"You're kidding me!"
Barry couldn't believe what his doctor was saying. Six more months of life as he knew it. He had picked up a degenerative muscle disease that would leave him in a hospital, on life support, in a coma. A vegetable. He was separated-- his wife left him after he'd admitted to an affair with another woman's feet. Barry's wife thought his foot fetish was disgusting and wouldn't indulge him. Still, he hated the idea of leaving her with all the medical bills he'd soon incur. He'd actually be better off dead, rather than make his folks and his kids suffer.
So he began to wonder how to make his suicide look like an accident, so his family could collect the life insurance. Leave them with a large financial gift, not medical bills. Walking into work that night at Backus Security, Inc., he was met by Jack, a drooling young college student who constantly goaded Barry with his tales of success with younger women. Jack went through more beds in a month than Barry had been through in his life. "It's not fair, man!" Jack bit out. He was obviously pissed. "Marshall took me off the Ranson Concert!" He was talking about the one for ladies only.
Ranson was the current heartthrob among highschool/college girls. They were known for having two concerts in every city they toured-- one for everyone, one for ladies only. Barry's interests were piqued by Jack's mention of Ranson because he'd read in one of his son's music rags that Ranson's lead singer, Sean, was a "foot freak." The magazine quoted Sean as saying it drove him crazy to see a woman with "her hair teased way up, wearing way too much makeup, wearing a tight T- shirt, cutoffs and strappy sandals-- so I can check out her feet-- with bitchin' red toenail polish. Black's kinda cool, too." A fellow foot fetishist. Barry wished he could be as bold in telling women about his fetish--and have them throw their feet at him the way they obviously were at Sean.
Barry rounded the corner to check his work schedule. Seems Marshall had reassigned him to the Ranson concert. Barry couldn't care less. He really wasn't into young, screaming women. He wondered, though, what the feet scene would be like. The night of the "for everyone" concert, Barry was assigned mosh pit duty, downstage right. His job was to keep people from climbing onto the stage. Unfortunately this arena didn't have the fences he'd seen at other venues. It was just him (the next guard was about 15 feet away), a chest high stage, and mass of screaming hysteria. Nothing interesting.
It was definately interesting the next night-- the "ladies only" concert. Barry and the other hired guns were in position when they opened the doors. He'd seen people go crazy at general admission concerts before, running full out down the stairs to stake their claim down at the stage. But tonight was unlike anything he'd ever seen. Scores, hundreds of women, dressed to please and tease Ranson's lead singer, swept down to the front of the stage. Other than security, there wasn't a guy in the house. The opening act got booed offstage halfway through their first number. And when Ranson came out in a blaze of lights and noise, the place went wild. And Barry became invisible, or rather, an annoyance. Painted ladies craned their necks to see around him-- a couple of them ordered him to squat down so they could see. They didn't want him standing there in their way. He was their enemy, blocking them from their beloved. A sandal flew past him and landed near the front of the stage-- with a hotel key attached. A tall, pretty brunette next to Barry was waving a baggie with some small, red things inside-- toenail clippings-- again with a hotel key. Damn! Lucky Sean. Being a head taller than all the screaming women around him, he had a great view of this fascinating sea of hookerish faces. Women who'd forgotten who and where they were. Women who didn't care who or what was behind them, beside them, . . under them.
Barry suddenly was struck with a very macabre idea. He'd had to admit he'd been turned on to see all those scantily clad feet running toward him when they opened the doors. He'd always enjoyed being trampled under a nice set of female feet. Especially his face, fingers, chest, and weiner. Something about the sensation of being crushed. He'd even paid an escort an extra $100 once because she'd gotten a little carried away and stomped out 3 of his teeth during a face trampling session. What would it be like to . . have the life crushed out of you . . . by the feet of women who didn't know you were there-- and even if they did, wouldn't care. All those tan, rounded heels, pounding in unison to the beat of the music-- how would it feel to be under several heels at once? All those polished toes, tripping over your body, searching for a foothold, stepping up onto your body to see above the others. Perfect. He realized this was the out he'd been looking for. He wouldn't have to let his family watch him deteriorate with that damned disease. He could get the final and ultimate trampling of his life, and it would look like an accident.
