Bridget, my dream girl! 41 min read

An excellent author has written an erotic story that captures power play between a dominant woman and a man wanting to be her sub. He masterfully depicts erotic views of food and object crushing and trampling.

written by Steel Etto
original source of the story was Mistress Destiny's Femdom Forums

Bridget was bright, and we had (mainstream) shared interests. And she was married, so in a way that made approaching her easier. She was doing very nicely, thank you, and she was never going to leave that nest. But I knew, now, how to eroticize even the business of being second best. As time went on, and as we got closer, I wrote poems and letters for her, setting out my fantasies, where she was obviously the target. Actual letters, that she could have shown people. I wanted her to use me, I made clear, and in pretty much any way she saw fit. I’d lay myself at her feet, for her pleasure. She didn’t even have to consider proper sex.

I sent her photos, too. Of me, and of people who were important to me. Then, one day, out of the blue, they were returned, by post. She’d sent them back – crumpled and dirty, with clear shoeprints and heel marks all over them, along with the general mud and shit. There was a scribbled note, along with the pictures. She said she’d dropped them by the back door, where she’d been taking the dogs in and out (yes, another doggy girl, which makes you wonder?) and she’d forgotten they were there, for a day or two. She said she was sorry, and that actually she thought it had been a combination of the mud and the bottoms of her trainers had made the worst of the mess of them.

Bridget was a first-rate bitch, in many ways. As an example: she pretty soon let on to me that she didn’t give the slightest thought to it when she completely destroyed people’s floors, where even Denise had been wary – and, in fact, she pointed out that quite a few of her shoes might easily have been designed for that specific purpose. They all looked fine, and new, from a distance. And they were expensive. But either they’d be so new that the rim of the horseshoe was still standing proud of the heel, or else they were already missing parts of the heel tips, and had exposed nails. She told me what it could be like when she wore them to the houses of people she didn’t much care for – and how husbands were often torn by a dilemma (clearly turned on by the look of her feet, in strappy stilettos, but not so sure about the consequences) whilst the perfect hostess wives might compliment how good the shoes looked, whilst inwardly spitting blood. (Wives, who were also hating the husbands for managing to continue the ogling whilst knowing the price of it, inclusive of their own wrath and jealousy.)

So she was a nightmare, in some ways. But generous as hell in others. She was more than happy to pay for us to have access to things I couldn’t have afforded, on my own. And not just things that only benefited her.

Plus, she was dead interested in my fantasies, right from the off. That’s how I first got to have a demonstration of how unconcerned she was about the carnage that was wrought by her shoes. (And it still amazes me, and partly upsets me – despite the raging hard on it gives me – that a woman can knowingly do this.) She took me to a pub, to talk to, but she spent time playing on a gaming machine. It was when she took a quick break and sat down, that she positioned herself on the chair so that I could see just exactly what she was channeling her weight through. The thinnest, sharpest, metal shaft imaginable, protruding from the bottom of an otherwise fairly reasonable looking heel – and all hidden a little more, when she stood, by designer trousers. But you could see, once you looked. Each time she put her weight on that foot, there’d be a little wobble, where there was nothing significant to help her balance – until that tip carved its way deep into the floor, and then she was steadied. The marks she left were incredible. Bits of a faint outline, in part, from the main part of the heel – and then, in the middles of all of those, a whole load of deep, irreparable, round ‘mementos’. Over by that machine, when we went back, I could see a ton of them. Like oversized woodworm. I felt scared, just standing with her. She’d change her stance, and leave a really bad one, and I’d feel like someone was bound to notice. But I guess they were just staff, too busy thinking about other things.

We went somewhere else, after a while.

I asked her about it, some more. Confident, this time, that she wasn’t going to back off. And I was right.
‘It’s a floor.’ she said. ‘If they want me spending my money, then I’m going to be standing on it, same as anyone else? It’s not like they couldn’t have chosen carpet? I mean, what do they expect, in a pub. It’s not like it says, no women – and who’s going to go to a place like that in slippers?’’

I was having this horrible thought. I dared to tell.

‘I’ve got a ton of records at home,’ I said. ‘I mean, can you imagine?’

She looked at me. Kind of smiling, but kind of business like, when she spoke. ‘Why imagine? she said. ‘I mean, you can spend your life, imagining?’ Then she laughed. ‘Long as you could get used to listening to the radio, that is?’ she added. ‘I mean, to be honest, I don’t even wear these shoes in my own house, not even on the carpet if I can help it. But they’re comfy, as heels go. So.’’

Fuck. Oh, Fuck. Could I bear it?

