danhager
01-27-2008, 2:08 AM
[Haven’t had the chance to continue this since December, but anyway here – at last – is part 5. To recap, the scene is London in the year 2078. All men are now women’s slaves, and a young businesswoman, Karen, is entertaining her two friends Becca and Roxanne. Roxanne and Karen have been enjoying themselves trampling Karen’s slave, Fletcher. It’s now the turn of Becca, the most sadistic of the three, to engage in some trampling.]
Still with her stiletto in the back of his neck, Becca forced the kneeling slave down onto the carpet. She twisted her heel into his skin, making him gasp with pain. Becca was a pure sadist, and as Fletcher well knew, a hard-line believer in female supremacy. This was going to be a very different trampling from the one he had just experienced at the feet of his beloved Roxanne.
True, Roxanne was a female supremacist too – but at least she had an element of compassion. Becca probably didn’t know what “compassion” meant, at least as far as males were concerned.
Like a cat stalking its prey, Becca slowly circled the prostrate slave. Turning his head slightly, Fletcher stole an illicit glance at his tormentor. Cruel, sadistic she might be, but she was still very beautiful. The piercing blue eyes, the silky blonde hair, that slender figure under the expensive black dress. Last, but not least, the long, lightly-muscled legs in their sheer black stockings. The pretty feet in their high-heeled slingbacks. What a pity that such beauty had to be allied with such cruelty.
Suddenly, Becca kicked Fletcher in the face: hard. He moaned with pain, involuntarily shielding his face with his hands.
“When I want you to look at me, shithead, I’ll let you know,” she said.
“Forgive me, mistress,” said Fletcher shakily.
“Now, get flat on your back, and don’t move – or else.”
Karen and Roxanne sat down on the sofa to watch the fun. Karen looked amused. Roxanne had a mildly sympathetic expression on her lovely face, but did nothing to intervene.
Becca walked slowly round Fletcher’s body one more time. Her high-heels clicked on the polished wooden floor. In spite of himself, and despite being afraid, Fletcher became erect. As if to show just how little she valued his arousal, Becca leaned forward and spat on his genitals.
“Bravo Beccie,” laughed Karen, his owner. “That’s showing him.”
Finally, Becca bent her knees slightly and literally jumped onto the slave’s chest. The pain was intense. Her slender heels dug deep into his protesting flesh. Still, by a great effort of will, Fletcher remained motionless and silent.
Casually and with great expertise, Becca began to trample him. She stamped and strolled on his chest and stomach, grinding her heels into his skin at every opportunity. Gritting his teeth, Fletcher forced himself not to cry out.
With calculated cruelty, Becca moved onto his crotch. Despite his degradation (or frankly because of it) Fletcher was still as hard as a rock. So, it was all the more painful when Becca stood with the flats of both her shoes on his cock, and ground his shaft mercilessly under her full weight.
“Like that do you, slavey?” she asked, sneering. “Like that, fucking carpet boy?”
“Y-yes mistress,” replied Fletcher, unsure what to say. “It’s an honour to be beneath you.”
“How nice,” replied Becca, sarcastically. “Then maybe THIS is an honour too.” And she stamped down savagely on his scrotum with her right foot.
Fletcher yelped with pain. Remarkably, with years of training and experience behind him, he didn’t move much, and didn’t unbalance the woman who was torturing him.
“Er, Becca love,” said Karen from her vantage point on the sofa. “Do remember he’s my slave. Go ahead and break him if you must, but don’t be surprised when I have to send you the bill.”
“Oh, Kar, as if I would,” replied Becca, grinning. “I know what I’m doing. I’m going to hurt him, not damage him.”
“Well, just remember. He’s a pleasure slave too, you know. If you crush his balls, he won’t be any use to me for... ahem... other services.”
“Don’t worry, then,” said Becca, in mock exasperation. “I’ll leave his precious little balls alone.”
With that, Becca ground the slave’s cock one last time under her foot, and stepped onto his chest. Balancing on her right foot, she rammed her left shoe directly into Fletcher’s face, forcing the three-inch heel into his mouth.
