TRAMPLE STORIES - TRAMPLING STORIES

TRAMPLE EVENING STORY

part 2

Later that evening Marion decided it was time to go to bed. She closed her eyes and let her head fall back, stretching her neck. Giving a wide yawn she rotated her head from left to right, then right to left. She scrunched her face for a moment, then opened her eyes, shook her head to clear it and briskly removed her feet from Robert’s face. Looking down disdainfully, she began chuckling at the site of his blinking, bewilderment. The red imprints of her damp, slightly abrasive soles on his cheeks and forehead also made her smile.

“Up Robert” she commanded, “Stand up,” she said firmly. “I know your worthless cock cannot stand up, but you can, now stand up.”

Robert did, blushing slightly.

“Why Robert, you’re blushing!” said Marion mockingly.

“Whatever is the matter?” she asked in a sing-song way.

“Is it that your cock is limp as a noodle? Hmmmm, Robert dear?”

As she spoke, Robert rose to his feet, wobbling and unsteady. Marion wrapped her finger and thumb around Robert’s flaccid cock, close to the base. She turned his cock left and right, up and down, over and over, smiling delightedly at its unchanging softness. She licked her lips, then leaned across to breathe on his sensitive cock flesh. Robert felt arousal in his mind, his groin and his balls. Yet his cock stayed soft. Marion chuckled.

“Come closer,” she said huskily.

He shuffled closer.

“Closer,” she commanded, and he pressed his legs to the side of her chair.

“That’s better,” said Marion with pretend sweetness.

She hoisted his limp cock and took it in her mouth. Her warm, red painted lips wrapped round his knob as she licked and sucked. His cock stayed un-swollen and un-erect.

Marion made sensual, aroused sounds. “Hmmm, such a lovely knob,” she crooned.

“I would love a drink of hot cum,” she continued.

“I give you permission Robert,” she said cruelly, “permission to cum in my mouth.”

As she suckled his limpness she gentled his overfull balls. His helpless cock stayed floppy. She continued to suck his lifeless prick and caress his sensitive balls. After ten minutes she spat out his useless cock.

“I’m insulted Robert,” she shouted.

She lifted his limp dick out of the way and smacked his balls with the flat of her left hand. As she smacked his swollen, hyper-sensitive balls she spat out her words.

“When” smack, “I”, smack, “suck,” smack, “your”, smack, “balls”, smack, “I expect you to get hard and fill my mouth with cum.”

Each word was accompanied by its own smack to the balls.

By the smack on “cum” Robert was feeling sick with pain. His balls and groin and stomach felt like they were molten, filled with rocks and broken glass. Simply standing there was an agony. Marion let go his cock.

“Fetch the compressor,” she said imperiously.

Robert’s heart sank. Of all Marion’s cruel toys he feared the compressor the most. He knew, however, that he dare not disobey. Walking like a man whose muscles had been swapped for rubber he staggered off to get the cruel device.

In his absence, Marion stood, lifted the cushion of her chair, and spoke to the trapped man inside.

“Pee now,” she told him.

As she replaced the cushion, she heard the unmistakable hiss of pints of long held urine being expelled into the pipe.

By the time Robert returned, Marion was sitting cross legged in her seat again. He carried a piece of equipment that served a simple, but terrible purpose. In essence it was a device that fastened onto his balls and made it easy for Marion to hurt them without destroying them. Marion had decided she would rather keep his balls around for torture purposes than smush them in a one off attack. A strip of shaped plastic formed the back of the device. It was shaped to fit over his upper thigh, pass behind his bollocks, then fit over his other thigh. A belt for each thigh would hold it on his body. Ignoring the belts, this piece looked like two arches connected by a flat section. To connect to the top bar this piece also had two bolts fixed to it. The top bar of the device was a short, flat segment. This piece was made of flexible plastic. It hand holes drilled at either end, where the bolts passed through, and a bracket in the centre.
Marion had Robert hold the back piece in place while she fastened the belts round his thighs. Then, laughing gaily, she lifted his lifeless cock out of the way and slipped the top bar into place with the bolts passing through the holes at either end. She took two plastic wing nuts and spun them tight. As the wing nuts tightened, the top piece compressed his swollen and agonised balls. Marion hummed as she twisted the wing nuts tighter and tighter. Robert’s balls flattened and distended more and more, but did not burst. Robert’s balls were hideously flattened and swollen by the time Marion stopped tightening. The pain was like holding them over and open fire. Both Marion and Robert knew the pain would stay at that level or worse until Marion chose to remove the compressor.
Marion took a handle and attached it to the bracket on the top bar. She took hold of the handle, tugged on it firmly, then marched Robert upstairs. Trying desperately not to stumble, fall over or drag in any way, Robert scurried behind his awesome wife. She did not make it easy for him. She tugged him into the kitchen and got herself a glass of water. Then she marched out of the kitchen and part way up the stairs before totting loudly, turning back, dragging Robert back into the kitchen and turning out the light. She let go the handle momentarily, slapped Robert hard across the face, then took hold of the handle again.

