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My laptop, Her Walkway

Discussion in 'Trample & Foot Fetish Stories' started by Her_worm, May 7, 2018.

  1. Her_worm

    Her_worm New Member

    I work a stressful job during the day and go to grad school at night, dealing with major commutes in all directions. I have very, very little time. And I am right in the middle of finals. For lunch today, I had to go home and get my broken gaming laptop - a really sweet, decked out HP Omen with amazing graphics, power, etc. - instead of having a fun lunchtime, so I could drop it off to be fixed on the way home. If it can be fixed. Last night I had to download and install the new Mac OS on my old laptop - a 7 year old Macbook - because the old operating system was not compatible with the in class essay program..which I will have to download tonight...so I could take my finals this week and next. I did this during the times I would have taken breaks from studying, so my study breaks last night were all taken up with getting my old Mac up to speed instead of gaming, which I normally would do. I researched how much a new hard drive might be for the broken gaming laptop for a few minutes today to get some idea if its is fixable how much it might cost. I will be dropping it off at Geek Squad on the way home from work as I hurry home to study, instead of doing some fun activity on the way home to de-stress myself. The truth is, dealing with this major inconvenience at the worst possible time - right in the middle of finals - that has been dominating my break times - has been giving me more relaxation, more endorphins, and a slight sub-space effect every time I spend time on one of these activities, because of why I have to do it. This reason has had my anxiety melting away. You see...I'm a trample slut...a foot slut...a femdom slut...a pain slut..and I have an (object only!) crush fetish too. And my Mistress stepped on the keyboard of my laptop as it lay on the living room floor, and broke it.

    To be clear, my expensive gaming laptop - which also is the laptop I have used for my whole last year of grad school - has been walked on by my Mistress since I bought it. Mistress is tall - 5'10", long legs..slim with faint hints of muscularity. And she uses that hot body to torment me in the most delicious of ways. The day I brought my laptop home, before I could open the box, Mistress made me lay the box down on the floor in the middle of the living room. She then stood on the box, full weight, both feet, and flipped me off with middle fingers, smiling at me. She made me take pictures of this event. She made it clear right away she was more important than the computer that I started to treasure the moment I left the store with it. Mistress made it crystal clear that all my love better be for Her, not some silly geek-laptop. And She continued to re-enforce the point. Mistress has stepped on the keyboard of my laptop, full weight, probably at least once a week or every other week since the end of August of last year. This being the beginning of May, would make it 8 or nine months that Mistress has been stepping on the keyboard, full weight, in stride as she walked across my expensive gaming and school laptop as it was on the floor with me doing work for school on it usually. Mistress has walked across it in shoes, usually with a soft sole like a moccasin or a ballet flat. This usually left dirty footprints on my keyboard as she stepped on it in stride, full weight. She has stepped on it plenty of times barefoot, leaving a faint footprint - probably from her foot-sweat as she stepped on it, walking across it, with all her weight crushing down on it. A couple notable events on the road to it finally breaking have stuck out.