“You useless creep,” hissed Becca. “You fucking maggot. You piss-pathetic, fucking slave. Lick my heel, and lick the sole of my shoe. NOW. And you’d better get them sparkling clean, or else.”
Fletcher, frightened and trembling, set to work. He sucked the heel carefully, removing any traces of dirt or grit that he could detect. He then ran his tongue vigorously over the sole of Becca’s pretty shoe, losing himself in his work, trying to focus on his job as a way of distracting himself from the pain of Becca’s right shoe grinding into his chest. His field of vision, as he looked up, was almost completely blotted out by the sole of Becca’s shoe and her lovely, nylon-stockinged leg.
When she was satisfied, Becca put her left shoe on Fletcher’s chest, ground the heel into his nipple, and shoved her right foot into the slave’s face. The degrading duty of shoe cleaning was then repeated.
Finally, when both shoes were sparkling, Becca stepped onto the slave’s face with both feet, and carefully wiped her feet on him.
“The female above the male, now and always,” she said, smiling. (There was a click from the sofa, as Karen took a photo of the elegant scene.)
“Now shithead,” she said, contemptuously, “I want you kneeling upright in the middle of the floor. Got it?”
“Yes, mistress,” replied Fletcher, and promptly obeyed. His skin was marked and bleeding from Becca’s heels, but, like the dutiful slave he was, he made no protest or resistance. What would be the point, anyway?
As he knelt, head bowed, in the centre of the floor, Becca circled him, her heels tap-tapping once again on the floorboards. She kicked him in the back. He remained still, gritting his teeth. She kicked him in the chest, harder.
“What do you say, you fucking creep?” demanded Becca.
“Th-thankyou mistress,” replied Fletcher, shakily.
“I should fucking hope so, too, replied Becca.
She kicked him in the side, in the back again, in the chest again, in the crotch – each kick harder than the last. Finally, she swung her leg back and kicked him savagely in the head. Despite himself, Fletcher collapsed on the floor, dizzy with pain, unable to hold back his sobs.
He was barely aware of the pressure when Becca stood on his back and raised her arms in victory.
“And THAT my friends,” she said, laughing, “is the way to deal with males.”
“Bravo, Becs,” replied Karen. “I’ll bet he’s glad he’s not your slave. And you haven’t really damaged him, either. He’s such a whiner.”
With that, Karen walked over to her slave and placed her foot on his neck.
“Just so you don’t forget who your owner is,” she said, coldly.
Roxanne, who had watched the whole trampling display in silence, had a thoughtful expression on her beautiful face.
“You’re a bit extreme for my taste, Becca,” said Roxanne. “But there’s no denying you know how to teach a man his place. Well done.”
“Oh, Roxi,” said Becca, stepping down from the slave’s back. “You’re such a softie. If it was up to you, you’d probably give men equal rights.”
“Not at all,” said Roxanne. She crossed her shapely legs, elegant in their shiny boots and ivory-coloured stockings. “I’m a passionate believer in female supremacy. Perhaps I just don’t have your taste for cruelty, that’s all.”
“Ladies, ladies,” said Karen. “Let’s leave the philosophising for later. Fletcher is MY slave, and if I don’t mind Becca hurting him, I don’t see why anyone else should. As for you,” she addressed the prostrate male, “my friends and I could do with some drinks. Now, get into the kitchen and make yourself useful.”
She removed her foot from the slave’s neck, and he hurried into the kitchen to obey his Mistress’s order.
Fletcher set about making three dry martinis, but his hands were shaking. He was still in great pain. Of course, as a man, he was used to being hurt and humiliated by women, but tonight was an extreme case. He was hurt and shocked that his owner, whom he served so dutifully, seemed to approve of Becca’s cruelty. Above all, he was filled with shame that Roxanne – whom he secretly loved – should have had to witness his degradation.
As if to complement his thoughts, he heard a pair of heels clicking on the stone tiles behind him. It was Roxanne herself. She stood in the kitchen doorway, a stern expression on her face. Her green eyes shone, her beautiful red hair cascaded over her shoulders.
