TRAMPLE STORIES - TRAMPLING STORIES  HOME                                 back to main site:  FEMDOM

trampling
trample

Visit the best website ever made:  Devine Bitches

TRAMPLE

TRAMPLE

  

  

  

TRAMPLE STORIES - TRAMPLING STORIES

  

  

  

  

FACE TRAMPLE STORY

  

  

I could tell that Ms Sara was feeling a little bit “antsy” early in the afternoon. I usually can tell this because she gets a wee bit more demanding and quick to anger. Why does this happen from time to time? I don’t know. But she has this side to her personality that mystifies me and, well, makes me damn happy. Okay, damn excited is more like it.
Ms Sara has many facets to her personality, as any of you who know her can testify. But this woman is so dynamic that she has at least four modes of sexual aggression: playfully dominant; sensually dominant; abusively dominant; Hannibal-Lector-would-not-survive dominant. That last one, HLWNS for short, is one that is only rarely seen. And it only comes out at such times as she decides. I cannot prompt her to play with me in that mode. And to answer some of the questions from you in-the-know about Ms Sara, when she gets in the “face-stomping” mode, that is NOT HLWNS mode (we have another name for it, based on a half-crazed, beautiful, selfish and cruel woman-character from a television show). Her kicking and face stomping comes from the merely “abusively dominant” mode. This mode, the HLWNS, is not necessarily as physically punishing as the abusively dominant side of Ms Sara, but when she gets this way she is completely self-serving and without remorse or regret or, even, restraint. She does exactly what she wants, and to hell with the consequences. Be careful what you wish for, especially in these times.

 
So, onto last night (you’re welcome). As I was saying, Ms Sara was in “that” mood, as she hasn’t been in a couple of years. So, sensing this, Ken runs out to the store and grabs a couple bottles of Ms Sara’s favorite conversational/sipping wine (are you taking notes? It’s Cell Master’s Riesling, of a good quality). She thinks Chardonnays are too pretentious for light conversation. I don’t argue the point. I put on the music (an assortment of mp3’s playing on my Phillips mp3 player – get one, their cool), and chill the wine. We sit at the table and begin chatting while Ms Sara’s mood deepens and darkens as she listens to the music and sips wine. One note (and remember this one), the music is set to random play, which is important to the ritual about to begin. But there’s some kind of psychic power that electrifies the aether whenever Ms Sara gets this way, and it affects the so-called randomness of the music. Music is important. Ms Sara’s mood accelerates more. And then she gives me that look. Don’t worry about imagining it, you really can’t. But a close approximation would be the last thing the gazelle sees as the lioness pounces. Her blue-grey eyes bore into me steadily and I can sense the evil lurking behind them, the calculation, the sheer malice.
I get nervous. I know that I want to accept what she intends to inflict, but I’m old and wise enough to have an idea of what that will mean. I won’t pretend to be able to give you a word-for-word accounting of my tale, but I’ll give you the essence of what followed.