    The first time she stepped on it I was sitting on the bedroom floor, which is carpeted, working on it. Mistress had been talking about stepping on it for a couple weeks if I was on the floor spread out working. Mistress has the habit of stepping on my work - my papers and reports and other stuff for work or school - as she walks by. This time, she walked up to it and put the toe of her bare foot right next to it, touching its side. She was looking down on me. We are a safe, sane, consensual couple, so she looked for some clear message of consent. It was one of those moments...the truly delicious ones in BDSM. A moment when you want to experience something, yet are afraid to. A moment when you are willing to accept the consequences and know what they could be, yet part of you doesn't. And a whole other part of you is begging to feel the consequences rush over you like a cleansing fire removing all anxiety and worry and entering a world of pure, sub-space bliss. So there she stood, her toe...with expensive red toe-nail polish that I had painted her toenails with a few days before...touching the side of my new favorite thing, making sure I would consent to her literally walking on it and risking her breaking it. I nodded yes and uttered a pained, moaning.."please"..and then it happennd. She lifted long bare foot, at the end of her long super-model legs, and hung her foot in the air slowly and then stepped directly in the middle of the keyboard and pressed down with her weight, eventually having her other foot leave the ground, the full weight of her gorgeous body now pressing down on my fragile thing..my property...my thing to help me work...my new favorite toy. And it bowed in the middle and made a scary little sound because the carpet didn't provide a completely flat surface. Mistress stepped to the other side of it, turned around, and before I could even react and beg her no..not that I wanted to..but part of me wanted to..but it was restrained by the subby masochist in me.. Mistress stepped on it again, full-weight again, but this time in a more confident stride as she had found her footing....her footing on my gaming laptop...and knew what it felt like. Like when you walk on a different ground or gradient. She know what it felt like and strode across my almost brand new and prized possession like she was walking to the store. The laptop bowed in again, its plastic making a little cracking sound, even though on thorough inspection later I couldn't find a crack. Mistress turned around and smugly mocked me over her shoulder and said, "That's my floor now" and walked off. I was so turned on and scared at the same time it was amazing. We had spectacular sex later that night, her reminding me she stepped on my precious laptop because its nothing to her at different parts of the act.

    Mistress continued to step on my laptop as it got in her path for a few months here and there...maybe three or four times. I was careful when She was coming by to make sure it was on a level surface to minimize damage. But that didn't minimize the delicious and pointed damage to my ego, the humiliating act of the Woman you love walking all over something you value for fun. I took pictures of the footprints she made and cooed over them when I was away from Mistress. Then the scariest crush occurred. I was sitting on the floor with my back to the couch, working with my laptop on my lap. Wearing old beat-up ballet flats, Mistress stepped on and UP ON my laptop, crushing it into and between my crossed legs...and crushing me underneath it as well! Then she turned around and walked on it the other way going back to her previous seat on the other side of me. This time when she stepped up on it there was a loud CRACK. It was scary and exciting at the same time. My face grew flush with blood, as did other things. Then Mistress laughed out loud and, giggling, looked at me and said THAT WAS LOUD, there is no TELLING what damage has been done to that thing! I was so aroused I thought I would explode right there. And there was damage done. The laptop would never close straight afterwards so when I opened it, I had to push the lid to one side a little or there was an audible little crack sound, like something had tension on it and skipped. And when it made that sound and the screen jumped a little, it was scary (and hot).

    And the trampling of my precious laptop continued on and off for months. There was one time that it made a whirring sound and I swear it was going to break, but it was fine. I had long since backed up in real time all my work to the cloud. The sane part in safe sane consensual being acted one. And it finally broke yesterday. Mistress was simply casually walking across the room. She had stepped on it earlier in the day, and I thought nothing of Her coming for it this time. I was sprawled out on the floor studying for finals. And it happened. She strode across it and it started making a weird sound like a car whose fan was hitting something. And then I couldn't change screens. And the pixels went away. And it could no longer find its hard drive. The hard drive to my expensive gaming and grad school laptop that was crushed under a careless and meaningless step as She walked across the room.
     
    Last edited: May 7, 2018
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  3. Miss_clinton

    Miss_clinton Member

    Nice one.. I do remember reading something on the same lines about a piano... ;)
     
    Her_worm likes this.
  4. Her_worm

    Her_worm New Member

    Thank You, Miss Clinton!
    This is actually a true story. Your reference to the piano...is that a story You contributed at one point? If so, do You have a copy available?
    Thank You for your time.
     