Immediately, Fletcher knelt.
“Forgive me, mistress Roxanne,” he muttered. “The drinks will be ready in a moment.”
“Don’t worry about that, Fletcher,” said Roxanne. “Are you all right?”
How to answer that question? Touched by the lovely woman’s concern, Fletcher’s eyes filled with tears.
“Yes, m-mistress Roxanne,” he stammered. “I’m fine. Thank you for asking.”
“Well, I’m not sure that’s true,” she replied, kindly. She pointed to the floor in front of her feet. “Do me a favour, will you, and lie down here for a moment.”
Without hesitation, Fletcher prostrated himself at Roxanne’s feet. She placed her boot on the slave’s neck – but gently, without stamping down or grinding the heel into his skin. The sole of her boot on his skin felt cool to Fletcher; cool and reassuring.
“You know, Fletcher,” said Roxanne, kindly, “the duty of men is to serve and obey women. You’re a good slave, and I know you understand that. Unfortunately, that duty isn’t always easy. But as a male, you have to learn to take pride in your obedience – especially when it’s difficult, and when it demands so much.”
“Yes, mistress,” replied Fletcher. “It’s an honour for a male to serve a woman, under any circumstances. I do understand.”
“I know you do. You’re a good lad.” She rubbed her boot sole gently over Fletcher’s head, as if caressing him with her foot.
Roxanne’s kindness was suddenly too much. A sob escaped him, and, unbidden, he kissed and licked the top of her boot.
“Forgive me, mistress,” he muttered, sobbing. “But I wish – I wish – I c-could be your slave.”
Such presumption, when addressed to almost any other woman, would have brought a severe whipping, and Fletcher knew it. Roxanne, however, merely increased the pressure of her boot on Fletcher’s head.
“Do you now?” she asked. “I’m not sure that’s an appropriate thing for a male to say, Fletcher.”
“No mistress,” said Fletcher, recovering himself. “I know. I’m sorry, forgive me.”
“All right, we’ll say no more about it for now. Just hurry up and fetch our drinks, there’s a good lad.”
With that, Roxanne removed her boot from the slave’s head and went to rejoin her friends.
Still with her stiletto in the back of his neck, Becca forced the kneeling slave down onto the carpet. She twisted her heel into his skin, making him gasp with pain. Becca was a pure sadist, and as Fletcher well knew, a hard-line believer in female supremacy. This was going to be a very different trampling from the one he had just experienced at the feet of his beloved Roxanne.
True, Roxanne was a female supremacist too – but at least she had an element of compassion. Becca probably didn’t know what “compassion” meant, at least as far as males were concerned.
Like a cat stalking its prey, Becca slowly circled the prostrate slave. Turning his head slightly, Fletcher stole an illicit glance at his tormentor. Cruel, sadistic she might be, but she was still very beautiful. The piercing blue eyes, the silky blonde hair, that slender figure under the expensive black dress. Last, but not least, the long, lightly-muscled legs in their sheer black stockings. The pretty feet in their high-heeled slingbacks. What a pity that such beauty had to be allied with such cruelty.
Suddenly, Becca kicked Fletcher in the face: hard. He moaned with pain, involuntarily shielding his face with his hands.
“When I want you to look at me, shithead, I’ll let you know,” she said.
“Forgive me, mistress,” said Fletcher shakily.
“Now, get flat on your back, and don’t move – or else.”
Karen and Roxanne sat down on the sofa to watch the fun. Karen looked amused. Roxanne had a mildly sympathetic expression on her lovely face, but did nothing to intervene.
Becca walked slowly round Fletcher’s body one more time. Her high-heels clicked on the polished wooden floor. In spite of himself, and despite being afraid, Fletcher became erect. As if to show just how little she valued his arousal, Becca leaned forward and spat on his genitals.
“Bravo Beccie,” laughed Karen, his owner. “That’s showing him.”
