Mistress Please

Don't Step on Me Anymore

By R. Siclary

Canaan

Chapter 1

The floor was icy and hard

beneath my bare feet, and the grouting between the tiles were a burden to step

over this early in the morning.  Ordinarily I didn't mind it so much, but in the

mornings.  Being four-inches tall in the mornings was not advantageous to those

who do not like to have their feet flex into irregular surfaces, especially

those that were inches deep, and four inches wide; they were to me at least.

            Then in came Lisa.  I looked up at her looming

form and she looked down at me.  She stepped over me on her way to potty.  She

was “normal” sized, five-feet-eleven in her world, and I four-inches to her. 

She was of course barefooted, and she had not yet changed out of her

eveningwear, which was usually scant at best.

            “Good morning, Joe,” she said to me as she

stepped over me.  She gave me a gentle little back-kick with the sole of her

foot with her greeting as she passed over me.  That was my lot with her; she

enjoyed playing with me with her feet, beautiful feet that she had.

            I managed to give her heel a pat before it

traveled out of my reach with her stride, and I replied in kind.  “Sleep well,

last night?” I asked.  She was pulling down her panties and sitting on the

stool.  Her feet slapped near-silently but resoundingly on her trek to the

potty.

            I admired her feet, and I admired her.  A

deliciously brutal woman she was, and one who had a thing for stepping all over

me, and doing it in ways that I was sure to survive, hence my continued

existence after being the object of her “fun” countless times.

            She nodded at me and tousled back her

morning-unruly hair.  She'd propped her feet up on their balls, and shortly I

heard and smelled her urination.  It was copious as usual.

            This was my usual place to wait for her.  I

would come to the bathroom and await her arrival once I heard her begin to stir

from sleep; this was our rule.  I never violated it, or any other rule she

imposed.  It could sometimes be an aggravation, especially if my night before

had been plagued by soreness from an evening of “fun” with my mistress. 

Punishment for violating this rule, or for that matter, any of her rules, would

bring swift and very not-nice consequences.  I seldom enjoyed them.

            Suddenly, Lisa was addressing me with a

question.  I'd not realized I'd delved into a “morning” revelry of

morning-stares and non-objective thinking, and it took me a moment to come out

of it and respond.  This particular scenario was something Lisa liked.  She

relished my usual morning inattentiveness because it gave her excuse to do

“things” to me.  I blinked and looked up at her.

            “I'm sorry, Mistress?” I asked, abashed, not to

mention with a little trepidation.  She grinned.

            “I said, do you know today is Saturday, Joe,”

she said.  I blinked again.  I knew it was, and I also knew the portent of

Saturdays with her.  They were days off for her, and days “on” for me.  “Yes,

Mistress,” I replied.

            She widened her grin a little more and then

shook her large head a little, and for the purpose of getting her long hair out

of her face, which had flopped into it again with a bow she'd done with her head

while delving into the relief of her urination.

            “You weren't listening to me again,” she said,

and with her usual portent for my usual failure to do so.  She wiped and rose

from the toilet.  She drew her panties up and stepped up to me, or rather over

me; she loomed.  I craned my neck and returned her gaze.  I was submissive, and

awed.  But then I usually always am.  The view of her near-naked self standing

over me like that, shapely and “skyscraper-toppling-foreshortened” was

staggering.  I felt myself growing hard in my little loincloth.  I adored her. 

Moreover, she turned me on enormously.  She lifted her right foot and prodded me

with her big toe.

            “For being your usual male inattentive self,

you get to live in my house shoe for the morning.  Go and wait for me there. 

I'll be with you after I've showered.”

            I nodded, a little stunned.  “House shoe”

treatment was something she seldom imposed upon me, and because she knew how

intense it was for me.  Even then, she would usually only impose it upon me on a

work day, which meant I would get fifteen to twenty minutes of this treatment

while she readied her self for work.  After which, I would spend the next few

hours recovering; she would go to work.

            I knew better than to backtalk her, and not

because she didn't like it; she loved it.  It gave her additional excuses to be

mean to me.

            She prodded me again, and I nodded again.  I

felt numb inside.  Who knew how long she intended to keep me underfoot in her

house shoe?  I didn't, and for a moment, that not knowing paralyzed me.  I stood

tingling from head to foot, and with a thick feeling in my guts.  Her huge feet

picked them selves up one after the other, and she turned and stepped into the

shower.  I watched her feet as she did, and I loved them, and I hated them.  I

turned and numbly walked out of the bathroom.