  5. Miss_clinton

    Miss_clinton Member

    No, it was not mine... i will see if i still have it ... :)
     
  6. Miss_clinton

    Miss_clinton Member

    Found the story... its a violin btw... enjoy!
    __________________________________________________________________________________

    I remember like it was yesterday opening that case, slowly lifting the lid, running my fingers along the velvet interior, not even daring to touch the smooth hard wood of the violin itself. It was days before I had the courage to actually touch it, weeks before I finally lifted out from the case and held it aloft. I was in awe, more than that, I was scared by it, by what it meant to me, of the memories. It was so much a part of my grandfather, so much a part of my childhood. All those years staring up at him, his eyes screwed shut, his fingers dancing along its neck. They say he was the best of his generation, a true virtuoso. The music flowed from him, flowed directly into my soul, not so much sound as pure emotion. I could feel it reverberate through every cell of my body, it wasn’t something external, it somehow seemed to come from within me. Every note, every pause, every moment took me into an ever more dreamlike state. It was my religious ecstasy, my paradise. I felt so close to him, connected by the pure emotion of his music. When he played the world simply melted away, it stopped to listen, sat in rapture until he was finished, until he shut that magical violin back in its case and the spell was broken.

    I hadn’t seen him for years. We’d fallen out as I grew up, drifted apart. His death had devastated me none the less, not the death of who he had been then, but of who he was all those years ago. The idea that I would never, that no one would ever, hear him play again was too much, too painful. That something that beautiful, that untouchably sublime, could just disappear forever. I wept for the music as much, more perhaps, than for the man. I wept for days, lost in despair, raging against the futility of it all, the cruelty of impermanence, the silence.

    One morning, autumnal, wet, it arrived. I knew it was coming, my grandfather had promised it in his will, had always said it would it one day be mine. For days I left it on the kitchen table, still wrapped in brown paper, not even daring to unwrap it. It took a full month before I finally lifted it to my shoulder and began to play. Back then I was semi-professional, had been playing with a number of orchestras for years, I was pretty good, was given the odd solo, but knew I would never reach the heights that my grandfather had. I felt unworthy to play that magical violin. It wasn’t just what it meant to me, as if that wasn’t enough, it was the violin itself. It dated from 1712, made by one of the finest craftsman that ever lived, a violin that surpassed the finest Stradivarius. It was truly one of a kind, the only one that was known to have survived down the centuries.

    That violin changed my life. Slowly my playing improved, at times it was as if the violin were playing itself, as if my grandfather’s spirit had possessed it and now possessed me. Within a year I had turned fully professional. I was playing with some of the finest orchestras in the world, with people I had only ever dreamed of. My playing was reaching heights that had eluded me for so long, I even dared to think that I had reached, perhaps even surpassed, my grandfather’s level of virtuosity, certainly the accolades, the prestigious prizes, went beyond what he, what anyone else, had amassed.

    I was living a dream, but it was so much more than that. Music for me had never been about the performance, about being listened to. It was my way of expressing myself, my passion, it was the essence of my being. I needed it, I craved it. It was what I lived for, what made it all worthwhile, it was as important to me as breathing, as sex, as everything, more important. Far more important.

    It was at one of my first major solo performances that I had met Kate, at a reception in Paris, black tie and cocktails. I’d given a short recital for some dignitaries, I forget who now, but I’m sure there were at least a couple of Presidents and a smattering of royalty. It was Kate’s shoes that I first noticed, but then that was always the case. I had had a foot fetish for as long as I could remember, my eyes were always scanning the room, the street, wherever, for high-heels and boots. I was almost as obsessed with them as I was with music. Kate and I had talked, had drank, had danced. I don’t remember too much, too many cocktails, but I remember those black patent Laboutins as if it were yesterday. Kate was the very image of beauty, Elizabeth Taylor in her heyday, so sophisticated, so elegant. I couldn’t believe my luck.

