Part 3

Chapter 5

Her foot returned to the floor, and her weight immediately back onto it.

He squeezed down, an utter prisoner to the sole of her foot, to her weight, and more than anything else, to her absolute whim.

She squashed him, he feeling every nuance of the skin of the sole of her foot mash down over his body.  The wrinkles of her sole.  Every compression line in her skin, large and small, every tendon do its job as they tightened and stretched under the load of her weight, all of her skin’s whorls and ridges as they gripped fiercely down over every inch of his body.  All in absolute darkness.  All with an absolute inability to do anything about it.

At all.

He whimpered, knowing that trying to cry out was useless.  And just as useless, it was pointless.  She wouldn’t hear him, in the extremely tight confines of her shoe, and wouldn’t do anything to change any of it, if she did hear him.

Her weight picked up.  He took in a gasp.  The air was so thick with her smell, both from her foot in these close confines, and from the part of her shoe where her foot would rest, when he wasn’t in it, that the breath felt like he was in some…

The air was so thick with the smells and this terrific humidity, there was nothing he could compare it to.  A swamp, deep down in some ancient forest?  A sauna where unpleasant things, spores, molds and the like, were left to flourish with all of their malodorous scents?

He couldn’t possibly fathom anything that would come close to it, an experience for which any mind would never ordinarily be able to conceive of.

It was rendered academic before he could take his next breath of its fetid melange.  Her weight returned to her foot.

It steamrolled down his body, a titanic force.  Unstoppable, as impossible to endure as it was to stop.  He had no choice but to endure it.  He was tied to this foot and pinned up against it by the insole of a tight-fitting shoe.

His head was pressed down into the insole, the grip of her heel down over it so tight, that he would never have a hope of turning it, the skin of his face mashed into a painful pinch over the front part of his skull, the skin of the back of his head, too, along its back, his ears mashed so flat against the sides of his skull, that they felt like they would burst.  Then his shoulders and collarbones got to feel it, his whole torso, too, as her arch took her weight--that weight laying upon his whole torso with a force that mashed her skin down over it, as much as it compressed his whole chest and belly downward, his whole spine helplessly popping under the severity of the compressive forces of her step.  This along with his pelvis and thighs, they pressed tight in the extreme, acute, it feeling like his skin would either burst or develop blood-blister pinch-lines along his body’s whole anterior-posterior divide, pinched so hard his whole body was between sole of her foot and insole of her running shoe.  His upper arms feeling all of this, too, in all of its unstoppable power, it feeling like his forearms would swell to bursting on her heel's either side, it all making even the ends of his fingers feel like they were swelling with the pressure.

Then all of that alleviated, only for all of it to roll down to his lower legs, his calf muscles feeling like they were being squashed flat, his shins to feel the acute digging-in of her dermal whorls upon them, then for his legs to be stretched, this followed almost at once, by all of her weight leaving his trapped form all in one smooth rush.

He gasped again.  A hiccuped sob defined the character of this gasp, the skin of his face burning from the way it had just been pinched, his whole body burning furiously from the mash that had just come upon it, and then had just as abruptly left it.  Every nerve tingled, fiery, unbearably acute, this along with that feeling of throbbing one might imagine present in a finger just out of a crushing vice, except down his whole body's length.

The air of the tight confines filled his lungs.  His mind reeled at how much it all had hurt, his body starting to feel hot-humidity-burned, in addition to the tight crush he’d just felt, this latter part from him being held in such close contact with her hot, and much thicker skin.

None of it mattered, however.  Not in the slightest.  As soon as he tried to begin contemplating the enormity of how much it all hurt, it was happening again.

He endured it with a groan.  His spittle bubbled out from exceedingly mashed lips.  His eyes burned from being pushed from deforming sockets and skull, his tongue tasting the skin of her heel, it forced out and against it.

His skeleton popped, organs squeezed and shifted.  Every muscle burned.  It was excruciating beyond words, her weight just so fantastic, so completely crushing, the sole of her foot molding down over his body in an excruciating wave of terrific force.

It left him again.

