Stewart's African Fantasy
Stewart James more money than he could spend in
a lifetime. Looking out the window of his private jet, he smiled at thought of
his wealthy mother leaving him all that money. Nine months previous, Stewart
had been eking out a living as a sales rep for an East Coast soap chain, too
proud to go begging money from mama. He wasn't very outgoing, so he
wasn't very effective in sales, and so he usually lived paycheck to paycheck.
The women he hired twice a month to trample him were usually too high-
priced, raunchy, and brutal. He had the caps on his teeth to prove the latter.
But all Stewart had ever wanted was a nice, gentle, constant trample-- at least
for a couple of hours. And preferably by women who didn't know they were
trampling him. He used to lie on his bed, in his rat-infested dive, fantasizing
about various multiple- woman trampling episodes-- but none that he found
feasible. At least till now. Stewart had a penchant for dark skin. Though he'd
never been trampled by a black woman, he got hard just paging through his
National Geographic-- one of the few luxuries he allowed himself before he'd
fallen into his inheritance. Drooling over those black African native women,
walking barefoot every where they went, Stewart lay awake at night and
dreamed of an endless line of tough, callused, female feet walking on him. And
thanks to Mom, Stewart was now a multimillionaire, and so he'd realize his
dream. Getting permission to enter the country to feed the hungry, remote
peoples in the dark heart of Africa, Stewart packed his new jet with crates
and crates of food stuffs. Upon arriving, he hired a black film crew he'd
contacted before takeoff. They would film his adventure, philanthropic and
very much sexual. His plan was simple. Arrive with his team in a village. Find
the two biggest huts or free-standing structures. He'd sequester himself and a
couple of hired hands in one hut at a time. No one was allowed in while
preparations were made. Sheets were thrown over doors, windows, and any
other cracks one could see through. The village would feast as it never had
before. In preparation, all women would bathe and get pedicures (Stewart
couldn't abide all unkempt toenails)-- complete with coral red nail polish.
(Upon landing in Kenya, he'd hired two female assistants to accomplish this
task.) The men were required to bathe and do whatever else Stewart could
think of to keep them busy. In the "men only" hut, the hands would busy
themselves preparing a long table decked with foods. So much food the tables
wobbled under the weight. Stewart napped. Next, in the "women only" hut,
the hands would dig a small trench along the front of the tables, long enough
for Stewart to lie in, while Stewart arranged the food. Once finished, Stewart
assumed his place in the shallow trench. Naked. Over the length of his
member he had placed a thin, cloth and rubber sheath-- which was painted to
look like part of a tree root. The clay was re- packed around him, dirt
sprinkled on him, cameras set, complete with lighting-- this was to be
videotaped, supposedly to show to supporters in the States-- and all one saw
upon entering the tent was bright lights, large cameras, and a long table,
decked with every imaginable food. One hardly noticed the small tree root
lying at a slight angle in the dirt near the tables. Just as Stewart had planned it.
The trench was dug at an angle, so that Stewart's face was just underneath the
long table's edge. His head was inclined so he could see everything, and his
mouth at ground level, in hopes some filthy, black feet would crush it. His face
was obscured by the long plastic table cloth that hanging 3 inches off the
ground. The rest of his body, other than his "root," was underground. Lying
there for what seemed like a half an hour, waiting for the interpreter to relay
instructions on how to file through and fill your plate, how the women with
children under 12 were to load up plates for themselves and their kids (who
were kept outside the huts), how to go about getting seconds, Stewart was all
smiles. He had never been this excited! Or scared. In just moments, strange
women, black women, he had never met, would give him the trampling of his
life. Was he ready? What if he was discovered? How would they react?
Recoil in horror? Cook him for dinner? Or just ignore him? Suddenly, Stewart
heard feminine voices just outside the door. The large hut door swung open,
and Stewart saw them from beneath the tablecloth: a long line of big, black,
beautiful feet. Feet that had never known shoes. Feet with pretty, painted
nails. And hard, leathery soles, filthy from bathing then walking through dirt.
The women were talking excitedly among themselves, no doubt about the
tremendous display of food. Stewart was enjoying the view. He had a hard
time not letting his erection bounce. His "root" was no longer lying on the
ground, but was up and pointing toward his face-- concealed under the table,
almost as if to give away his game. His feet and legs had been buried the
deepest, so as the women moved, a slow step at a time along the table and
toward his root, across the dirt and up his legs, it almost tickled. He felt as
though he were being stepped on through pillows. It took about 3 minutes
from the time the first woman entered the hut until she reached the root. The
line along the table was moving very slow. Slower than Stewart had imagined
it. Which only added to the anticipation of pleasure. His root was dancing
wildly now, but Stewart didn't notice. He watched her. It was almost a dance.
They were all sidestepping down along the table, taking their time getting their
food, talking quietly but with great enthusiasm. The line leader was the first to
reach him. He saw her dirty, leathery, wrinkled sole rise, and then the ball of
that beautiful black foot came down flat on his root. Crush! WHOA! It felt so
good! Better than he'd imagined. As she shifted her weight from foot to foot,
Stewart felt his erection throbbing against her foot. Did she feel it? Maybe he
shouldn't have done this. Too late now. He felt like he was about to shoot his
load. As she stepped down the line a little onto his abdomen, he knew for
sure she had to know something was up. She had to feel his tightened muscles
and determine this wasn't really the dirt floor she was standing full weight on.