Finally, Becca bent her knees slightly and literally jumped onto the slave’s chest. The pain was intense. Her slender heels dug deep into his protesting flesh. Still, by a great effort of will, Fletcher remained motionless and silent.
Casually and with great expertise, Becca began to trample him. She stamped and strolled on his chest and stomach, grinding her heels into his skin at every opportunity. Gritting his teeth, Fletcher forced himself not to cry out.
With calculated cruelty, Becca moved onto his crotch. Despite his degradation (or frankly because of it) Fletcher was still as hard as a rock. So, it was all the more painful when Becca stood with the flats of both her shoes on his cock, and ground his shaft mercilessly under her full weight.
“Like that do you, slavey?” she asked, sneering. “Like that, fucking carpet boy?”
“Y-yes mistress,” replied Fletcher, unsure what to say. “It’s an honour to be beneath you.”
“How nice,” replied Becca, sarcastically. “Then maybe THIS is an honour too.” And she stamped down savagely on his scrotum with her right foot.
Fletcher yelped with pain. Remarkably, with years of training and experience behind him, he didn’t move much, and didn’t unbalance the woman who was torturing him.
“Er, Becca love,” said Karen from her vantage point on the sofa. “Do remember he’s my slave. Go ahead and break him if you must, but don’t be surprised when I have to send you the bill.”
“Oh, Kar, as if I would,” replied Becca, grinning. “I know what I’m doing. I’m going to hurt him, not damage him.”
“Well, just remember. He’s a pleasure slave too, you know. If you crush his balls, he won’t be any use to me for... ahem... other services.”
“Don’t worry, then,” said Becca, in mock exasperation. “I’ll leave his precious little balls alone.”
With that, Becca ground the slave’s cock one last time under her foot, and stepped onto his chest. Balancing on her right foot, she rammed her left shoe directly into Fletcher’s face, forcing the three-inch heel into his mouth.
“You useless creep,” hissed Becca. “You fucking maggot. You piss-pathetic, fucking slave. Lick my heel, and lick the sole of my shoe. NOW. And you’d better get them sparkling clean, or else.”
Fletcher, frightened and trembling, set to work. He sucked the heel carefully, removing any traces of dirt or grit that he could detect. He then ran his tongue vigorously over the sole of Becca’s pretty shoe, losing himself in his work, trying to focus on his job as a way of distracting himself from the pain of Becca’s right shoe grinding into his chest. His field of vision, as he looked up, was almost completely blotted out by the sole of Becca’s shoe and her lovely, nylon-stockinged leg.
When she was satisfied, Becca put her left shoe on Fletcher’s chest, ground the heel into his nipple, and shoved her right foot into the slave’s face. The degrading duty of shoe cleaning was then repeated.
Finally, when both shoes were sparkling, Becca stepped onto the slave’s face with both feet, and carefully wiped her feet on him.
“The female above the male, now and always,” she said, smiling. (There was a click from the sofa, as Karen took a photo of the elegant scene.)
“Now shithead,” she said, contemptuously, “I want you kneeling upright in the middle of the floor. Got it?”
“Yes, mistress,” replied Fletcher, and promptly obeyed. His skin was marked and bleeding from Becca’s heels, but, like the dutiful slave he was, he made no protest or resistance. What would be the point, anyway?
As he knelt, head bowed, in the centre of the floor, Becca circled him, her heels tap-tapping once again on the floorboards. She kicked him in the back. He remained still, gritting his teeth. She kicked him in the chest, harder.
“What do you say, you fucking creep?” demanded Becca.
“Th-thankyou mistress,” replied Fletcher, shakily.
“I should fucking hope so, too, replied Becca.
She kicked him in the side, in the back again, in the chest again, in the crotch – each kick harder than the last. Finally, she swung her leg back and kicked him savagely in the head. Despite himself, Fletcher collapsed on the floor, dizzy with pain, unable to hold back his sobs.
He was barely aware of the pressure when Becca stood on his back and raised her arms in victory.
“And THAT my friends,” she said, laughing, “is the way to deal with males.”