    I found it hard to talk about my fetish, it was months before I finally plucked up the courage. She said she loved it, that it made me even more interesting, that she loved shoes, and had a dark side, a dark side that she was a little scared of unleashing. We experimented, a bit of light trampling, some shoe licking, toe sucking, foot massages. It grew and grew, coming to define our relationship. Within six months my natural place when she arrived home was lying just inside the door. She would walk in without acknowledging me, wipe her shoes on my chest or face and pause whilst I licked them clean. I would spend whole evenings as her footrest whilst she chatted to friends on the phone, we joked about what the world would think if only they knew someone of my fame and status had spent the evening with his face pinned to the floor beneath a woman’s feet as she relaxed in front of the film. For me, like my violin playing, it was a dream come true.

    One afternoon I came home itching to play my violin, desperate to feel the caress of the music, longing to lose myself in the beauty of it all. I laid the case on the table, undid the clasps and opened the lid. Inside were a pair of Kate’s work heels, well worn, dirty. There was a post-it note on one of the soles that read ‘You get it back when these are clean.’ I was furious. She knew that no one else was allowed to touch my violin, she knew what it meant to me, that it was priceless. For a good hour I paced the house, I searched everywhere I could think of. It was no good. I took a few deep breathes and said to myself, ‘it’s okay, it’s just a game, of course it’s perfectly safe wherever she’s hidden it.’ I tried to relax, rehearsing what I would say to her when she got back to make it clear that this was completely unacceptable. I couldn’t pretend that it didn’t excite me though. I lifted her shoes from inside the case and began to clean them, my tongue dancing along their soles like my fingers would along the neck of the violin. I pictured her wearing them as my tongue darted across the pointy toe, imagined the sound they made when she walked as I scrubbed away at the insoles.

    I didn’t bark out the angry lines I had rehearsed when she came home, I lay down by the door and smiled as she stepped up on to my chest to wipe her patent red ballet flats clean. She inspected her blue work heels and said she was satisfied. Moments later the violin was back in its case unharmed. I said nothing and spent the rest of the evening lying beneath Kate’s feet as she sat watching television, occasionally absentmindedly dipping her toes into my mouth.

    Two days later I returned home after a meeting with my record company, only to freeze in terror when I walked into the living room. Kate sat relaxing on the sofa with a glass of wine, chatting on the phone to a friend. My violin case lay on the floor, her bare feet resting on top of it. She smiled as she saw the panic spread across my face. I stood rooted to the spot. It was fine, I thought, she’d probably taken the violin out, in any case it was a hard case, there was no way she could damage it even if it was in there. I said nothing, but lay down next to the sofa in the hope that she would let me take its place. To my relief, after a few minutes, she shifted her feet from the case on to my upturned face, my tongue began to instinctively lap away at her instep, all the time she continued to chat with her friend on the phone. Later I checked and the violin had been in the case. Still, the case was there to protect it, she knew that and that no harm would be done.

    It had been an intense few months. I had been working all day and night on a new composition, my first full symphony. This would be my legacy, the thing that would live on forever. I guarded it closely, not even my agent knew about it. I made sure that Kate didn’t either, I wanted to surprise her with it at its premier, but was also a little scared that she might do something to it. She seemed to be growing ever more extreme in the way she treated me, at home I was rarely anything other than an object, a doormat, a shoe cleaner. It was only when we went out that she treated me like her beloved, or even her equal, and even that seemed to be changing.

    I had written the score by hand, partly because I’m no fan of technology and partly to be sure no one else could get hold of it. There was only one copy, safely looked away. At least that’s what I thought. I returned home one evening to find my office ransacked, the score missing. I was in tears, suicidal even. As I picked up the phone to call the police I heard Kate coming up the driveway. Without even thinking about it I found myself lying in front of the door, felt her patent blue work heels tear into my skin. Heard her laugh into her phone, knew that she could see my tears, knew she couldn’t have cared less.

    She sat on the sofa and I adopted my position at her feet. She used her hand to cover the receiver on her phone, “I walked across the park to get home, my shoes are filthy, covered in mud. Clean them.” I grimaced at the thick layer of mud and who knows what, but prepared to lick nonetheless. “No, use this” she mouthed as she pulled my score from her handbag. I froze. She couldn’t be serious. She couldn’t expect me to actually do that, it was the pinnacle of my achievements, the thing that would put my name up there with Beethoven, with Mozart. It was everything to me.