While trying to fend off thoughts of dangerous discovery-- thoughts that were
starting to make him dizzy with tension--Stewart wondered at how she felt
lighter than he'd expected. But then, he'd noticed everyone looked very skinny
when he'd arrived earlier. This is a breeze, he thought. His thoughts were
painfully interrupted when the next woman in line found the root in her path.
This woman, obviously impatient that the line leader as taking too long, busied
herself with digging at the root. With her toes. Barely able see past the first
woman's legs, but saw those long, broad toes, painted so beautifully with
coral red polish, boring into his erection. He wished he could see her face.
Had she found him out? Did she know it wasn't really a root? If she did, she
wasn't letting on. Maybe she knew and was trying to torture him into giving
himself away. Maybe she was enjoying this, because now she began
assaulting the root with a vengeance--pounding it with the hard leather ball of
her foot, kicking the root forward across the ground, as though trying to
uproot it. Then she switched to using her heel to grind it. Either way, Stewart
was on a sexual roller coaster, his body alive with current. She then stepped
down with her wide, round heel fullweight on the head of the root-- stood
wobbling unsteadily on it for a few seconds-- and then stepped forward off of
it, sending Stewart's thwarted load shooting a foot or so across the ground.
AAAAiiiiiiiigh-- Busted! He waited for an angry uproar that didn't come. As
the line leader stepped forward and again, her wide, pedicured, filthy toes
landed roughly on his lips. Oh, the sensation. While the third in line had found
the root and was standing on it, and the second in line was standing firmly on
his lower chest, the first one had her nasty toes pressed against his lips
wiggling them. Stewart was in heaven. Slowly the line moved across him. One
step at a time. He was getting so relaxed that he didn't even care when he felt
his root cover slipping off each time someone kicked it, stepped on it, tripped
on it, or ground it underfoot. In fact, before the 10th woman had reached his
face, his erection was completely naked though caked with dirt, throbbing,
and noticeable to anyone walking along the table. But no one seemed to act
as if anything was amiss. If anything, more women were stepping on it,
bouncing on it, kicking it, even grinding it further into the dirt with the balls of
their feet. And the line of toes was endless. He'd never seen so many toes in
one place. Stewart saw long toes, wide toes, strong toes, young toes, old
toes, dirty toes-- all black, all with beautiful coral red nails. And they always
seemed to land on or near his mouth. He realized he was getting eye strain.
>From focusing on them all. About 3 feet downline, someone dropped a
small, flaky, buttery crescent. It lay there undisturbed, until the next set of toes
landed squarely upon it, making toe impressions. She had a big foot-- at least
a size 10. Very wide. Big, long toes. And evidently-- to Stewart's surprise
and delight, with all the butter coating, the crescent stuck to her toes and the
ball of her foot. Enjoying the slow, easy trample across his rod and ribs,
Stewart watched as the toes with the smashed crescent under them inched
closer to his face. About 6 inches from his face, she must have realized she
had something stuck to her foot, so she it a little off the ground and wiggled
her toes vigorously until it fell off. As she stepped by, Stewart eyed the
crescent. It looked delicious, laying there all smashed flat except for the ridges
that had been between the woman's toes. He was suddenly hungry. Almost as
if reading his thoughts, the next set of young black toes shuffled forward,
pushing the crescent along the ground and up to rest on Stewart's cheek,
while her toes rested against his nostrils. (He wished she'd just shove them on
in.) Did she know what she'd done? After she moved on, Stewart wiggled his
face until the crescent slipped down his cheek so he could maneuver it with his
lips into this mouth. It was delicious. A little gritty. But he felt his rod bouncing
from the thrill of it. He also realized he was going against everything he'd read
about needing time to refuel for ejaculation. He had counted 47 pairs of feet
moving past, and 3 ejaculations-- in about 20 minutes. An hour into it he had
cum twice more. And when the last lady left the hut and his hired hands
declared "Food's all gone" and barred the doors-- he had realized that in 2
and a half hours he had cum 13 times. As he lie there, listening to the
interpreter outside, he was a mess. After a while, this slow, easy trample had
become increasingly painful. An hour into it he was wishing like hell he hadn't
done this-- he wasn't sure he could make it till the last lady left. His ribs were
left bruised and possibly cracked, his stomach muscles shot, his upper chest,
his eyes-- and his member? It felt like it was on a bleeding slowburn. This
puny, little wisp of muscle lay lifeless in a puddle of smashed food, mud and
cum. His rod and his ribs would need some medical attention. He wondered if
he'd ever pee again. But hey, he was alive. He was happy. He was satisfied.
And he could fly home later that evening, be in New York tomorrow, and be
watching his freshly-made "root smash movies" later that night. He couldn't
wait to see what it looked like from the other side of the line. Especially the
close-ups. After getting cleaned up, redressed, and bandaged, he stepped out
into the clean, village air. The afternoon sun was still shining. The men and
children were all gathered around the fire enjoying some tribal ritual, and the
interpreter approached him with 3 women. "Mister Stewart," the interpreter
began, in broken English. "These women ask me say when you come again
with more food, they gladly show you village where women choke snakes
with toes." Here the women all looked down at their decorated feet, then
back up at Stewart-- seductively-- and then to the interpreter, wanting him to
continue. "Their toes are more strong," he went on. "Makes very good for
pulling roots." Here he nodded to the women, who looked at Stewart and
laughed raucously before walking away.
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