He gasped again.  Tried to writhe.  The insole of her shoe held him snug.  Tight, pressing him up against skin, that even with the owner’s weight off of it, seemed to writhe as if to deliver pain.

The humidity was unspeakable.  It made what small breath he was able to get, difficult to endure--like sucking something half air and half water down into his lungs.  But not half water.  More like muck suspended in air, thick, cloying, like the air where hundreds of loaves of bread was left to yeastily rise in close quarters, or like in an olympic pool building and the air was much too warm.  Not burning as it went down, however, but feeling something that must be coughed.  But couldn’t be coughed.  It was needed too much.  It was too difficult to get.  This latter was both from just how minimal the air was in this small space, which was made only by his head, between the bottom of her heel, the sock, and the inside of her shoe, but also because of how difficult it was for his chest to push up into the arch of her foot, to get it.  Getting the breath felt like trying to breathe from tanks on the bottom of an ocean, it was made so difficult to get.

Her weight came upon him again.

That difficult breath made a furious farting sound out through excruciatingly pinched lips.  His head spun.  His whole body was mashed, that fantastically heavy steamroller that was the bottom of her foot, squashing down the whole length of his body in that wave of unendurable pressure, her foot pressing its flexing hurt down over every fiber of his pain-drenched being.  Every joint popped.  His skeleton flexed downward under that horrible, rolling mash.  He saw stars, red and white swirls of a universe filled with pain.

Has gasped again.  Gagged, the breath coming down into his lungs with a ragged surge of agony, every micron of his flesh alight with the agony that was just upon it.

“She’s wal--!”

Her weight was on him again.

The thought finished itself with a spasm.

“Walking on me!”

A rolling, unendurable, unstoppable agony, happening again and again!

He gasped again and again, brought along with her foot as its weight relented, held so tightly against it, that it almost felt like she was still crushing him, pulling him along with it, into her next steps.  He felt this time, swinging motion, which must be her stride.  Knowing he’d felt it before, but hadn’t been able to be aware of it from the mashing that followed, those blowing out any thought which may have tried to take root, before they could form.

Her weight steamrolled down the whole length of his body again, unstoppable, an agony again beyond anything anybody could ever imagine.

It relented again, his mind reeling as much as before, but able to recognize the sweep of her step now.

Her weight came upon him again.

He cried out.  His cry made a ridiculous little buzz in the tight space formed only by his head.  His lower arms, his biceps were pressed so tightly up against the sole of her heel, that he couldn’t pull down on the harness anymore, either.

Her weight did that unimaginable steamroll down the length of his body again.

“Does she even remember I--!”

Her weight mashed down the length of his body again.

“--down here?!”

Her weight mashed him again--that unstoppable steamrolling of the bottom of her foot against his whole body, the insole of her shoe accepting him again, to sandwich him again in that excruciating, full-body pinching.

He cried out again.

It did nothing.  Her steps did not stop.  Didn’t even slow.

Where was she go--?!”

He started to lose track of how many steps she was taking.

They wouldn’t stop!  He was steamrolled mercilessly!  Repeatedly, the sole of her foot a companion of only horrible weight, excruciating hurt, a universe of pain he was taken up with, in between every unendurable, agonizing mash of her weight, only to be pulverized under her weight again, again and again.

“My god!!  Pl--!”

They didn’t stop!  She walked on him!  Strode on him!  She was treading on him without seeming end!  He cried piteously!  Tried to writhe!  Nothing stopped it!  She was walking on him like he wasn’t there!  Had never been there!  Pain, and only that, had become his whole world!

The walking stopped.

He might have found relief in this, but it had stopped with her standing on him!

Throbbing hurt, unable to draw the breath, meager and as desperate as they were, he had gotten between her excruciating steps.  There was only her weight now, her skin molded extremely painfully down over him, his skin feeling like ten levels of sunburn now, skin he knew would be bearing every dermal nuance the sole of her foot had.  An utterly inescapable encapsulation, pinned so firmly, he had utterly no hope of movement, movement he so very desperately wanted to have, if for nothing else, than in some attempt to alleviate this horrendous weight mashing down over him!