    She rolled her eyes, dropped it to the floor and began wiping her shoes on it herself, all the time chatting to her friend about her plans for the weekend. I couldn’t move. The first page was gone, scrunched up and torn to pieces, nothing but a mass of wet mud. Before I could open my mouth the second page was gone, her feet twisting, heels shredding. She only stopped at the last two pages. This was the finale, the crescendo, the part that would bring the roof down. It contained the key melody, I could reconstruct the whole thing from it. Without look at me, she drew her bare feet out of her shoes and lifted the pages from the floor. My heart was in my mouth, maybe she hadn’t realised what it was, she would see now that it was important, it would be saved after all. She finally looked at me. Slowly, and very deliberately, she folded both of the sheets of paper together, tore them down the middle and placed each half into one of her shoes before sliding her perfectly pedicured feet back into them. She finished her phone call, hung up and smiled. “I’m going out dancing, don’t wait up.” With that she was gone.

    I sat frozen to the spot, in shock, in despair, I had no idea what to do. Eventually I pulled myself together, I picked up my violin and played like I had never played before, I channelled the agony, I thought of my grandfather, I told myself it was okay, that I would write another symphony that would be even better, that maybe one day I would even thank her for pushing me further, for making me start again, I thought, maybe she knew what she was doing all along, that she was doing this for me, she loved me and this was her way of helping me do the very best work I could.

    I said nothing when she returned. Two days later I came home to find my violin lying on the dining room table, a pair of her five inch spiky heeled Laboutins balanced on top of it. Was this a warning? There was a tiny scratch on the surface of the wood, a tiny scrape from one of her heels, not enough to alter the sound, but enough to send shivers down my spine. This couldn’t go on, but I felt completely powerless, completely unable to say anything. I took a deep breath, licked the shoes clean and put my violin away. As long as I kept doing what she wanted everything would be fine. She wasn’t crazy, she wouldn’t really damage it, she knew how much it meant to me, that it was like an extra limb, a piece of my soul.

    “I’m going to break your fingers.” She’d arrived home later, a little drunk, dressed to kill in her favourite tight black dress and those same patent black heels that had first caught my eye all those years ago. “If you’re lucky I’ll only break one and I’ll let you choose which.” She pulled her bare heel out of her shoe. “Put your finger in there, between my heel and the shoe.” Before I knew what was going on I’d placed the index finger of my right hand in the gap between her heel and the shoe. She smiled, flicked back her hair and stomped down with all her might. The pain was intense, but my finger didn’t break. She stomped down again and again, trapping my finger between her heel and her shoe sole, twisting on top of it, all the time laughing to herself and admiring her reflection in the mirror.

    “Okay, that’s a good start. Place your finger on the floor.” I did as I was told. She poked it a few times with the pointed toe of her shoe, savouring the moment, before stamping down on it with her hard soles and grinding it from side to side. “Delicious. I can really feel it through these thin soles, I can feel the skin tearing, the cartridge ripping. Divine.” She ground it full weight beneath her like a cigarette butt, the pain was unbearable. “Okay, I have things to do so let’s get this done.” She slowly lined up the tip of the heel of her right shoe with the main finger joint, tapping it lightly a few times, enjoying watching me shudder in fear. She pressed down full weight on that slender heel, twisting slightly. There was no real pain at the time, just a cracking noise, just the twitching, the pain only came when her heel slipped and gouged its way down to the floor, a spurt of blood followed it, then the pain, searing, raging pain. She smiled. “Good.” She twisted the finger under her sole again, laughed at how it now moved in the most unnatural of directions, grabbed her handbag and went out for the evening.

