Mistress Sara. In a calm voice she tells me, “Get ready, this is going to be hard for you.” I’m thinking, “uh oh” and the sole of her flip-flop descends quickly down onto my face. Her weight pushes down and I feel my head pressing down a bit into the sand. Helpfully the now-packed sand around my head keeps it from shifting. Mistress Sara has stepped full weight on my face before, so I know she’s there now, and I can feel her weight shift to my chin as she treads over me, her other foot landing on my stomach.
Not that I have time to think about that because as I’m resisting her step, I barely catch a flash of a sarcastic smile as another flip-flop comes right down onto my face, the sand trying to get into my eyes. I get the immediate realization that the women are taking their time, apparently having been convinced that my face can take whatever they have in mind to give. That woman competes her relaxed step, only to be replace immediately by the next... in line? I can’t tell because women’s feet are falling onto my face faster than I can recover from the last, my nose grinding under the soles of their footwear. And I’m sure that I’ve finally counted more than six crushing, full-weight steps. Only when they’ve done ruthlessly using their weight to torment me, as they stand around looking at me – for a reaction? – do I realize that Mistress Sara must have looped around, followed by the others, for another go at my poor trampled face.
One of the women is holding an apparently fully-loaded cooler - which she was carrying as she crushed my face underfoot - yikes. And they’ve brought an iPod and battery-powered speakers. I see the cords dangling from one of the women’s hands, and they all follow my gaze at the music player. Looks get exchanged between them once they’ve realized what I’ve seen... and they smile.
Off to my right I realize they’re starting a fire, about three feet away from me. One woman digs a shallow indentation in the sand while others bring in wood, now not caring at all whether they merely step close to my face, or crunch right down on top of it – from whatever direction, and on all parts of it randomly. I was already in pain before this, and now that I’ve had a chance for my skin to react, the grinding of the tread of their flip-flops, combined with the ever-present grit, my face is being sand-blasted every time a woman carelessly steps on me. Music starts to play.
It’s Garbage. I’m in trouble.
I hear clinking as the women pass around coolers, glasses and I see bottles of liquor – but at my angle, and with the decreasing light, I can’t tell what kind. The women spread out around the fire, but it’s kind of hard to see where each is until two simultaneously step onto to me and find a place to sit, Mistress Sara on my crotch and one of the less experienced women sitting on my chest. Oddly, it’s almost harder to breathe with a woman sitting on my chest than it is for several to be standing on me.
They pass the larger bottles around, followed by ice and (probably) coke. And they’re getting louder as time goes on. About an hour into this I can tell they’re starting to get a little tanked – potentially a dangerous situation, though I’ve certainly been there before, with every one of these women. I’m thinking that I sure am glad they all generally like me.
As if that’s going to help.
At the far side of the fire one of the women gets up and starts dancing and laughing, speech slightly slurred as she sings along. But she’s getting into it, and walks somewhat unsteadily over to my side of the fire. She leans over towards the women sitting on me and says over-loudly, “ladies, you’re sitting on the dance floor. It’s not dignified.” And everybody laughs, except for me of course. Both the women sitting on me get up and I remember how much more difficult it is to endure inebriated women trampling me. The girl on my chest is overcompensating her balance and her right foot slides over my neck, but then she recovers. Mistress Sara is doing her best to balance herself, while at the same time unintentionally (I think!) scuffing roughly over my crotch. Then they both vacate me, making room for the other woman, who I’m surprised to find isn’t even looking at me. She casually looks where she’s stepping, to make sure she ends up where she wants to – on my chest. She begins to dance, and I’ll freely admit that in the flickering light she looks like some kind of fire goddess, dancing on me. And it’s extremely erotic.
From the far side of the fire a laughing female voice shouts, “looks like something has come up!” pointing at me. Well, not at my face, more in the middle. The woman dancing on me stops as they all break out laughing. Several of them appear truly surprised as they exclaim that they really didn’t quite believe that I liked this, and how much I like it. And all restraint evaporates like spilled tequila.
They converge on me, looking for somewhere they can dance. It’s fairly crowded, with two women dancing all over my legs, three others spread around from my hips to my upper chest, and as I’m gasping at not only the weight, but the added impact of casually dancing feet – careless of any discomfort because now they’re convinced that the more they do the more I’ll like it. And Mistress Sara approaches from my left side, looking directly down into my eyes. Without a word, but a slight shaking of her head – as if saying “you asked for it” – she stands, putting my upturned, trapped face beneath both her feet. And she begins to dance.
Through the pounding of my heartbeat in my ears, past the trampled sand against my head, I hear them laughing and whooping with complete abandon as they begin their dance party on a man. I smell the rubber of flip-flops grinding on my face and spilled alcohol soaking through the sand. And they want to change positions, stopping for a second as the next woman stamps forward onto my worn face and then they start up. Again and again.
I have no idea how long this has been going on because my mind is focused on breathing, and enjoying what’s being done to me - as I lie helplessly beneath six women recklessly dancing all over me, on my face. I just know that at some point I became convinced, in my delirium, that six strange and beautiful goddesses had just permanently removed the word “mercy” from the English language.