It was a month or two, though, before we followed up on that one. We didn’t get that many times, and spaces – and the next space she got, it wasn’t round my place. It was round where a friend of hers lived, where Bridget said she had a few free nights, working and house-sitting. Carpets and stone floors. Someone knew their guest, all right. Someone, it turned out, who owned a ton of serious heels of her own.

House-sitting sometimes needs two, right? So I went to assist, and she gave me plenty to do. Including cooking. The first night, it all took off. This was when it went from talking, and letters, to reality. A whole load of realities, in fact. Another whole level. Starting with the fate of one lone potato. Sliced, sauteed, and searching for freedom. Dropped on the floor, rolled a little, ended up by her boot where she was sitting at the kitchen table – watching me, and drinking wine.

Bridget looked down, then went back to her wine.

‘You might want to move that,’ she told me. ‘Before I step on it?’ And she nudged it, with her left boot. Even that nudge started me going.

‘You think that’s likely?’ I tried. She gave me a searching look. Her eyes went sparkly – just like Alison’s, just like Denise’s. And she moved her foot so that the heel still was on the ground, but further forward, and the potato was under her raised sole.

‘Very’ she assured me, taking another swig. I could just be leaning forward, to fill my glass, and then… oops.’

And she did it. Right in front of my eyes. Where my only wish was that I’d been quicker, to try and get down to move it, and I’d have been a whole lot closer, to watch that bit of potato slowly squash, with some of it oozing out from under the side of her foot. She was loving it, seeing me strain to get a good look at what she’d done. But she hadn’t finished.

‘But then, of course, I might decide I wanted to mix my drink with a little sparkling water, so I’d get up, walk over to the fridge?’ And as she was saying it, she pushed back her chair, got to her feet. ‘And then, of course, I’d be accidentally treading it all over the floor, where it would be even more of a pain for someone to have to come and clean up. Oh, look – what did I say? That’s exactly what seems to be happening?’

She went to the fridge, got out the water. Went to the table, poured it. Went back to the fridge, replaced the bottle, and then finally sat back down on her chair. She lifted her leg, rested her boot on the table-top – right by where I’d got chicken, freshly diced, ready to go into a pan.

‘Maybe that’ll be for later,’ she said. ‘When some’s on your plate, and some’s on mine?’

But she was damned close. The heel of her boot was maybe half an inch from that pile of uncooked meat. And on the sole of that same boot…

‘So’ she said. ‘You could ask me nicely? I bet you’re just dying to be helpful – seeing it was you who made the mess, dropping stuff?’

We both knew what she meant.

I knelt. It seemed right. My stomach was knotted, but I felt more than good. I felt amazing. All those times, in the past, when I’d done this by cheating. Crisps, dropped in the outhouse, for Francine to turn into crushed crumbs, and for me to ‘hoover’ up. Sandwiches, pizza slices, even bits of fruit, that had ended up being dropped by the wheels of pretty young girls’ cars, as they dodged traffic wardens, at the ATM – where, a minute later, when they’d have to come back and maneuver out of their spaces – sometimes running over my ‘dinner’ three or four times, real slow, back and fore, flattening it into the gutter, leaving just a load of mess with their tread patterns all over it. (Other times, they’d even take it off up the street with them, welded to a shitty tire.) But this was something so much more true, so much more real.

‘Please, would you allow me to lick your boot? I think you’ve got something stuck to it?’

‘Definitely,’ she said. ‘But I think you need to look at the floor, first. Looks like someone’s just squashed potato all over it?’

I crawled. To the fridge, initially. Then I put my tongue to the first of the little mashy deposits.

Then towards her chair. She kept one leg up on the table, but when I got close, she lifted the other, too. And, as I licked the floor by her feet, she placed her boot, firm, on the back of my head. Pressure increasing. I heard her fishing round in her bag. I heard the crinkle of paper, and then something else landed on the floor, near my face.

It was a note. One of the ones I’d written to her. Pouring out my soul, telling her my innermost secrets, and dreams.

‘Any difficult bits’ she said, ‘you can wipe it with that’.

‘Like this’ she said. And she lifted her foot away from my head and placed her sole square on the paper – like Francine would have done, with other people’s clothes. Dragged it back towards her, to a dirtier bit of floor, then and twisted the toe-end of her boot on it. All those words, that had taken me so much bravery to write, used to clean up the shit on the ground.

I nearly came. Even just with that.

‘Now the other boot’ she said. ‘The one on the table?’