 
“Come over here,” Ms Sara quietly demands. I get out of my seat and walk around the table to stand before her. “Who told you to stand up?” Her eyes pierce my confidence and I knell at her boots (yes, the ones pictured elsewhere on this board—she really likes them, and thinks that I should as well). In a flash, way too fact for me to see, much less react to, Ms Sara smacks me across the face with her right hand. When I return my glance to her face I see her smiling down at me. No, not a kindly smile, not even a passingly affectionate one, a smile of barely restrained malevolence caresses her fine features. I swallow hard, knowing that this women, although smaller than I, is fully capable of exercising her will all over me, and that she probably will.
Ms Sara likes slapping. Always has. When she saw another woman at a party slap me 7 or 8 times in ear-ringing succession she looked on with pleasure and contempt. It’s just the way she is. She enjoys abusing, and loves to see other women (often in groups) brutalize me, often encouraging them to trample over my helpless form with gleeful abandon. She likes to introduce new women into this as well, encouraging them to step where they like and stay as long as they want. When she’s in her “zone” she can be heartless, because she really, really likes it.
So Ms Sara sits back, takes a satisfying pull on her cigarette (yes, she smokes, and yes that is also something to worry about), and looks down her nose at me, her eyes narrowing in thought and anticipation. She crosses her legs, right boot over left knee, and says, “my boots need cleaning. I wore them to work several times this week.”
Knowing that it wasn’t a suggestion I bend myself to the task at once, running my tongue around the sides of her rather soiled black boot. Once in a while I will look up and see her smiling that same smile as she looks down at me. At first I feel a little stupid, as I usually do when I’m starting off on one of these little experiences, but I am, after all, a sub, and a trample fan, and a boot freak on top of that. The scent of her boot, mixed with the ambient smoke and the wine we are sharing fill my mind as I stroked the sides of her boot. It is too dark to see whether my efforts are actually accomplishing anything practical, like cleaning her boot, but I must not stop. She pulls her boot back a bit, exposing the sole. I look dumbly up at her and no sooner do I pause but the sole of her boot strikes down at my face, knocking my head back a bit. “Who told you to stop, rug boy?”
I start in immediately, licking the sole of her boot, tasting the grit she had trod on during the week. She likes to wear her boots to work because her co-worker friends admire them, including the fact that they’re always spotless. Ms Sara, I know (because she’s said so), wants her girlfriends at work to trample me – hard. Somehow, and I don’t know why, seeing her friends grind me underfoot always touches something in her. She indulges her passion for this whenever it’s safe (from a privacy standpoint).
I begin to work on her heel, feeling the sharp corners where her crushing steps have spread the hard plastic into a razor-sharp band at the back of the heel. “Further up,” she demands and I move a few inches above the heel, near her ankle. Without warning she’s reached down and grabbed a handful of my hair and is dragging my face up and down the shaft of her boot, demanding that I “lick! Damn it, lick it right!” I can hear the music in the room, quite loud, actually. It’s one of those damned songs that increase her aggression. She thrusts my head back and looks coolly down at me.
“Who are you?” She asks quietly.
“Ken,” I respond.
The boot is into my chest before I even realize it. I’m on my back as she stands over me. “Who are you?” Again she waits expectantly for my answer.
“kenrug,” is my response. She smiles again.
“I need to walk on you. Get over there.” Pointing, she indicates a place on the hard linoleum floor. As I scuttle across the room Ms Sara follows me, kicking me or stepping on my hands as I scramble to get to my fated spot. I lay on my back And without any notice, warning or indication of intent Ms Sara steps up onto my chest and immediately begins to walk up and down me in the most casual way possible. You see, that’s Ms Sara’s favorite way of walking. At the drop of a had Ms Sara has been known to spread me out on the floor just so that she can casually walk over me again and again. One, but usually two steps on then off again. Turns. Walks over me again. All the while she tells me that this is how a rug really feels when women walk all over it. And I can tell, the heel strike first, the continuation of the step, followed by the twist off. Painful.
But Ms Sara just decided she wanted to walk casually without giving me the slight break in between passes. She walks up to my chest, steps on my face, hard. She turns around and walks back down to my groin. She stops and twists her boots carelessly into me. Her goal, as always is to tread me just as she would a rug. For real. As with everything else she does, she does this with an intense desire to excel… to be perfect. She is. And it hurts like hell.
Up again to my chest, turn, twist and grind. Stop. Stomach then groin again. Stomp! I flex in pain as her boot slams down onto my crotch. I’m fully clothed, but my jeans offer little protection. No resistance. She laughs at my attempt to double up with a grown woman standing on me. Boots fall on me again as she walks up to my chest and steps on my face, grinding the rough, almost new tread into and across my face. She twists her heel on my mouth and I moan in agony as my lips, pursing vainly, try to hold her off.
“Kiss my boot, rug boy.” I can tell she’s leaning into her boot on my face, making it impossible to do what she commands. But I try anyway. Ms Sara thinks that I should love her boots. Her boots belong to her, and they serve her, under her feet (but above my station in life). Adoring her boots is not optional. “Kiss my boot, love it.”
As you all know (or should) it can be difficult to endure a trampling (especially a vicious one) and expend effort in other directions at the same time. Her boot presses into my face as I try to show her that I’m trying to comply, to love her boot. To worship it. I have mixed success. Well, actually my saliva mixes with whatever I missed on her boot when licking it, and she grinds the soil across my face, getting it into my eyes. But I manage to wiggly my face out from beneath her tread enough to lavish adoration on the sole of her boot.