“Why didn’t you tell me I’d left the light on?” she asked angrily.

“Are you that eager for 100 strokes of the cane?” Robert said nothing, not having been given permission to speak.

“Insolent boy,” she sneered. “You shall get your wish 100 strokes it is!”

Robert’s stomach was in knots. How could she be so cruel? She marched him up the stairs and paused on the landing.

“On your back,” she said, letting go the handle. He lay on his back at his wife’s feet.

“Now hold still,” she said menacingly.

As he watched, overawed, Marion stepped up onto his belly and chest. Her foot sank deep into his scrawny belly. She completely ignored him as she undressed. She removed her blouse, stepping off Robert briefly to throw it into a washing hamper. Soon she was on him again, putting all her weight on one foot as she stepped up. In a haze of pain he was horrified to see how deeply her broad foot sank into his yielding flesh. Her second foot came up. Marion wobbled a little, then her left foot came down. The ball of her foot settled on the handle of his compressor. Her weight compressed his balls a little more firmly. Robert bit back screams.

Marion unfastened her bra, wobbled slightly on her human rug, then tossed her bra into the bedroom. All the while she maintained her dominant stance, right foot pressing his internal organs flat, left foot casually abusing his balls. Her left foot was arched, as if she wore a high heeled shoe. This gave an elegant line to her leg, showing off the bulge of her calf muscle, the rounded perfection of her knee and the fullness of her thighs.

Marion frowned in concentration as she unfastened her skirt, before working it down, rocking her body, changing the pressures and pains that transferred from her feet to Robert’s agonised body. Momentarily she put all her weight on her left foot, maximising the pain in Robert’s trapped balls. His mouth yawned open, his face a pure rictus of overwhelming pain. Marion studied him with a smile then stepped out of her skirt. Putting weight on her right foot she kicked the skirt off, leaving her in stockings and suspenders plus large black knickers.

Enjoying the pain on her husband’s face she decided to prolong and increase it. She raised and lowered her big broad feet over and over, marching on his belly. She felt his internal organs compressing, moving aside as her weight surged down.

She smiled at the contrast between them. She was young, tall, full figured, elegant, confident and comfortable. He was old, small, thin, distressed and distraught. She marched on his aching stomach for ten long minutes, watching his face writhe. Then she grew bored and unclipped both stockings, slipping them down quickly. With a quick raise of each foot she removed the stockings, dropping them on the floor. Her garter belt followed, leaving her wearing only her knickers.

She stepped off Robert, then reached down and grasped his handle. She slid him across the polished floor and into the bathroom where she lay him in front of the sink. Her bare feet soon settled on his body, one on his chest and the other on his face. His ribcage creaked and groaned, bending in and down. She spent 20 minutes removing her make up, washing her face, brushing her teeth, putting on skin cream and moisturisers and generally preparing for bed. As she worked, the foot on his face moved, feeling his forehead, nose, eyes and mouth. She crushed and bruised his lips. His skull felt as if it would pop.

When she had finished there, she slid him over and positioned him in front of the toilet, using his chest as a rug as she peed. After that she stood full weight on him as she washed her hands.

Finally it was time to enter the bedroom.  

The bedroom was big. A deep carpet cushioned every footfall. Two steel poles ran from floor to ceiling. Marion ushered Robert over to the poles. Velcro fastening cuffs hung from the polished rods. Marion fastened her un-protesting husband into the restraints. Clips, at waist height, attached the belts from his compressor to the poles. Any forward motion of his hips would add pressure to his already distressed ball-sacs. Marion ran light fingertips over Robert’s small buttocks. She chuckled and thrust a finger up his anus. He automatically flinched, instantly compressing his balls more firmly before pulling back. Marion chuckled.

“Jumpy little frog aren’t you?” she asked teasingly.

Robert felt powerless and ashamed. He was ashamed because he had surrendered to his wife. He never resisted or rebelled. He lived for her abuse. That shamed him. Marion seemed to have read his mind.