It could have been confusing, that instruction, given that by the time she’d made it she had both legs up, resting on the worktop. She crossed one ankle over the other, the potato boot dangling above the one she’d just used to tread dirt into my love note. The heel was so close to that chicken, now, I’m not sure that they didn’t just briefly touch, at one point. I reached out, holding her foot still, and then leaned forward – still on my knees, and Iicked.

It wasn’t the cleanest of boots, and it wasn’t the easiest to get potato off of. Not once she’d well and truly ground stuff into the patterned sole – which was a kind of whirly design, all little curves and circles – where potato and dirt, mixed, had been forced right up into the grooves. There were a couple of unidentifiable squashed things, for good measure, and a few slithers of dried mud, towards the edges. But I shouldn’t really have expected much else. And there was no way I was backing out, now.

It was weird, though. After all, only a few months before, the only relationship Bridget and I had known, was with me as her mentor. In our field, no-one was ever going to question those roles. Not even Bridget herself. She knew, in our specialism, I was one of the two of us that people would look to, even pay for advice from. (And she may have wondered, even at the beginning, what it would be like if I’d ever, say, agreed to have laid out my best work on the floor, for no other purpose other than for this ambitious, up and coming, female would-be artist to triumphantly walk all over it). And right now, she was a long way down the road of reversing the power dynamic – with me, licking shit, from the bottom of her boot.
The first night, in that old house, out in the middle of nowhere, things moved on at a pace. So much so, in fact, that food was soon ‘off the menu’, as the hours ticked on into the night. Despite the hints, the chicken was left uncrushed – because Bridget soon had other things on her mind. Starting with my artwork. Had I brought any? she wanted to know.

I had. I’d brought me, and my ‘treasures’. With the same painful idea in mind, for both.

‘Glad to hear it,’ she said. Almost before we’d finished at the dining table. ‘So, do you want me to look at it, or anything?’

I did. In particular, anything. And this was a girl in a hurry. She had a man offering to lay his life at her feet, and there was no question she was keen. She took to it like with a drug, almost.

‘Well why don’t you leave the washing up, then?’ she said. ‘You can do it some other time. Why don’t I just go and freshen up, and you can set it out somewhere, ready. In the lounge, maybe?’

Didn’t need to be asked twice. I collected some of my best sketches and set them out for her. On the floor. And then I lay myself down, too – topless, on my front, and with the artwork in the space between me and the doorway. I was sure, all the things we’d ever said, all the hints, I hadn’t got it wrong. Bridget behaved, from the off, like a newly-turned Vampire being offered a lifetime supply of the red stuff. I prayed, that my judgment was true.

When the woman herself finally finished her preparations and arrived at the end of the hallway – where she stopped by the lounge door, leaning into the frame, to survey the scene in front of her – she looked stunning. She’d gone for an evening dress, in purple, bracelets jangling, necklace, purple nails – hands and feet. (She was an amazing young woman, Bridget: hair always styled differently, often colored differently – blond, on this occasion, in a sexy little bob. Curvy, great legs, and bum, 5’10”, blue eyes, red, red lips, almost 30 years old, lovely feet and arches.) And the shoes: purple, slight platform,open-toed, and then with three or four straps across her foot, but no strap at the back. High, and thin – maybe four inches, where the platform allowed for it. She stood at that doorway, and she near enough purred. I knew I didn’t have it wrong. And now, I had to wonder if I could take it. I looked at her, appealing. Appealing for both things, at once. Mercy, and total disregard. And I was leaving her, to make the choice.

I wasn’t allowed to get away with that.

‘Very nice,’ she said. ‘I mean, this place always had classy carpets, but…. aren’t you going to invite me in?’

She’d made it so that I actually had to ask her to do it. And I wasn’t going to back out. Not now, not this close.

‘Please come in’ I said. And, yes, you’re right about the carpets. I hoped you’d like them. All of them. That is… me included?

She moved closer, almost touching one of my most valuable pieces, with her toes. ‘Oh, I like them all right,’ she said. ‘I like them very much. Although some of them might be better, without trousers and socks. But, how do you like my shoes?’

‘I love them’ I admitted.

‘Would you like to see them, closer up?’

‘Yes,’ I admitted. Knowing full well what that implied.

‘And would you like to kiss my feet? My toes, maybe. I love purple, don’t you?’

‘Yes,’ I said. Almost unable to breathe, I was so scared and so high. She knew without a doubt what a huge deal this was, the same as I knew myself. Pretty much anyone who knew my work would have been incredulous of her even contemplating the next move, let alone actually going through with it.