The song changes. It’s Britney Spears’ “Crazy.” Neither of us particularly like the music, but Ms Sara knows I have the hots for Ms Spears. Before you get your musical tastes all in a bunch, how many sweet-faced pop stars have been photographed standing on somebody (and enjoying it) and have stated that they like having their feet kissed? Have you ever seen the video “Hit me baby one more time?” Schoolgirl outfit? Crimany. Ms Sara laughs, knowing what I’m thinking at that point. She obviously intends to do something about it.
Dance time. Now I’ve already said that she loves little more than treating a man exactly as she treats every rug fortunate enough to find itself in her path. Extend that thought a little. Yes. You’ve got it. I’m now a dance floor. Her boots rise and fall on my chest and stomach as she dances to the music. She twists and thrusts her boots all over me in as close an approximation of dancing on a real floor as a woman can manage considering the flexibility of the suffering surface beneath her tread. Her heels are grinding into my skin, through my shirt. Her rhythm is such that I’m finding it hard to synchronize my breathing with her dance steps. I need to breathe in; she’s got her left foot pressing forcefully into my floating ribs, preventing my lungs from filling. When she steps off my chest and places her right boot into my belly I try to quickly draw breath. Too late, her left boot slams into my chest again. It feels as though I’m being danced into unconsciousness. But it is such a fantastic sight, seeing her dancing so way up above me, lost in the song, enjoying herself. I know that in the back of her mind she knows I’m down under her, feeling her boots trample all over me (that is the point, after all), but that knowledge is serving her cruelty, her selfish enjoyment of the totality of what she’s doing… dancing all over a man without a care in the world for him, only bathing in the ecstasy unique to putting another beneath her feet to endure her only concern: her pleasure.
The song ends and is replaced by another. Godsmack’s “Voodoo” is one of her favorites. It’s guttural, thumping rhythm has always reminded her of primitive dance music, calling up images of tribes people dancing and jerkily stomping around a campfire, faces painted and stretched in some self-absorbed trance that only the primitive mind can access.
Uh oh.
She looks down at me, pausing her tortuous stampede over me. Again that smile. She raises her boot and slams it down on me. I “whoosh” out what air is left in me just in time to feel the next stomp.
Let me remind you. When Ms Sara is in this frame of mind we are going to do exactly what she thinks would be enjoyable, hot or merely fun. I’ve never been significantly injured during one of these events, but as I said, they’re infrequent. I’d like to think that somewhere, behind those beautiful, cold, calculating eyes she has some restraint tucked away there. But I have been given reason (at these times) to seriously doubt it. As I said before, be careful of what you wish for.
Stomping in time with the music, Ms Sara seems intent on no just covering every inch of my abdomen, groin and face with her boots (all at once, if she could), but to do so with enough harshness to satisfy her passing whim. I am stomped on and on and on. She now stands sideways on me, stomping in the same two places over and over again as this goddamned song goes on and on. I can vaguely see the sole of her left boot as she raises it to stomp down. With that song still running she stops, walks up to my upper chest and paces the arch of her right boot across my neck, pressing down.
“If I do this, you’ll die, you know,” she says in a playful, taunting voice, smiling down at me. She applies more pressure and I can feel the heel gouging into my neck as my wind-pipe begins to hurt. I nod, open fear showing up through my own eyes. “That would be fun, rug boy.” She presses harder, and my ears hear the whoosh-whoosh of my blood being pumped. Her merciless boot crunches down even harder and she stops smiling and looks deeply into my eyes. This is the part that scares me the most. The Soul Consumption, as I think of it.
She likes to see men suffer under her feet (and in other ways as well. She’s multi-talented, you know). Her favorite aspect of this, which to my knowledge separates her from other dominant women, is her demand that her victims look her in the eye. Most dominant women want the subject to always look down, never into their eyes, out of respect for the exalted personage in who’s presence they find themselves. I can understand that. It’s very traditional. Not so with Ms Sara. She wants to see the pain and humiliation in your eyes. Everybody who’s dealt with her, or seen her in action has commented on this. And it can be hard to meet her gaze in this kind of circumstance because you become slowly aware that she’s consuming your duress. Feeding on your feelings of helplessness and ego-sting.
I was now experiencing this, looking up at her, knowing that some lovely dark things were crossing her mind. Knowing that she was aware that I knew what was going on in her mind. She looked down upon me and the weight of her stare was more dire than the boot on my neck. I was, again, realizing that my sole reason for being beneath her feet at that moment, during the whole night in fact, was to provide suffering sustenance for her insatiable hunger for tormenting humiliating others. The more I feared, the more I endured, the greater her pleasure. This, my friends, is the literal definition of sadism.
Don’t get me wrong. Ms Sara is by no means like this all the time. As I said, this comes out of her infrequently. Most of the time we go on about our lives the same way that most other suburbanites do. And at those times, it is honestly what Ms Sara is. Yes, she’s assertive, and smart and confident. Yes, perhaps she’s more of those things than the average woman. Ms Sara is not average. But once in a while she lets out what I suspect hides in most women. Remember, Kipling said that the female of the species is more deadly than the male (read the poem). Makes you wonder what’s hidden behind the pretty eyes of your girlfriends, lovers and wives, does it not?