“Good little boy,” she said gaily, “never rebels, never tries to fight his mean wife and ruler.”

Robert stood silent.

“Now it is time for your caning.” She said happily.

“100 strokes.” She added.

“You count off every ten,” she said smiling, “I’ll be too busy.”

His wife, naked except for black panties, moved in front of him and squatted down, showing her firm rump. She knew this would mentally arouse Robert. She opened her bottom drawer and took out a cane. It was long and whippy. She let out a sigh of satisfaction.

“Ahhh, here she is,” she said firmly, “the very thing.”

She walked up to Robert and looked into his eyes.

“Open your mouth,” she commanded. Robert did so.

“Watch as I spit in your mouth,” she said cruelly, “as I use you as a spitoon.”

Robert’s belly did slow loops.

She inclined his head backward a little, touched his lower lip to ensure it was sufficiently open, then smiled humourlessly before spitting in his mouth.

She patted his cheek and smiled impishly before saying “You may swallow.”

He did swallow, swallowing his shame along with her spittle.

Marion moved to stand just behind her broken husband. She held the cane in her right hand. She raised her arm, let it hover a moment, then applied the wicked cane to her husband’s buttocks. The line was red hot shame. It stung like a paper cut. Marion grunted. Robert flinched forward. Only the first blow, but already his balls burned like his backside.

Marion delivered a second stripe, inches above the first. Then a third, between the two. She was relentless. Swipe, cut, back, repeat, over and over. Robert’s overloaded brain was forced through terror to attend to every blow. His body was a sheet of pain. The count reached 20. Only twenty. Dear God it seemed like 200. He couldn’t believe there were 80 swipes left. It seemed to go on and on, burning him, consuming him, destroying him.

Finally it ended. Marion un-cuffed his wrists. She held him up, stopping him from falling, and tossed him onto the bed. He lay dazed and battered on the bed. His back and buttocks were awash with pain and marked by lines where the cane had hit him over and over again. The cotton sheet against his flesh was an indescribable agony.

Marion used cuffs on his wrists and ankles to fasten him, spread-eagled, on the bed. She hummed softly as she unfastened the handle on his compressor and replaced it with a dildo. She turned off the light and drew the curtain. Robert was slowly returning to full awareness. He tested his bonds and knew they were unbreakable. In the half light he saw his wife lying at his side. She leaned over his face and smiled.

She began talking to him. “Hmmm, lover,” she purred, rubbing her hands over the dildo, fingering its veined exterior.

“What a magnificent hard on you have,” she said oozing arousal, “I’m gonna ride that monster all night!”

Marion had an insatiable sexual appetite. Robert knew what that meant. Every downward thrust of her lust driven loins would bring fresh pain and pressure to his badly beaten balls. The knowledge of his suffering would magnify his wife’s arousal.

“Get me wet!” She commanded.

Marion moved to squat over her husband’s head. She straddled his head and pressed her greedy, needy pussy against his face. Juices were flowing already. She ground herself against his nose, mouth, chin and forehead. Robert put out his tongue. Marion squealed as she worked her wet gash against her slave husband’s tongue.

“Ohh, that’s nice,” she cooed.

“I could cum on that,” she murmured, “but I won’t.”

She said firmly.

She rode his trapped head for ten minutes before climbing off. Robert nearly passed out as she smothered his head. In moments she was straddling his hips, and impaling herself on the dildo. She sat full weight on the plastic erection, filling her pussy, crushing his balls. She delighted in mounting his pain and her pleasure simultaneously. She rose, keeping just the tip of the dildo inside her, then dropped down with a soft cry of pleasure. Robert felt his balls were on fire.

Marion rose again, a sensuous silhouette, hovered, shook her head, then descended once more. Robert’s balls screamed their need for an end to the torment.

Instead, the torment continued. Marion’s lifting and lowering pussy, driven by its own needs, was the instrument of torture for her husband’s trapped, imprisoned balls.

She rode him hard. She rode him long. She rode him with wild, wanton abandon. She bit her lip. She screamed and writhed. She panted and panted harder and faster in time with her building lust and her rising and falling hips. She came with a downward thrust of immense power, putting all her weight on Robert’s balls, and grinding to get maximum pleasure. She stayed there, his fake cock impaling her, his balls aflame, and collapsed forward. She slept like that. For an hour or more she slept. Until she woke, needing the toilet. After that, she untied Robert who moved meekly to sleep at his wife’s feet until morning.

Trample Evening Story  - part 3