‘Good, she said. And she stepped forward, to maybe eighteen inches from my face. But she wasn’t on the ordinary carpet, anymore. She was bang in the middle of a picture, that not so long before had been on an exhibition wall. Not on tip-toe, either. Standing normally, so that I hardly had time for a pounding heartbeat or two before there was a different kind of popping sound, and then a second, as her heels went right through the middle of the thin card backing, one after the other, in close succession. And she never moved an inch. Just steadied her balance.

‘My kiss?’ she said. And I kissed – pressing my lips to the toes of two feet that I might just as easily have been brought to tears by, at that exact moment. This was the hardest ever, and her coquettish delight was almost tangible.

‘Now, close your eyes a moment?’ she said.

And I did. And maybe four or five seconds, later, I felt something press on my shoulders. I was expecting pain to follow, in spade loads. But it didn’t. Just soft warmth. I could feel the weight of her, so I knew she was up, on me – but not in those heels. I opened my eyes. The shoes were still in front of me, still embedded in my sketch work, like the most expensive shoe rack ever. But Bridget was out of them, and barefoot on my back.

‘Christ’, she said. ‘This is a whole lot better than I’d thought. I mean, I really liked the idea, right when I first read your letters. But… I’ve always wondered what it would be like to actually walk on someone. Like, not just anyone, but someone who mattered. Just tread on him, like that was the only reason he existed, for me to do that to him. And shit, this is perfect. I mean, perfect. The balance takes a bit of getting used to, especially after wine, but… how’s it for you?’

‘Fantastic,’ I said. I mean, I think the same. I think this was the reason I was born. Just for you, to be under your feet. To have the privilege of being the ground you walk on. Nothing could beat this.’

(As I said, I’ve learned, as far as I’m concerned. I now treat each relationship, even with women’s feet, as though it was a special one, an individual one. And in relationships, there’s always a mixture of truth and half-truth. To have Bridget stepping on me was wonderful, there was no doubt. Better still, that despite her wealth, she was supposed to have been my junior, professionally. And everything about my professional standing was being destroyed, under her feet. What better time, what better place.

On the other hand, there are always some things, in relationships, that it’s better to keep quiet about it. And, in truth, some of this wasn’t so much better than that time with Denise (as the first woman to trample me for trampling’s sake) or with Alison (as the first adult female, ever to properly stand on my back). It was different, more than better. I suppose, if I’d had a magic wand, I’d have wanted all three of them up there. Or, even, I might just as readily have wished to be a flat version of myself, sewn into the carpet at a nightclub, outside the women’s toilets – where any number of groups of completely unidentifiable, high-heeled, drunken young girls could have flowed back and forward, trampling all over me in the darkness – and who wouldn’t have known the pain they were causing me, wouldn’t much have cared in any case. Sometimes stopping, standing on me for minutes at a time, lighting up, smoking, then grinding their cigarettes into my skin, my face, under careless, alcohol-fuelled feet. Leaving the occasional butt only half-crushed, for others to step on, to tread accidentally/sadistically into my already burned and blistered skin.

The one thing that was new, genuinely new, here, was the beginnings of a longer-term contract. With Denise, we never really had that honesty, such as it was, until right at the end. We never discussed D and S, and our relationship to it. We never considered codewords, or third party observers, or public humiliation, or any of that kind of thing, because she’d saved the best to last. With Denise, when she was up on my cock, in her heels, we talked about just one idea. She could destroy it. If she didn’t want it anymore, then she could make it so no-one could use it. Stamp on it, kick it, kill it. And that was kind of how it went, that last evening. The fantasy of her ending my sexual life, under her feet – and the reality of her behaving in a way that was frighteningly close to merging dreams with reality. Her, veering between being disinterested in me, and declaring she loved me, whilst gouging lumps out of my thighs, whilst delivering bruising to my balls and drawing blood from my glans. And then her getting down, lying by me, taking her mouth to the wounds, and producing an awe-inspiring mixture of pain and unbelievable pleasure, teeth and all, before finishing off, taking me to those woods, and crushing my genitals completely flat.

Denise sent me two pairs of those shoes, as keepsakes. Like giving a docked animal the shears, where it could only imagine itself wanking over the pretty female vet – her fingernails, her tits, her arse. Except, of course, it wasn’t terminal. Just gory, and painful.

The shoes were a perfect reminder.)