“Bravo, Becs,” replied Karen. “I’ll bet he’s glad he’s not your slave. And you haven’t really damaged him, either. He’s such a whiner.”
With that, Karen walked over to her slave and placed her foot on his neck.
“Just so you don’t forget who your owner is,” she said, coldly.
Roxanne, who had watched the whole trampling display in silence, had a thoughtful expression on her beautiful face.
“You’re a bit extreme for my taste, Becca,” said Roxanne. “But there’s no denying you know how to teach a man his place. Well done.”
“Oh, Roxi,” said Becca, stepping down from the slave’s back. “You’re such a softie. If it was up to you, you’d probably give men equal rights.”
“Not at all,” said Roxanne. She crossed her shapely legs, elegant in their shiny boots and ivory-coloured stockings. “I’m a passionate believer in female supremacy. Perhaps I just don’t have your taste for cruelty, that’s all.”
“Ladies, ladies,” said Karen. “Let’s leave the philosophising for later. Fletcher is MY slave, and if I don’t mind Becca hurting him, I don’t see why anyone else should. As for you,” she addressed the prostrate male, “my friends and I could do with some drinks. Now, get into the kitchen and make yourself useful.”
She removed her foot from the slave’s neck, and he hurried into the kitchen to obey his Mistress’s order.
Fletcher set about making three dry martinis, but his hands were shaking. He was still in great pain. Of course, as a man, he was used to being hurt and humiliated by women, but tonight was an extreme case. He was hurt and shocked that his owner, whom he served so dutifully, seemed to approve of Becca’s cruelty. Above all, he was filled with shame that Roxanne – whom he secretly loved – should have had to witness his degradation.
As if to complement his thoughts, he heard a pair of heels clicking on the stone tiles behind him. It was Roxanne herself. She stood in the kitchen doorway, a stern expression on her face. Her green eyes shone, her beautiful red hair cascaded over her shoulders.
Immediately, Fletcher knelt.
“Forgive me, mistress Roxanne,” he muttered. “The drinks will be ready in a moment.”
“Don’t worry about that, Fletcher,” said Roxanne. “Are you all right?”
How to answer that question? Touched by the lovely woman’s concern, Fletcher’s eyes filled with tears.
“Yes, m-mistress Roxanne,” he stammered. “I’m fine. Thank you for asking.”
“Well, I’m not sure that’s true,” she replied, kindly. She pointed to the floor in front of her feet. “Do me a favour, will you, and lie down here for a moment.”
Without hesitation, Fletcher prostrated himself at Roxanne’s feet. She placed her boot on the slave’s neck – but gently, without stamping down or grinding the heel into his skin. The sole of her boot on his skin felt cool to Fletcher; cool and reassuring.
“You know, Fletcher,” said Roxanne, kindly, “the duty of men is to serve and obey women. You’re a good slave, and I know you understand that. Unfortunately, that duty isn’t always easy. But as a male, you have to learn to take pride in your obedience – especially when it’s difficult, and when it demands so much.”
“Yes, mistress,” replied Fletcher. “It’s an honour for a male to serve a woman, under any circumstances. I do understand.”
“I know you do. You’re a good lad.” She rubbed her boot sole gently over Fletcher’s head, as if caressing him with her foot.
Roxanne’s kindness was suddenly too much. A sob escaped him, and, unbidden, he kissed and licked the top of her boot.
“Forgive me, mistress,” he muttered, sobbing. “But I wish – I wish – I c-could be your slave.”
Such presumption, when addressed to almost any other woman, would have brought a severe whipping, and Fletcher knew it. Roxanne, however, merely increased the pressure of her boot on Fletcher’s head.
“Do you now?” she asked. “I’m not sure that’s an appropriate thing for a male to say, Fletcher.”
“No mistress,” said Fletcher, recovering himself. “I know. I’m sorry, forgive me.”
“All right, we’ll say no more about it for now. Just hurry up and fetch our drinks, there’s a good lad.”
With that, Roxanne removed her boot from the slave’s head and went to rejoin her friends.