In this moment of purest, unstoppable hurt, his mind conjured the image of a bathysphere trapped on the bottom of some ocean, an ocean comprised not of water, but of unending, excruciating pain.  All of the air had been pressed out of this bathysphere by this ocean’s pressure, terrible pressure, crushing him and intensely suffocating him.  An ocean of dermal ridges and whorls, biting down into his flesh, stretched over him in unimaginable agony, the sole of her foot, his whole body barely making its hateful length, less than its terrifically agonizing width, he a prisoner to its whim to cause hurt, to make pain for him, to press down over him a whole universe’s idea of anguish and torture.

A sound blasted up from lungs made to starve too long!

“Bwahhh!”

A desperate cry.

The weight of her great foot relented not the smallest degree.

Desperation swelled!

Her foot did not relent!

She was standing on him, the sole of her foot become a formed-over harbinger of pure, squashing agony!

He struggled again, lights starting to pop in his head!

Her weight relented not a second!

Darkness encroached on the agony, hurt that was becoming so acute, he felt insanity approaching!  Her foot would just not relent!

Suddenly, it did.

A desperate breath filled his lungs, pushed his chest deeply up into the suddenly relaxed arch of her foot!

Humidity filled his lungs.  Cloying, making him want to cough again, a summer indoor pool without air conditioning under a too-hot sun.  A swamp where dreaded things waited in dense, close heat to devour one.  The sole of her foot relaxed upon him, so close, he held so firmly up into it, moving, as if seeking to feel for him, or perhaps feeling a like heat, her tendons and skin cruising up and down the length of his body in waves that he took as either irritation or relief.

He heard voices.

They had been there, he realizing he had been hearing them, but only started hearing them once he was allowed to come up for air from that crushing ocean of despair and agony he had been submerged under.

“So what’s with the shoes?”

A man’s voice.

One of her clients?

“Oh, you know how it is.  I was on my feet too much the last few days and needed something more comfortable.”

Her voice.

His voice again.

“Cool. whatever.  So you ready to get started?”

“You got the money?”

Her voice again.  Then his.

“Yep.  Got it right here.”

Her weight came onto him again.

He groaned.  Then was mashed silent, the sole of her foot encapsulating him under its weight and hurt again.

He felt her turn.  It was a character in the way her foot flexed and then left the floor.  He gasped.

Her weight came onto him again, mashed him into that painful silence again, rolled down the length of his whole body in one of those excruciating, full-body-blotting-out steps again.

She started walking on him again.

Between one of the steps, he heard laughter.

He answered that laugh with a sob, between those two steps, her weight and the horrible steps of it over him, his only companion.

And then, oh god.  A question.

Would she need to stand for what her client wanted?

Her weight came onto him again.  Not a step that took it back off again, but solidly again, not moving again.

He wept piteously under her weight, her foot mashing him mercilessly down into his ocean of agony again, unrelenting, uncaring.  And then ensued moments when her weight was off of him for short periods, then on him for short periods--in only what he could take as her setting her client up for whatever they were about to do, she stepping around him, in doing whatever it was she was doing, he helpless to all of it, helpless to stop any of it.

He heard laughter again.  Heard an expression of nervous anticipation from the client.  All muffled in the extreme, he only catching the smallest snatches of it between the hateful weight of her foot mashing him.

Then…

A whip crack.  A scream, her foot having curled forward off of him.

Her weight came back onto him again, mashing him back into his helpless agony, back down under his universe of inescapable hurt again.

It curled forward again.  This time, he felt a grunt pass down through her body, evidently putting effort into what she was doing.

That whip cracking again.  Followed by her client’s scream.  That one was followed by a howled, “Please Mistress!”

Her weight came back onto him again, he mashed back down into an oblivion of pressure and pain again by the sole of her foot.

Despite the pressure, the agony and the hopelessly inescapable position he was in with her, he felt some small sympathy for the client.

If he only knew.

Her weight flexed forward off of him again, her foot pushing itself vigorously up onto its toes.  That followed almost at once by another cracking of the whip, and then a howl of pain again.