No shoes, yet, of course, with Bridget. But it wasn’t long. Not the purple ones, though, which she left where they were. After a few minutes, she got off me, swaggered barefoot over my carpet of artwork, and went upstairs. When she came back down, she was in jeans and a T-shirt And boots. Boots that belonged to her friend (yes, another girl who seemed to like the idea of using someone else’s worn-down footwear, to hurt me!) and had the most evilly narrow heels imaginable. As she walked from the door, towards my prone body, the three distinct pops were as crisp as with hole punchers going through A4. And the pain I‘d imagined coming, the first time around, arrived on my back, for real, not a second later. It was bad. I wanted to scream. The sweating started, immediately. That made her slip, and gouge a deep red line down my side. She got off, a moment, as a result – but was straight back up. And the pain was back, worse.

‘You should see how much these are digging in?’ she said, kind of a matter of fact.

I tried to answer. Tried to say yes, but it was hard to stop crying, hard even to breathe. She deliberately forced one heel down, lower, harder. ‘You ignoring me?’

‘No’ I said. Though, in honesty, even I didn’t hear the word come out clearly.

‘I’ve been talking to some people’ she said. ‘I told them I was thinking of taking on a kind of servant. Someone to grovel at my feet. Because, that was what you said, right? And I mean, well, how could I refuse. Well, anyway, they said we needed a word. Like, so I don’t actually kill you, or anything. And, I don’t want to do that. This is way too much fun. So?’

Never before had I been in quite this place. Never before had it been so difficult even to breathe, to speak. She had a way of inflicting pain and terror, almost naturally, which I’d never experienced, not even that night with Denise. Somehow, those heels seemed to find my spine, over and over, and they’d pry into the bone itself, it felt like. There was the sweating, the problems with breathing. Logic is hard to maintain, in those circumstances.

‘Let’s try, Doormat?’ she suggested.

OK.

‘Like, now’ I meant’ she said. ‘You know, actually, try it?’

‘So, I say doormat, and you get off?’

‘Jesus. And you’ve got a degree, I’m supposed to believe?’

A few seconds passed.

‘Doormat! I said.

She did nothing. Just stayed where she was. Suddenly, it seemed to hurt much more, with her ignoring the codeword that she herself had just suggested. But then, maybe five seconds later, she stepped down. The boots were either side of my head.

‘Just playing,’ she said.

Fuck. No kidding.
I’m going to skip around a bit, now. I’m sorry, as I know this may be frustrating – but I’ve always found these kinds of stories hard (though great fun) to write, given that they are so specific. The thing is, as I see it, I’m describing something which is actually a series of repeats, and which in any case comprises a set of events that are hard to fully relate to without touch, sound, and vision. This means that as I write, I occasionally feel I am lacking variety, and lacking the depth of experience – which I am, of course. (Sometimes, in my life, I really do have only this one mad focus!) On top of all that, I know that whilst all of us at Mistress Destiny have broadly the same interests, there are nonetheless some serious subdivisions. Even with myself, as I have said – I find that I may be turned on by one type of foot/submission activity one day, and by another the next. I know that I am never writing for everyone, at any given moment.

Basically, what I have recounted is a journey. An unfinished one. I began it, unwittingly, as a result of being in proximity to special women who ‘accidentally’ dominated me, and who trampled all over everything I cared for in the process – even before I knew that I could be aroused by their behavior, as opposed to being angry about it. I didn’t initially see at as sexual. I never thought of it as being something which one day might be negotiated, and never imagined it ending up translated into consensual adult erotica. (Although this is what it became, certainly by the time I married a woman who understood how I felt, who understood how to add this into our sexual portfolio, and who in any case likes to dominate, on her day. When drunk, in particular, she can be downright cruel. And she likes to step on things. Massively. Same as she likes to watch her shoes and boots being licked clean. A family girl, with several, alter egos. So she is the end, as it stands. The rest is the journey itself.)

I could continue, chronologically. But it would go on a long time, and be very, very repetitive. The truth of it is, I was a long time searching to understand who I was, and how to access my desires. But, as I got braver and more certain, I was able to discuss them and to identify and work with women who wanted to be the doves to my tail. Once I identified my needs as sexual, and once I began forging relationships with people’s feet which worked similarly to the relationships with the rest of them, the barriers came down. It is many years, now, since I’ve made a play for a serious trample or worship experience, and been knocked back. (And, in any case, since my marriage I’ve never looked away from home. The shoes, and the feet, are always hers. I look, of course, at others – but not when we’re out together, and not with a view to real physical access. All, but home, is a fantasy now.)

When I talk to Lynne, my wife, I don’t mention Denise, I don’t mention Bridget, I don’t even mention Alison. I don’t mention if I see a great pair of legs, or shoes, on the train. We discuss shoes in general, of course. But if we relate that discussion to a person, then we relate it to her, and her alone. Works, for us. I’m not presenting it as a moral imperative.