*****

            I came to her house shoes, and stood looking at

them for a long moment.  I heard her turn on the shower and I pictured her

lovely body under the running water, partially obscured by steam, and from where

I always saw her, from at her feet.

            I looked into the darkness of the inside of her

right house shoe, and I swallowed against a lump in my throat.  Soon I would be

in there, and her foot with me, on top of me.

            Don't get me wrong, I found being in her house

shoe under her foot a very delicious experience.  Trapped against the sole of

her foot, and repeatedly squashed as she moved around her bedroom was an

experience difficult to describe.  It was incredibly intense, mind-numbing even.

            Her house shoes were the “garden variety”

over-the-foot type.  They were brown corduroy, and they had rubber soles.  The

insoles were lined with a silk-smooth nylon fabric.  This fabric became

non-slick to me, however, when her foot was atop me.  The rubber sole combined

with the foam cushioning underneath the insole material to create a gripping

effect with her foot snugged atop me—once I was underfoot, the position I

assumed beneath her foot was the position I usually remained in until she took

her foot out again.  I typically lay beneath her foot with my head and shoulders

beneath the ball of her foot and the rest of me extended under her arch.  My

feet would just reach the up-curve of her heel.

            The experience was so delicious for me because

Lisa had deliciously supple feet.  Moreover, the bottoms of her feet were smooth

(she kept them that way), and they were very soft; she had no calluses on the

soles of her feet, at all.  Add to that, her feet were always exquisitely supple

just after she'd showered, which is why she was showering now.

            I swallowed hard again, and then numbly climbed

over the lip of her right house shoe and slid myself in.  The inside of her

house shoe was redolent of her foot odor.  It was not over-powering, but it was

omnipresent.  In addition, my scent was intermingled with hers; I'd experienced

orgasms many times underneath her foot; my smell lingered.  It made for an

interesting mixture of aromas, and a not unpleasant one.  Also, since Lisa's

feet were usually clean when she wore her house shoes, the scent of her

shower-freshness was present, adding a layer of watery freshness to the myriad

of smells in her footwear.

            I listened to her shower I guess for the better

part of ten minutes before I finally heard her turn the water off.  I heard her

step out of the tub then toweling her self off.  I stared up at the inside of

her house shoe's upper as I listened, and I thought of little else but her

soon-to-come foot, and how I would be pressed beneath it, and for who knew how

long . . . and then she was approaching.

            Lisa was not an overly heavy-footed woman, her

feet nonetheless thumped upon the floor with her approaching stride.  I

swallowed.  I heard her feet push into the carpet beside her house shoes, and I

saw her shadow fill the opening of mine.  She turned around and sat down on the

edge of her bed.

            In her world, Lisa weighs about a hundred and

forty-five pounds.  She wears size six and a half shoes, and she requires an

extra-wide width.

            Her feet are stunningly beautiful, to me at

least because they are smooth along their bottoms, smooth planes that possess

folded wrinkles in just the right place, between her heel and her arch under the

outside of her foot.  In addition, her arch is not overly high, but it is

deliciously soft.  The balls of her feet are broad, smooth planes of supple

flesh, and she possesses short toes.  Her toes are round, pea-like nodules of

soft flesh; her big toes are non-elongated ovals, and just as supple on their

bottoms as the rest of her foot.  Her feet simply put, are snug beds of supple

flesh, where as with a woman who possesses more angular, curvaceous feet, tend

to have pressure points when they stand that are staggeringly uncomfortable for

me (I know; I've found this out).

            I heard her pull on her panties, and then put

on her bra.  I lied there in rapture, silent as I listened to her tug these

things onto herself.  The kiss of womanly-soft material upon her flesh was a

delightful sound, and even more so because of the sound-dampening qualities of

the house shoe that presently surrounded me.  I felt myself growing hard as I

listened to these sounds.  I knew what was coming next, and the anticipation of

it gripped me.  I was not disappointed either.

            In came her foot, huge and smooth, and

imposing.  A broad slab of meaty flesh it was, and as large to me as a car was

to her.  Her large toes came with tender and forming pressure over my legs, and

then she began “walking” them up my thighs, gently scrunching them as she tugged

her house shoe on to her foot.  I felt the small tug of gravity then, the one

that always came; she always lifted her foot so she could more easily slide her

foot onto me without pushing me up into the shoe's toe box.  Darkness engulfed

me as her foot engulfed me beneath it.  It was not a total darkness, more like a

very deep gloom.  Her toes were upon my face, cool and shower fresh, and then

her foot slid the rest of its way forward with its usual momentum.  I found

myself again, with my head and shoulders snugged beneath the ball of her foot. 