The moment lingers, the pressure builds, her gaze devours my soul compete. And just like that she’s done with it. She withdraws her booted foot from my scratched neck, sets it upon my chest, looks away from me and steps off.
“Follow me. Keep up and lick my boots.” She walks toward the table as I scramble to at once suck air into my compressed body, apply myself to the task of cleaning what parts of her boots present themselves as she walks, and avoid getting my hands crushed under heel. She sees my attempts to keep my hands out from under her boots and stops.
“Put your hands on the floor,” she practically barks. Raising her voice is not Ms Sara’s style, she expects one to listen carefully and obey immediately. Shouting is not necessary. And she’s not shouting now, but I can tell that she’s a little miffed, like one of her evil plans has been purposely thwarted. I, knowing what is to come, lay my hands out on the floor flat before her boots. (Note to all those guys who like your hands getting stepped on: Kiss my, well you-know-what. Ms Sara found out about this from you all, and now loves the hell out of it. I’m not a fan, which obviously doesn’t matter, and that sh_t hurts!) She leans back on the heels of her boots, raising the toes. I know what to do. So I put my hands in the shadow of her boots and she lets fall with them, thumping the backs of my fingers with force. She starts to laugh.
Grinding my fingers under her boots, Ms Sara then lifts her heels off the floor and twists the soles into my hands. I start to moan. “Shut up,” she says (why does everybody tell me to do that?). But I can’t help it. I start vocalizing louder with “ouch” and all the rest, getting louder as my pain rockets upward. She then gets off my hands, turns around, lifts her heels from the floor and I (not having to by psychic) place the backs of my hands under her heels.
Slowly she brings her boot heels down onto my hands and settles them in, like they’re going to stay a while. She doesn’t use the pressure she could (surprise to me), but the heels are harder than the soles, and they’re on the backs of my hands, rather than on my fingers. My bones move and crunch as she presses and rocks her heels. The pain increases and is soon intense. I begin to holler in earnest now. Which is really stupid, because that is exactly what she’s looking for. She laughs and impugns my ability to tolerate pain and she grinds her heels even more. Presently, though, she’s had enough of this and says, once again, “follow me, but walk.”
She heads for the front door and ambles down the front stairs. It’s about 12:00 am. Snow is on the ground and I’m barefoot. She crunches through the snow (as I tag along, shivering all the while). She finds a planter, now vacant since it’s winter. Immediately she steps up into the planter and smiles girlishly (honest to god, girlishly) at me as she tromps around in the dirt. After about 30 seconds of digging her boots into the cold, moist dirt she tromps back up the stairs. I, thankful to be out of the cold, hustle after, closing the front door behind us. She’s standing in the same room as before, obviously wondering what was taking me so long. It’s been less than two seconds since she, herself, got there.
“Lick my boots,” she says with a smirk of self-satisfied taunting on her lovely face. I can see that she’s evaluating me at this point. Here she has in front of her a man. She’s just intentionally muddied her new boots. She’s just told that man to lick the mud from her boots, mud she knows to be rather plentiful. She’s not really wondering whether the man will abase himself before her and grovel at her feet like a pathetic worm. She knows he will. But she finds the drama of the impending event is still enjoyable.
I fall at her boots and begin to swipe my tongue around the sides of her boots, filling my mouth with mud that she’s just put there by stepping the planter. “You’re pathetic, you know that?” she says in that mocking way that let me know that she honestly believes at that very moment. If it weren’t real, she wouldn’t say it. Lies are for those afraid of the truth. That’s not her usual evaluation of me, just the one she happens to hold at that point of time. Anybody care to argue the point with her?
Didn’t think so.
So there I am, doing my best to clean her boots, and I know I look like an idiot. The mud is really thick, and it’s getting to be too much for me. Fortunately, I don’t have to finish because Ms Sara puts the muddy sole of her right boot on the back of my head and shoves me to the floor, withdrawing her boot from my by wiping it through the hair she has underfoot. Apparently liking the idea, she proceeds to use the back of my head as her personal doormat, vigorously wiping her boots on me, pulling my hair in the process.
I notice that she has stopped, just when she steps up onto my back and proceeds to trample me with renewed force. I can tell that she’s reaching the point where her exercise is complete because her speed has increased. She’s trampling all over my back with hard even strides, heel first again. She wipes her boots all over my back and takes advantage of the firmer surface underfoot by increasing the rapidity and force of her footfalls. She’s obviously not caring where she’s walking on me. Her heels end up on my spine as often as not, but trample me she will. My butt and legs get trampled on as well as she, again, seeks to cover me with her (now muddy) footprints. I’ve heard that some women want to, when they trample, walk ALL over their subject. I’ve heard that this has to do with the idea that once every square inch of a person has been under her feet, when she has literally walked all over them, then she can see them as completely her property. I think this is the way with Ms Sara. Whatever the reason, it scratches some itch, so she indulges.
Once having thoroughly used me as her doormat, I laying covered in boot prints, she standing upon me apparently reviewing her accomplishment, Ms Sara walks off me and heads for the other end of the house. I don’t have to be told what to do, nor what will soon follow. You, however, will have to use your imagination.

  
Femdom movies
  
  
©   Femdom