But the fact is, I only got to be where I am, by virtue of my journey. A journey that forced me to admit and understand that I liked to grovel in front of stunning, uncompromising women. I liked to lick their shoes, I liked to have them walk on me, and on my most valued possessions. I even liked them to run their car wheels over me, to misuse me totally, to emotionally and physically squash me into the dirt. And what I want to describe, as I move towards the finish of this story, are some of my favorite moments, along the way. So now, I’d like to go back to the relationships with Bridget. And the first of these special experiences. The vinyl countdown.

I mentioned, earlier, about a pair of shoes Bridget owned which were so lethal that she wouldn’t wear them in her own house, not even on carpet. I mentioned musing over how devastating the results might have been, if ‘some uncaring bitch’ in shoes like those had ever accidentally stepped on one of my old vinyl LPs.

Bridget understood my point. She came from a household where vinyl was king, and where girls in heels wouldn’t have been allowed near such a vulnerable product, had it ended up on the floor – unless expecting to die as a consequence. This, of course, made her all the more interested in the idea of deliberately treading on some nerd’s classic music albums, wanting to experience what it would actually feel like. But with her and me, nothing was done by halves. This was a woman who liked me to publicly play Sir Walter Raleigh – and who’d crossed several puddles and mud patches, in her time, by walking over items of my clothing, laid in her path (whilst other people looked on, astonished). The more ridiculous the carpet, the more Bridget was up for taking advantage of it. So, come the day of reckoning, it was never going to be a case of her dipping her toes.

It started on a fairly small scale, nonetheless. Though even the pilot venture might have proved too much, for some people. A Hard Day’s Night. Just the one album, taken from its covers, laid on the carpet. And her in stockinged feet. Proper stockings. Stroking it, from a sitting position. Then standing, holding my hands – her, facing me, where I could look down and see her feet on it. All her weight. I told her how much I loved it – and how hard it was, too. Hard, in every way. Cock included. She smiled, let go of my hands, went off to the kitchen. Came back with some biscuits. Stood on that vinyl, bit into a Digestive. And it was just a few crumbs, at first – pressed into the grooves by warm, moist, nylony toes. But then, a whole biscuit. Placing it on the surface, then prodding it, then putting more weight on, twisting her foot this way and that, grinding it all in..

Next step, she was asking for tea, and for her trainers. Some of the tea got accidentally spilled, of course. Right where it shouldn’t have. She ‘paddled’ in it, with the trainers now firmly laced on – mixing it with the smashed food, all being compacted into those grooves. She held my hands again, reached down, touched my rampant cock.

‘I thought you said you didn’t like the idea of this?’ she said.

She knew exactly how my mind worked, by now. And she knew, too, how to inflict every kind of damage. Trainers are hard to take. They pick up shit like no other shoes, and redistribute it in clearly patterned collectives, with no subtlety at all. Like the mess that was currently all over the surface of A Hard Day’s Night. I could see the footprints, obvious as anything, tea and biscuity deposits surrounding rows of circular, crushed Bridgety impressions – where that was the layout of her soles: a whole load of rounded, protruding studs. But she was only just getting started.

‘Lie down!’ she said, next. ‘Clothes off.’

I obeyed. There was no other word to describe it. She was keen on obedience, with a capital O. She wanted me on my back. She got what she wanted. Meantime, she’d gone off rooting through the rest of my records. Pulling them out, seeing what they were, chucking them down on the floor rather than putting them back – but selecting a few, in the process. Bringing them over, to where I was lying, waiting. Deep Purple. In Rock, Machine Head, Live in Tokyo – seven, in all. And never asked me, if it would be OK to start upping the ante.

It was a messy business, even the trip across the room. My carpet was a kind of light pink, and some of the crap on the bottoms of her trainers had got well and truly trodden into it, on her travels. But it was only going to get worse. She held the records, between the fingers of each hand, and then ‘dealt’ them – like she was dealing cards – onto the floor, all around the already fucked Beatles LP. Then she went out, found a carton of orange juice, a box of Corn Flakes, and a half-liter of milk. She tipped some of each onto the new carpet of vinyl – from a standing position so that plenty ended up on the carpet, too – and then she prodded at my face with her foot.

‘Look at me,’ she said. Where I was looking more at the mess by my face – wondering if, even now, I could call this off, go to work with a loving sponge, maybe just lose the one LP. But I didn’t take my own advice.