“Please Mistress!” came the wail again, too.

Despite everything, he laughed.  It wasn’t the laughter of hilarity, however, but the laughter of sympathetic despair.

Her weight came back onto him again.

He didn’t even mind it this time, he accepting it as his due, what he had gotten himself into, the reward for his extreme foolhardiness.

Which was what her clients were.  Men foolish in the extreme, wanting things done to them no man was meant to endure.  It was the client’s lot.  It was his own.  Her foot mashed him without mercy.  Her whip gave pain to the client without mercy.

Such things men were, they and their little fantasies.

Her whip cracked again.  The client howled and begged again.  He felt her unmerciful weight upon him again.

He laughed in earnest as her foot crushed him again, how ridiculous the whole thing was, moving him to convulsions of true mirth.

She enjoyed punishing men for their folly.  He would endure what she promised, what he had begged her for.  And would, because she took delight in it.  And that was the biggest joke of all, wasn’t it?  He could have said no, but hadn’t.  Had insisted on it.

Her whip cracked again.  Her weight came onto him again.

She did it because they wanted it.  They had handed her the permission.  And now that she had it, it was her pleasure which drove it.

Tears of despair replaced laughter.  Her foot was just so cruel.  Her whip was equally cruel, her other client’s howls even coming through the shoe and her foot now, even when her weight was on the client beneath her.

We are fools, all of us.

Her whip cracked again.  Her foot mashed down over him again.  He struggled, tried to beg, his struggles and begging as acute as the other client’s howls of pain.

He would get what was promised.  And get it, he knew, not because only of some mere promise, but because she wanted to give it.

Despair became his whole world again, that and her cruel weight and the equally cruel sound of her whip.

What must it be for her, to be allowed to do this to people like him?  He had no clue, but he did know that he would never be permitted out of it, to be forced to endure it to its end.  A whole day beneath her feet, crushed and walked on, she to pretend he wasn’t beneath her.  To treat him like he wasn’t there at all.

Which, if the sound of her whip, which just kept landing, eliciting those howls of despair he himself knew all too well now, was any indicator, he would endure.  Have to endure, be given no choice but to endure, because she enjoyed it.

He cried piteously beneath her uncaring heel.  Her other client under her equally pitiless whip.  Hope for any mercy died with those sounds, with the repeatedly returning weight of her foot.

He cried and cried.  Her client cried and cried.  And he just endured it, her great weight, the helplessness of the inside of her shoe, the continual mashing, her tough skin, the uncaring way in which she settled it over him again and again, crushing him into an oblivion of pain with every settling.

He found himself suddenly orgasming again.  It felt like a release of despair this time, and nothing at all like pleasure.

Her foot mashed him.  Her whip sang and struck.  He wept for himself and for him.  Her whip kept right on singing, her weight kept right on mashing him, neither pausing once, no matter what either of them did or how they begged and pleaded with her.

The joke of the universe, they the butt of it.  He beneath her foot, he beneath her whip.  Victims of their own folly.  Handing over the keys to their own pain.

His world was the bottom of her foot, her great weight come often upon it.  He stopped listening to the whip.  Couldn't after a few minutes.  His only concern could be for him.  Her foot just wouldn't relent.  He cried for himself.  Cried for his predicament, the predicament he had gotten himself in, the predicament he knew she would not let him out of.

Her whip sang and sang.  Her client's pleas became more piteous.

He knew what he felt, knew his despair.  Shared it.  Knew too, no matter the dept that despair went to, it would not stop her, would not make her relent.

Her foot mashed him, crushed him, sweated, the heat created by the exersion of whipping making her sweat, made her foot sweat in earnest, soaking him, it starting to burn his skin, adding its own pain to the dull throb of repeated mashing.

He cried.  Her foot kept right on mashing him.  Her client cried, her whip kept right on lashing him.  And kept right on, no matter what either of them did.

And kept right on keeping on, the despair becoming a thing both of them would just need to learn to live with.  Or not learn--she just to keep going, no matter what either of them learned or did.