    “We’re going to have to amputate it”. I passed out at the hospital as I heard those words. I had picked that finger as I thought it was the one that I could cope best with having broken. But amputated? This was surely the end. Why had I allowed this to happen? Because I loved her, because I wanted to please her, because her happiness, her amusement meant more to me than everything else, more than my life, more than my music, more, more, more. She had asked for something and I had given it to her, I had to give it to her. I had never felt so confused, shocked. So this was it, the choice between the two great passions of my life, the violin and Kate’s happiness, had been made. I had made it, I had willingly placed my figure on the floor in front of the deadly high heels.

    I returned home weeks later. We did not speak about what had happened. I simply let myself in, sat down on the floor and began to massage her feet. She thrust her toes into my mouth without looking up from her magazine. I passed off the lost finger as a car accident, condolences came in from across the world, headlines were written, benefit concerts arranged. Yet slowly I began to play again, the missing finger was on my bow hand, it was vital, but I could, with hour after hour after hour of agonizing practice, reach a decent standard again. Within a year I had arranged my return to the stage, it would be a concert like no other, heads of state, movie stars, the great and good from across the globe would gather for my return, it was being touted as a miracle, but in truth it was the result of agonising hard work and sheer determination.

    The day of the concert dawned. As usual I rose before Kate to prepare her breakfast and make sure her shoes were clean. She appeared, already dressed in her favourite little black dress, and slipped into her patent black stilettos. “I bet the taste of the insoles is still in your mouth, isn’t it? I can feel your saliva on my instep, at least I hope it’s your saliva. You know that you’re not allowed to ejaculate into my shoes anymore, that your cock is only there to massage my feet, not for your pleasure?” I blushed and mumbled that I wouldn’t dream of disobeying her. “I love the way your erect cock feels beneath my feet, I love to roll it under them to work out the tension after a night dancing, but you know that you are not allowed to cum, not ever. When I want something like that there are far better men I can go to. Do you ever think about that? How did it make you feel while you were licking these shoes clean to know that I was wearing them yesterday evening while I was with someone else?” I stared at the floor, fighting back the tears. She just smiled and sat down to eat breakfast.

    I went out to pick up my suit for the performance. When I returned she was sat on the sofa resting her feet on my violin case. I tried to remain calm, this wasn’t the first time she’d done it and no harm had been done before. “Take it out and place it at my feet.” I lifted it lovingly out of the case and placed it carefully just in front of those dangerous stilettos. “I know how much you love me, how devoted to me you are. I know that your love for me has turned you into this snivelling excuse for a man, a mere object, less than human. I know that you have done all that for me, but it’s not enough. I need to know that nothing, nothing at all, is more important to you than my amusement.” She rocked back on to her heels, lightly resting the soles of her shoes on my violin.

    “We both knew it would come to this sooner or later. Only, I’ve decided that the wooden soles and heels on my favourite pair of boots need replacing. I’m pretty sure that some of the wood from your violin would be suitable for the heels, maybe even the soles. How would you feel about seeing me walking around knowing that your violin is now my boot heels? How would you feel? You’ve told me so many times about how much it means to you, about your grandfather, about how old it is, how much it’s a part of you. But, my boots need to be reheeled. Can you imagine, sitting across from me in a bar as I flirt with someone else wearing my boots, knowing that their heels are made from your beloved violin? Can you just imagine that?” She gave a little laugh and bit her lower lip. “How will you feel when you next lick these shoes clean for me, knowing that they were the ones that smashed your violin, that smashed all your dreams? Can you imagine going on stage tonight and telling all those people that you can’t perform after all because you let me stomp all over your priceless violin, the only one of its kind in the world? That you let me do it because you love me?” She laughed and gave a little sigh.