Instead, I obeyed, once more. She was smiling, happy, wild-eyed, intense. That same old expression I’ve seen so many times, on so many women. It’s a kind of litmus paper, for me, that look. The girls that love this kind of gameplay, and love the cruelty of it, give themselves away. Some women just look kind of bemused. Some, especially if they’ve been paid, just look like they’re doing their job. But Bridget, she was hooked on it. She was able to bring back a form of humiliating, degrading, and consensual slavery, in her own little part of the world, and nothing seemed to please her more.

‘Ready for breakfast? she asked. ‘Because it’s coming,’ she went on, ‘ready or not.’

Deep Purple have probably been responsible for a lot of crazy dancing, in their time. But not as crazy as the dancing that Bridget did, next. Less headbanging and air guitar, more The Twist. Corn Flakes crunched and crumbled under her feet. But the crunching soon stopped, as the milk and orange got mixed in. More and more, it was all just a collection of big smeary messes, all over the grooves, all inside the grooves, even smudging out onto the carpet. Then she stepped off the records, no warning, and onto my chest. Both feet, at first. Next, she pressed her right foot against my mouth, while my chest still took all the weight of her, on her left. I could feel the wetness, and stickiness, from the soles of her trainers – in both places. And it wasn’t like those shoes had been clean, to start off with, Trainers never are.

I licked, and I found out the exact extent of the dirtiness. I’ll never know exactly what I ate, that morning. Even the food itself tasted like shit, all pulped together like that.

‘By the time we finish,’ she said, ‘ I want these completely clean’.

We were nowhere near finished, of course. Only just starting. And before long, she added to it. Went and got the washing up bowl, more or less empty, and a couple of cans of lager, which she emptied into the bowl. Got a chair, too. She started going through this routine: standing up, putting one foot in the bowl of lager, then putting that soaking, sticky foot on the records while putting the other in the bowl. The sitting back down, both feet on the records, before lifting her legs, one at a time, and getting me to lick at the drippy mess on the bottoms of her shitty shoes, as part of my cleaning duties. She reckoned it would help me get the worst of the shit off. And she was right. (As an interim finale, when she’d checked the cleaning was good enough, she tipped the remains of the lager out of the bowl, and into a glass jug. It was a murky, orangey browny color, with bits in it.)

‘Don’t say I never treat you’ she said. ‘And, while you’re drinking that…’

She walked off, to the bedroom. Came back, in those famous heels. The ones that had destroyed that pub floor. She walked purposefully towards me – sexy and slow, but determined-looking. She came closer, past the chair. Next step and she’d be right on them…

Crunch, crack. Crrrrruuuunch. It was that quick. That final. In just a couple of seconds.

Three steps. Right foot, then left foot, then launching herself with the right, back up onto my naked body. Two LPs had died, completely, as her feet had hit home – that tiny metal shaft being driven right through, by the weight of her, leaving just a collection of dismembered, food-covered pieces of plastic. And the heel that had done it was being pressed into my face, while the other heel gouged into my chest. The nearest I’d come, already, to the Doormat option. In my head, I was already saying it.

Please, no. Doormat. Doormat, you bitch, You sexy horny ungodly fucking wonderful super-wankworthy bitch.

She stepped off me – her swaying arse, making its way back over to the complete record collection. One by one, once again, she began pulling them out. But not even looking, now, to see what they were. Just teasing them out of the sleeves, chucking the covers in the corner of the room, and rolling the LPs randomly across the carpet. There were probably thirty of forty, already, all around the floor, by the time she announced she needed a drink. That meant she’d be going to the kitchen. And now, in between her, and the fridge…!

Doormat! Doormat!!! But the words never actually came out.

She set off across the room like I’d known she would. Wasn’t even looking. She let the outcome be completely random. The first step, amazingly, was on nothing other than the actual carpet. But it didn’t last. The second and third steps were more deadly – pressing two different LPs into the pile, under her high-heeled feet (though nothing obviously terminal relative to either). But the fourth step. Crrruuunch. Yet again. Direct hit, with that right heel. I guess I’d expected it to make deep scratches, even to leave lasting indents. But, so far, it had scored a hit on three separate records. And every time, they’d just exploded into pieces, under the impact. Damage costs, up to that point – counting the tea and biscuits – already approaching £100.

By the time evening came, we were in the thousands.

She spent the whole day on it. (And continued into the next day, too – but the worst of the damage was all done in the first few hours.) Watching her, was like watching a wet dream – except I was feeling it, too. The drink she chose was brandy. That was bad news. Huge schooner, and then back into the room. Took off the shoes though, just for a while. Changed, opted for a short skirt, and went back to the stockinged feet. Trod on several of the LPS that were already scattered around the place, on her way back to the rows of the ones that were still intact, still in orderly rows, on shelves, in sleeves. Started pulling more out, and more, and more. Like before, throwing the covers into a corner of the room, and then rolling the records themselves randomly across the carpet. As she moved on towards the higher shelves, she made a demand that I should have seen coming.

