I have loved having my hands and fingers crushed ever since I can remember. Some of my earlies experiences occured when I was only about 5 years old, perhaps even younger. We used to have a couch that set up off the floor high enough for me to crawl under, (at that age). We had hardwood floors, but my mom always kept a throw rug in front of the door and in front of the couch. Mom always used to set aside one day for ironing, and it usually took her about half a day to get it done each week, as our family was quiet large, with 4 kids, all in school except me. Now Mom had a certain pair of sandals that she wore around the house faithfully. They were black with two inch, hard blocked heels. Mom was quiet attractive, standing around 5'8" and weighed about 140 pounds, slightly heavy in the hips and thighs. I used to sit on the couch and watch Mom as she ironed clothes, watching her weight shift from one foot to the other, for hours at a time, wishing I could be under her feet somehow. One morning as I was still laying in bed, I saw Mom in the living room, setting up the ironing board. She always set it up directly in front of the couch so she could watch T.V. as she ironed, plus, she used the couch to keep the clothes that still had to be ironed, since it was right behind her and handy. My mom had on a pair of shorts and a sleevless blouse and her black sandals, which was her typical everyday wardrobe around the house. As I lay there, suddenly it dawned on me how I might get my fingers crushed! When Mom walked out of the living room to gather the clothes to be ironed, I quickly got out of bed and went into the living room, and crawled up under the couch. I extended my arm out and ran my hand up under the throw rug slightly and waited for her to come back. It wasn't long before I heard the hard heels of her sandals clicking on the hardwood floor as she returned to the living room. She dumped a huge armload of clothes on the couch and then took her position behind the ironing board. I lay there nervous, looking at her pretty feet as she shifted her weight from one foot to the other. My hand was about 4 inches behind her feet, under the throw rug. I knew if she stepped on my fingers with her heels, it would hurt real bad, but that's exactly what I wanted! Slowly, I began to slide my small tender hand toward her right heel, until my fingertips were actually at the point where Mom's heel was standing on the rug. I only had to wait a few seconds before Mom shifted her weight to her left foot and slightly raised her right heel as she repositioned the clothes on the ironing board. I slid my fingers under her raised heel, up to about the second joint, and then held my breath as I gritted my teeth for the pain I knew was about to come. Suddenly Mom mashed her heel back down on my fingers and stood on them with all her weight. The pain was so incredible that not only did my eyes immediately fill with tears, but it took most of my breath away. Apparently my fingers were so small and tender that Mom didn't even notice she was standing on them. They were just part of the floor as far as she was concerned. I could feel every move Mom's heel made on my fingers as she stood there ironing the clothes. Every ounce added and every ounce taken away as she varied her weight from one foot to the other with the motion of ironing the clothes. After about 30 second of steady hard crushing, I finally gained my senses, and my eyes cleared from the tears enough that I could watch her heel as it crushed my tiny fingers. Mom took no pity on me as she unknowingly crushed my fingers under her cruel heels. Sometimes she'd shift all of her weight to the heel on my fingers and it felt like she would mash them through the floor. Finally after about a minute and a half, or two minutes, she stepped off my fingers and stepped over and hung the shirt on a rack. I carefully slide my hand back until she returned, which was only a matter of seconds. My fingers were now throbbing from the incredible crush she'd already given me, but I wasn't through. As she took position again, I began to slide my hand toward her heel once again. It was almost like she knew what I was doing because as soon as my finger was right behind the heel of her sandal, she raised it slightly, allowing me to slide my fingers under it again. As soon as my fingers were under her heel about the same distance, she stood down on them again. This time, I think she must have noticed something under her heel because she rocked it from side to side a couple of time and then raised her foot and stomped my fingers hard with her heel. I was silently crying now as she stood on my fingers, satisfied that she'd stomped whatever it was, flat. My small arm was now trembling from the excruciating pain, but I could do nothing but lay there and let my mom crush them as long and as heavily as she desired. What ever it was she was ironing this time must have been a dress or something because she did a lot of weight variations on my fingers and stood on them almost 5 minutes before finally stepping off to hang it on the rack. By now, my fingers were almost numb, so I just left them in place for her to come back. When she returned, she stepped squarely on them in the same place. My fingers were totally numb now so I just lay there enjoying watching her cruel heel crush my tiny fingers. I could easily tell when all her weight was on my fingers because the edges of her heel would turn real white where they flattened out over the sandal. For the next 4 hours or so, I lay there watching Mom as she crushed my fingers under her heel. There were only a few minutes out of that 4 hours that she stood beside my fingers instead of on them. After she finished ironing and started taking the clothes to the closets, I quickly crawled out from under the couch and went to my room as if I'd been there all along. I did this several times when Mom ironed clothes, and to my knowledge, she never knew that she was crushing her little boy's fingers so cruelly. | Members who added to this interactive story also contributed to these: |
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