Crush at Church Camp 10 min read

CrushJohny again. Been thinking about which experience to write up next, I really have limited time between family and work at the moment, so I’ve just picked my earliest one that I can remember. There were a couple that all occurred at around this young age, but this was the defining one in my memory. The one that started it all!

A bit of background so that this story makes sense. Growing up, our family was quite religious, and as part of our church we would all meet together for a ‘big camp.’ You can look these up online to get a sense, but basically they would set up huge tents, then hundreds of old style church bench seats (pews) in rows and hold church services for a few days in a row.

Typically, there were 3 services a day: morning, afternoon and night. Breaks in between for meals, activities and to socialise. On this particular one, it was just my mum and my 2 older siblings as dad had to work. When in the service, parents usually lay out blankets or mats on the floor in their row for their young children to keep them occupied. Generally, if you are quiet and not disruptive you can do play or draw or sleep on the ground. As you get older its expected you sit up and listen however, I was about 7, so I was young enough to get a free pass. There’s two experiences here, but first let me talk about my mum to paint the picture.

Now she’s still my mum, so you’re not getting detailed descriptions, but yes she was (still is) an attractive woman. Looked very much like Laura Fraser wearing that yellow dress in ‘A Christmas Carol’. We were all once watching as a family and we all made comments about how striking the resemblance was. Mum took church quite seriously, and we always wore our ‘Sunday Best’ (Even though it was a Saturday, the irony isn’t lost on me). In our row, I was sitting to the left of mum, and my siblings were on the other side. So mum could keep an eye on us all.

So 10 minutes or so in, I slipped down and laid on the floor, with a bag of toys I was playing with. I was just playing by myself for 20 minutes or so, putting together Lego, reading some comics, playing with army men, etc. As I said, my mum was quite serious about church, and was watching the speaker intently, note-taking, but I had an idea.

I repositioned so I was laying down facing mum and lined up my soldiers to ‘attack her’. I had some medieval army men with swords, so they lined up and I would pretend to walk one over at a time to her foot, in my mind he was stabbing her giant foot, but really, I would tap her with them. I can remember this like it was yesterday.

She was wearing her wooden cork wedges, probably about 2in tall at the back tapered down to ground level at the front. There was a simple white strap about half an inch wide at the front, and then another at the back that looped around her ankle. She’d recently had a fresh pedicure, and had her nails painted in a simple yet elegant gloss white.

I’d tapped her foot with him, then sat him half an inch or so to her left and withdrew my hand. She curiously moved her head and peered down past her book, she would have seen a model toy right beside her, a line of soldiers ready, and behind that her son beaming back up at her.

Being my mum, I think she understood immediately what was going on and the game I was playing. She lifted that foot just slightly and knocked the toy over, giving me a subtle smile and a playful eyebrow raise, silently conveying a ‘now what?’ attitude. The next few minutes were amazing, one by one I would walk a toy over, tap her foot and without even looking down she would knock or tap them over using her wedge heel. On a few occasions after knocking one over she would even place her foot on top of the fallen soldier and grind them left and right into the dirt, like someone putting out a cigarette and still all without looking down! It was brilliant, its seared into my memory, and for some inexplicable reason, I absolutely loved it, it was the start of something for me.

After all the soldiers were knocked over, I used my hand, using to fingers to ‘walk over’ and then pretending a single finger as a sword, I imitated slashing her foot. I was so desperately hoping that she would continue to play along, gently knocking or crushing my hand too. But alas, sensing something different, she looked down and gave me a perplexed look, shaking her head to indicate ‘No’ and frowning. She must have been thinking what a silly idea or maybe worried about hurting me but went back to the pastor just as quickly. I tried once more but got shot ‘the look’ and I knew the game was up. I’ve played it over and over again in my mind, the mental image of that high heel wedge playfully pressing my toy into the dirt/grass

I could never articulate it at that age, but I wanted to be that army man in that moment, to be able to shrink down to that size and explore her feet as such a tiny scale, to have her giant high heel crush and grind me into the dirt. This was perhaps my life-long fetish awakening, or maybe it was what started it all, and Frued was right? So that was the first experience.