‘Over here,’ she said. ‘I need something higher to stand on.’

It wasn’t that easy to get to her, without crawling over my own property. I had to move several LPs to one side, to create a pathway, space, tight up alongside the base of my wall cabinet. The floor, by now, was pretty much awash with vinyl. I laid myself down in my ‘safe’ little corner, and she was up on me, right away.

‘On your back’. she said.

I obeyed. But she acted like she shouldn’t even have needed to ask.

‘Quicker to train a monkey,’ she said. And climbed up on me, standing with her left foot squarely on my cock. Or, should I say, on my erection. Then, making her way slowly up my body, ’till she was on my face. And as she went, still going through that same process. Pulling stuff out, chucking the covers in the corner, rolling the records themselves out along the floor – sometimes using them kind of like frisbees, roughly aiming towards the corners of the room. Then off for another drink, and some nibbles. For the first time, now, it was almost impossible for her to get to the kitchen door without stepping on vinyl. So, although she made no more or less effort than before, to watch where she walked, she couldn’t miss anymore. And when she came back with the snacks – she pretty much dropped all of them, and it wasn’t long before she was stepping on those, too.

‘Ooops,’ that’s a bit messy,’ she remarked. ‘Could do with some shoes.’

She padded off to the bedroom, still treading on nothing but vinyl as she went, and then came back in red mules. And, for the first time, she walked over her new, self-created carpet, in heels. Not the most lethal heels, but heels nonetheless – not to mention her squashing some bits of cheese, some baby tomatoes, and a slice of ham, along her way. Then back up on my naked body – and although the shoes didn’t look too challenging, they were no joke, on naked flesh. Maybe twenty more minutes she was up there – on my cock, my gut, my chest, my face – before the cabinet had been completely emptied. She had a good look at the results of her efforts, so far. Then she climbed off me. Walked over the vinyl, yet again. And then, finally, the change of footwear that I knew would come, before long.

Back to black. The pin-heeled destroyers.

She embarked on what was probably one of the most painful, most exhilarating trample and crush sessions of my whole life. Starting, with her ordering me onto my front. And, once I was in place, she kicked a few records as close as she could to my face, so I got a really good view of what would happen next.

What happened next, and what happened over and over again, was that she walked around the room, in those mad stilettos, commenting on how bad it felt, to be treading on LPs. Her sentences, often as not, punctuated by cracking, crunching sounds. Some of the newer albums had that bit more flexibility, and remained intact – or others were doubled up, so gained strength in numbers. But the crunch rate was still awesome, and hellish. Every step with that right foot, lethal. Even where the tip of that heel didn’t go right through the plastic, it made indents that nothing on earth could have undone. Deep, defined, and with a kind of circular depression all around – not to mention the gouges, if she stood in one place, and moved that foot without lifting it. And I knew, exactly, what damage was being done – because after each circuit she returned to the launching pad, by my face, stood on the closest albums, right in front of my eyes, before climbing up onto my back, digging those heels into my skin, my spine.

‘It’s looking a mess’ she told me, after a while.

I agreed.

‘Your skin, I mean’ she explained. ‘It’s like – I dunno, like you’ve got some weird kind of measles or something. Like all these little spots, all red, and purple. But then there are scratches. Every time I move, like this…. it leaves a scratch God, that one’s really deep, I just made…?’

Doormat. Doormat. Over, and over, and over, in my head. But never saying it.

As the evening drew on, and several pairs of shoes later, she went back to the stockings. Pulled up a chair (onto her carpet, which now had as many fragments scattered around it as whole LPs) and reached out with her toes to my cock. She stroked, till I exploded. Then she sat, for a while, and just looked at me, and at what she’d done. Then she moved her feet to my face and began playing with herself.

I’m not sure I’ve ever felt so good, followed by feeling so bad. Once the sacks were empty, the motivation was gone. All that was left was logic, and logic didn’t remotely follow the same throughlines as my pre-release sperm had been following. While she brought herself to her orgasm, all I could think of was that I was being humiliated beyond all reason, that there was no explanation for what I’d just allowed that hellspawn of a woman to do. And now, I was lying on the floor, while she pleasured herself, and while she trod on my face. Nothing I could have wanted on my face, right then, less than I wanted Bridget’s fucking stinky, biscuity, damp, evil sweaty feet.

And she knew it.

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