I was again, pinned beneath her wonderful bed of supple flesh.  After she got

her foot inside, she lowered her foot to the floor.

            The pressure of her foot resting upon me under

the weight of just her leg is a wonderful feeling.  The sole of her foot relaxed

upon my form, and pushed itself onto me, forming over my contours.  I knew this

was to be short-lived though, for even as I basked in this wonderful, cool

feeling, I listened to the sound of her drawing her other house shoe on—and then

it came.

            The pressure her foot exerts under her full,

titanic weight is staggering.  Her foot pressed down onto me with mighty force

as she rose.  “Oh God!” I tried to cry out, as I always do, but as always, I

only managed an “UGN-MUMPH!”

            My ears rang under the intense pressure; my

head and shoulders pressed tightly into the shoe's insole, and the ball of her

foot formed a staggeringly tight seal over me.  I felt the rest of her foot too,

but it was a distant thing compared to the ball of her foot.  I was once again

trapped beneath her mighty foot, all of me, sealed and helpless under this

awesome pressure.  I could do nothing but lie there and be walked on, and for

however long she chose, and it was Saturday too.

*****

            If not for the carpet she'd opted for in her

bedroom, I would have been immediately squashed the first time she stood upon me

like this.  As it was though, her carpet and thick padding beneath it served to

seal me into a world of intense pressure, a capsule if you will of unrelenting

and powerful entrapment.

            I felt her mighty weight roll forward, and my

poor head was squeezed with terrific harshness.  I saw stars, knew that my head

was going to crack and then pop like a grape, and then just like that, the

pressure was simply gone.  I knew what this was of course; she had taken a

step.  I felt the tug of G-forces as she swung her foot forward, and then felt

her heel plant, and then her foot rolled forward like a mighty but exquisitely

firm and not hard, steamroller.

            I listened to the subtle pop of her huge ankle,

I listened to her foot snug into the foot bed of her house shoe, and the carpet

crush just on the other side of the shoe's outsole.  I listened to this as I

listened to myself wheeze and groan with each of her steps, and saw stars.

            It was roughly twelve paces for her from the

side of her bed to her closet.  I've counted them.  Then there would be a time

of exquisite intenseness for me as she stood in her closet picking through what

clothes she would wear for the day.  This usually only took a few minutes, then

there would be the trip back to her bedside.

            The time she spent in her closet was always the

worst for me.  I would become intensely sore during this period, and that

soreness would make the trip back to her bedside all that much more difficult to

bear.

            We were at step six now, and she was going to

her closet with her usual, relaxed pace.  One might think that having an object

in ones shoe the size of a four inch guy might make one wish to favor that foot,

and possibly even limp from the discomfort of it.  Not Lisa.  She relished

squeezing me beneath her regular stride, letting me feel all of her weight as

the ball of her foot loaded under it just before stepping off.

            I had begun to sweat profusely by the time we

reached step nine, and by the time we reached her closet, I was beyond ready to

come out, as I always was.

*****

            Her powerful foot just rested on me, squeezing

me terrifically beneath it, and for extended periods.  She was mindful of my

need to breathe, so very seldom did she stand upon me with her full weight for

longer than about twenty seconds at a time.  While she was not standing directly

on me, I could breathe.  While the air was usually thick and very humid, it did

possess enough oxygen to keep me conscious, and lucid.  Another reason for her

choice of house shoes was that this particular kind gapped around its foot

opening as she rolled her foot forward with her stride.  The mechanics of her

walking would then pump surprisingly large amounts of air into my confines. 

This was also another reason that the time she spent in her closet was extra

hard on me.  She was not walking around in there, but shuffling her feet as she

moved down her row of clothes.  No air was being pumped in.  It got increasingly

humid and warmer as she stood in her closet, and harder for me to breathe

because it was.

            I lay waiting beneath her foot.  There was not

much else I could do, but wait.  While she stood on me in her closet though, her

foot would stand deliciously still, a seriously intense bed of warm but supple

pressure that for periods, simply refused to move.  I would lie staggered under

this, and then her weight would lift, I would stick a little to the bottom of

her foot, and then her foot would kiss its brutal press back down onto me again.

            Being stood upon by Lisa is something I

particularly enjoy; well, except for when she gets sadistic with it, like now. 