    With her eyes fixed on mine she slowly stood up and raised her right foot in the air above my violin. All I had to do was to push it aside, to pick it up, and it would be safe. But this was what she wanted, how could I stop it? I couldn’t move, couldn’t open my mouth. She bit her lower lip again and smiled. “I want you to watch very carefully, to watch and think about everything that this violin means to you, about how unique, how irreplaceable it is.” I was expecting her to stamp down on to it, but she slowly lowered her foot, placing the tip of her heel in the centre between the strings. She began to apply pressure, there was a creaking sound as the wood began to buckle. “You know you can tell me to stop at any time?” I tried to make my mouth work, to get even a single word out, but nothing would work, I was rooted to the spot just as I had been when I used to sit and listen to my grandfather play. There was an almighty crack as her heel forced its way through the wood, she laughed and held up her foot, the violin, stuck to her heel, lifted off the ground. She slammed her foot back down, splinters of centuries old wood flying in all directions. “That felt sooo good.” She stamped on it with the sole of her shoe, standing on it with one foot, bouncing up and down. “Seriously, I’m going to have to go and find someone to fuck after this, it’s such a turn on.” She bought her other foot up, standing fullweight with both on what was left of my beloved violin. She jumped into the air, once, twice, three times, smashing the hard wood into fragments beneath her high heels. What was once the finest instrument on earth, perhaps the finest ever made, was now just broken wood beneath her feet, and she was loving it, savouring every crack, every collapse that happened beneath her.

    She finally stopped, and just stood there on top of what was left, rocking on her heels, twisting her soles. “That was unbelievable, but it’s not enough. Put your hands flat on the floor.” I did. She walked back and forth over the remains of my violin a few times, and then back and forth over my hands, sometimes landing on them with the hardness of her soles, sometimes the spikes of her heels. “I can’t believe you let me do that, but am so glad that you did.” She paused mid-stride, a spike heel balanced on the palm of my left hand. With no warning she stamped it down full weight, pushed it into my hand, wiggled it around until she could feel it hit the floor underneath. She yanked it out and stabbed it into the knuckle of my middle finger, shattering it, gouging the flesh aside, twisting it to pulp.

    “I wonder how your concert would have gone tonight? I’m sure it would have been fantastic. You know I’ve always loved your playing, that’s what makes this feel so good, knowing that I am destroying forever something so unique, so magical, and knowing what it means to you. It’s like I’m grinding your soul out beneath my heels, and the best bit is that you will live the rest of your life knowing what you have lost and knowing it was just to give me a few minutes of pleasure. It’s exquisite.” With that she stood with a foot full weight on each of my hands and jumped, and twisted, and jumped. “You’ll never be able to move your hands again, let alone play. All you’ll be good for from now on is being a doormat, a footrest, spending your days licking my shoe collection clean while I am out having fun. How do you feel about that? Maybe I’ll find a way to make you deaf too, so you’ll never be able to hear any music again. How do you feel about that? Anyway, I’m going out now. Don’t go to the hospital, I’ll need you to be here when I get back. After a long night dancing and getting up to who knows what in these heels I’ll need a long foot massage and that mouth of yours to freshen up my toes. Gather up that wood whilst you’re down there and look into whether it can be used to reheel my boots, oh and I might bring my friend Steph back with me, so tidy yourself up and be lying by the door ready for the two of us.” With that, she span on her heel, picked up her handbag and walked out the door.

    I inspected the damage. All my fingers were broken, more than that, the bones were shattered beyond repair. I stared at the fragments of my violin. I thought for a moment that she would be out there dancing, flirting, having fun with fragments of its three hundred year old wood still embedded in her shoe soles, with my blood still on her shoe soles. I cleaned myself up as best as I could and got to work with my tongue on her patent black slingbacks as she’d want to wear them in the morning. There was nothing else I could do, the enormity of what had happened, of what I had just given her was simply too much. She was right, my life, my dreams, were over now, only her comfort and amusement remained.
     
  7. Sauur

    Sauur Active Member

    Wowzers that story is amazing.
     
    Miss_clinton likes this.

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