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The 2nd one occurred the next day, but at the night meeting. The tent was quite dark, there were lights pointed to the stage but otherwise quite dark in the rows. For those my age, it was common to lie down on their mat or rug and sleep given it was probably their normal bedtimes anyway. I laid down on the rug in the dark, and slowly rolled/shuffled over until I was under the bench seat. Again, in the dark, mom’s attention was to the podium and without looking down, she just assumed I was playing or asleep.

Without making noise, I slowly shifted from under my spot on the bench to lying directly underneath mom who was sitting on the bench above me still. She had one leg crossed over the other to help support her book while jotting down notes. Right in front of my face was her other boot. This time, she had a pair of brown leather Chelsea boots, about ankle height and with a 2in black heel. Acting almost entirely on instinct, I was mesmerized and began reaching out. My sister had asked earlier to sit with a friend’s family instead, and my brother was engrossed in his DS, so no-one would see me.
My fingers reached the block heel and traced slowly along it, enchanted by feeling every mark and bump. Mum often wore these boots out, and the other foot dangling above was a clear indicator, even in the dark the wear and tear underneath was evident. I was desperately wishing that she would lift her heel and allow me a chance to slip a finger under, but unfortunately it never happened.

In a stroke of luck however, people often stand to stretch their legs when the hymns are sung. As it happened, a hymn started, and she rearranged her legs and stood up. She swayed from side-to-side, lifting slightly the opposite heel each time, it was too good an opportunity to pass up! I knew that on the uneven grass and with her heels on, she wouldn’t feel the thickness of a finger underneath her. So, as she leaned to the left, I slipped just my index finger flat on the ground underneath her right heel. A second later, her entire block heel came down and pinned about a third of my finger. Pain exploded through my finger, and I nearly screamed out, it was far more than I ever expected. As she swayed to the left again, I pulled it back towards me.

Instinctively I put my finger in my mouth to help the searing pain, I got a mouthful of the grit and dirt from the bottom of her heel. After a moment the initial intensity died down, and I again looked up at her in awe. It stung and she hurt me, and yet I liked it? What was this? At the time it was the strangest sensation to look up and see that she was still singing along, oblivious to the pain inflicted under her heel. Once she accidentally shut a door on my finger when I was younger, didn’t even hurt me that much, yet she cried and was over-the-top nice for the next few days as she felt so guilty. I knew the hymn was only for a few minutes, so I decided to try again, two fingers together to spread the load instead of one, and palm up so the heel doesn’t land straight on my nail. As she was swaying, I slipped them under, she shifted and I felt the intense pressure and sting, but it was bearable. Another moment and she shifted off, and then as she moved back, I slipped my other hand under the left heel.

It was amazing! Painful, yet amazing. I was able to watch as she swayed, her calve muscle flex slightly, then the curve of her soft heel as it transferred her weight onto her heel, which finally compressed down on my finger, causing the sharp pain, but a moment later, she lifted up her foot again making a slight sticky sound as her heel parted from the sole, before shifting her weight to the right heel and repeating again.

I reveled in the moment, wishing it would extend on in time forever, enjoying the pain of her weight shifting left to right, feeling my heart racing in my chest. But as the hymn was coming to a close, I removed my hands again and shuffled back so that I wouldn’t be seen when she sat down. The hymn finished, she sat down oblivious to the pain she had caused her young son below. I looked at my hands, the marks from her heels felt like trophies or tattoos on my hand, but they were slowly fading as I lied there for the remainder of the service.

I tried without success to get another opportunity at that event, but I guess the memories are forever.
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I’ve a number of experiences yet to write but will take time to get a chance. In the meantime, I have two car crash experience written on here, and still will write up my experiences with ‘borrowed’ heels, fingers under furniture, older sister’s friends, quite a few unknown tramples and crushes, and a couple women who purposely drove over me, etc. As always If you appreciated this, please leave a comment, it would be encouraging to me and mean a lot. Thanks.