There is an undeniable element to being squashed beneath such a titanic woman

though, for me at least that is very difficult to describe.  I mean as she stood

motionless upon me, sure it was impossible to breathe, but the sheer

helplessness of it, the mind-numbing, muscle-searing intenseness of it; it is

overwhelming.  I was sealed beneath the flesh of her foot during these periods,

squeezed so tightly upon that I could not move, at all.

            And then, seconds went on into minutes, then

five minutes, and then longer . . . finally though, she lifted her foot and

rested it on its toe, to doubtlessly give me a break.  I however, was reeling by

then.  Five, six or perhaps seven minutes being pressed beneath her titanic

weight was beginning to take its toll.  I knew my flesh was red as a beet; it

was stinging, and intensely.  I was desperate to come out from under her foot.

            I knew she could hear me if I called to her

from inside her house shoe.  She did say I was difficult to understand unless

she really listened closely, but that she could hear me.  I found my voice, and

at first, it was a croak.  I hurriedly cleared my throat and writhed a little

against the sole of her now sweaty foot.  My throat clearing opened my throat

enough to get out something, and I used what energy I had remaining (which

wasn't a lot at this point) to get out, “M-Mistress?”  I was pleased and

relieved.  My voice rang out clear within my tight confines.  And then came her

reply.  “Yes, Joe, what is it?”

            Her interrogative possessed no invective. 

Instead, she asked the question with patience and a genuine kindness toward me,

but then she usually always did, even when she was feeling especially sadistic,

like now.

            “C-Can I p-please get out now?” I asked, and

was once again relieved that I'd managed to make my voice clear again.

            Lisa evidently didn't hear me that time. 

Either that or she was toying with me, making me repeat myself for the

humiliation that being forced to do so brought with it, especially when one was

helpless as I.  Embarrassment aside, I wanted out.  I would give anything to be

let out, and I realized that I would.

            Her foot remained poised on its toes, and I

beneath its relaxed self, under the curve of her arch and nonetheless gripping,

if lightly, ball of her foot.  I knew that if I didn't get something out in the

next few moments, her foot would be squashing onto me again, pinning me beneath

the brute force of her weight again.  So I called out in the most powerful voice

that I could find, “Please, Mistress.  Can I get out?”  I knew at once that she

heard me that time, for she scrunched her foot a little, and so the ball of her

foot would release its pressing hold on my head.  “No,” she replied simply.  My

heart sank, and I went numb, and then her foot was levering flat back to the

floor, and once again the cruel kiss of her giant weight pressed back down onto

me again.  I tried so hard to cry, but could not.  The pressure of her foot was

simply too great, and I squashed so thoroughly beneath it, that I could not

sob.  Also my tear ducts flowed copiously whether I chose to cry or not.  So

even though my eyes flowed with tears, I could not be said to be crying.  Her

enormous sole was once again a mighty slab of meat pushing down onto my body

with its terrific force.

            The trek back to Lisa's bedside was just as

uncaring for her, and as brutal to me as was her stroll to her closet.  Finally

though, she slipped her foot out of her house shoe, and I was all at once

gasping in huge gulps of deliciously fresh air.

            Lisa as it turned out decided that perhaps

being under her foot as she browsed through her closet for the better part of

fifteen minutes was a bit much for me.  She could actually feel my apathy under

her foot; I usually squirmed a lot during her stroll back to her bed; this time

I was not squirming.

            In any event, I lied there in the foot bed of

her shoe, burning and nearly asphyxiated.  I had quite literally come very close

to suffocating underneath her foot as shoe browsed her closet, and my skin began

feeling as though it would soon melt off if I weren't given relief.  I had

simply resigned myself to being stood upon and trodden upon then, uncaring,

disassociating myself with the intense trauma of being trapped under her foot

for so long.

Now that her foot was off of me,

I began a slow recovery.  My skin felt tingly and hot; I knew that it was still

red.  I knew though that this pain I felt would soon deaden into a persistent

soreness that in a matter of a span of hours would slowly begin to fade too.  I

lay relieved, and then, listening to her move about her room.

She was dressing her self.  I

listened to her pull on her pants; they sounded like jeans.  Next came her

blouse.  Then her feet neared her shoes, squishing crisply into the carpet as

she planted them just outside her house shoes.  “Are you ready to come out?” she

inquired.  I replied that I was.

With this, Lisa picked up her

house shoe (the one that I was in), and she gently dumped me out into her hand. 

She gasped, and she assumed an apologetic lilt to her voice.  â€œWow, that was

intense for you.  I'm sorry, Joe.”  I could only nod numbly.  I hated her for

what she had just done to me, but I could not bring myself to openly express my

hatred to her; I loved her.  Moreover, I loved her for what she'd just done to

me.  She was a deliciously cruel woman, and I loved her for her cruelty, and for

her tenderness after visiting such cruelties onto me.  My hatred was

short-lived, as it always was.  My hatred of her would fade with my pain, and I

looked forward to that fading.  I did not wish to hate her.  The dichotomy for

me in this was both exquisite, and disturbing to me.  I knew that one day I

would die beneath her feet.  I knew too that she did not wish for me to die, but

that she would also experience no great sense of loss if I did.  I was a toy to

her, if a cherished one.  If I died, she would simply go on with her life.  She

and I both knew this, and she was more comfortable with this knowing than I.  I

accepted it, and disturbingly, relished it.

In any event, she turned with me

and headed into her bathroom.  I enjoyed being carried by her.  Her immense

power over me radiated into my very soul as she carried me, her power over me

was absolute, even when she carried me.

She brought me to her washbasin

and turned on the water.  She let it run until she was satisfied with its

temperature.  She wanted it pleasantly cool, but not bracingly cold.  She

inserted her hand into the flow, and the water roiled around me, running down

her fingers in a babbling and not overly powerful stream.  The kiss of the cool

water upon my skin was wondrous and relieving.  The coolness of the water slaked

away the stinging of my abused skin, and numbed the soreness of my muscles.  I

laid back in the flow, and the water burbled over my shoulders.  She smiled down

at me.  I found my smile too.  We shared a moment of knowing, understanding

one-another, and I appreciation for her and her demonstration of tenderness, and

caring toward me.

Long since, Lisa had devised a

formula for diluting Tylenol to a potency that my small self could tolerate. 

After allowing me to lie in the running water for a few minutes, she allowed me

to towel myself off, and then deposited me onto the countertop.  My “towel” was

a piece of old washcloth that she'd fashioned into a towel for me.  She'd also

fashioned my little loincloth.  Anyway, she got my Tylenol from her medicine

cabinet, a bottle with an eyedropper, and she gave me a dose.  I gratefully

swallowed it down.  I loved my doll-sized status with her, and I loved the care

with which she administered to me.  I was so very cute to her, and this is how

she tended to my needs.  Everything I did was cute to her, especially the way I

grasped the end of the eyedropper as I drank from it.  She usually squealed with

glee when I did this; she squealed then.

She gave me a second glance as

she put the eyedropper back into its bottle.  “Joe, I'm having a few friends

over tonight,” she said.  She replaced the bottle of Tylenol in the medicine

cabinet then squatted so that she could bring herself to eye-level with me.  I

met her gaze and then looked down.  I nodded.

I knew what having friends over

meant, especially since she was telling me about it.  It meant I was to be the

center attraction.  Moreover, it usually meant that I would be used for the

enjoyment of her guests, which more often than not meant I was to be stepped on,

and a lot.

I lifted my gaze to hers.  She

was watching me, waiting for me to comment.  I had the right to refuse to be the

center attraction.  I seldom did though, asking to be excluded only when I was

extra sore, or if I was uncomfortable with one or more of her guests (that is

another story in itself).  “Who's coming, Mistress?” I asked.  She smiled.

“I am having two of your favorite

people over tonight, Joe,” she said, beaming at me.  I knew who these people

were, and the thought of them visiting made me smile.  I nonetheless waited for

her to reveal who was coming.  It made her happy to do that.

“Jill and Marcy are coming over!”

she announced, and with her usual glee at making such wonderful revelations to

me.

Jill, I adored.  Marcy I adored

even more.  Both of these young women were very tender toward me.  Marcy

however, loved getting me off.  She thought it was the coolest thing to watch me

writhe and then explode all over myself.  She would invariably rub her feet all

over me until I cummed.  She had deliciously soft feet.  Jill on the other hand

would do anything that was “group-appropriate.”  More importantly, she was a

delightfully light woman, and she also had exquisitely soft feet.  If the

“group-appropriate” thing to do was to step all over me, she would happily join

in.  Lisa's approval of her was the biggest thing in the world to her.  Once,

she stood upon me with both feet for better than twenty minutes, and simply

because Lisa asked her to do it.  I'd experienced a raging orgasm beneath her

awesome feet.

I beamed at my mistress.  “You're

the awesomenest,” I said.  She beamed back at me.  “You are too, Joe,” Lisa

replied, and with equal earnestness.

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