He dropped his keys to the ground. "Ow," the perky blond next to him squealed, not taking her eyes from the stage. Must've hit her foot. The band was into a loud, rhythmic number, and the thousands of women filling the arena were all bouncing up and down in unison. In the mosh pit, around Barry, they all seemed to be leaping a least a couple of feet in the air. Barry's mouth went dry as he contemplated what he was about to do. Could he actually go through with it? He awkardly bent down low, looking as though he were retrieving his keys, then shoved himself out of a ball and spread himself quickly in front of the stage. He sensed some momentary confusion from those around him, but it was gone as quickly as it came. The very moment his head hit the ground, face up, he noticed those feet and legs he'd displaced when he lay down were coming back to find their original leaping space. As though it were a completely natural thing to do, the line of women he'd been blocking a moment ago advanced to the lip of the stage.
OW!!!!!-- fire shot through his body. He wasn't prepared for this. But it was too late. He could feel several sandals stepping up on him, then leaping again with the beat of the music. They were holding onto the stage for support, then leaping along with their friends to the savage sounds of Ranson. With every stomp, Barry felt electrocuted-- intense, indescrible pain. Boom, Boom, Boom, over and over and over. He felt like all his blood was going to squirt out the top of his head. With each collective stomp, his body felt like it was going to burst. He was stealing breaths of air each time the ladies jumped into the air, then having it knocked out when they landed. It was extremely painful. These feet were ruthless. Deadly. As the song ended, the women grew still. Now, instead of jolts of electricity, he realized as they excitedly shifted their weight from foot to foot, that he couldn't breathe. His body's nervous system was in chaos. Thankfully no one was standing on his face, so turning his head to the side, he looked at all those feet around him. It was dark, and suffocating, but they were inches from his face. And as far as he could see. Toes, everywhere. Big toes, little toes, long toes, short toes, some fat, some skinny. Red nail polish, black nail polish. And then all those toes started shuffling toward him. As Sean neared the front right of the stage, ready to belt out the next number, he noticed the tall, burly security guard that had been there a few minutes ago was missing. Even as the thought flashed through his mind, he saw them starting to climb. A few brief snatches of light. From overhead. And then some relief. Someone must have discovered he was down and was trying to help him up, maybe? No. The feet that had just been crushing him were now climbing on the stage. As those feet disappeared, other women moved forward and stepped on him. They were moving. Sean motioned to the other bandmembers to make a hasty retreat stage left. The women were starting to rush the stage. "Where is that damned security guard," Sean wondered. AIIHH!!! NO!! This was stupid, Barry thought. But no turning back now. He hadn't thought about his disappearance causing a breach. Now this endless, slow- moving crowd of painted, screaming women were blissfully trampling him flat as they climbed onstage. All these beautiful, scantily clad feet, some even barefoot, stepping up onto his chest, his groin, his face, moving up and away, while more feet took their place. In spite of the constant jolts of pain through his body, he felt his erection throbbing hard under the constant crush of moving feet. Just as it was about to spew, another foot would crush its head flat, blocking its release. Heavy ladies, light ones, tall ones, short ones-- he couldn't see their faces, but he saw their feet, felt their weight. He knew he was bleeding and bruised and wouldn't last much longer-- he could feel his fingers being ground by foot after foot into the concrete; his legs were numb; his erection had shot itself and was still hard, holding its own this onslaught of beautiful feet; his protective cup was being shoved down and away inside his pants, so he knew his nuts would be the next to go; he was sure he had internal organ damage and at least a few cracked ribs; his face was on fire because of the sandal treads tearing at it each time a lady stepped on him; and he knew he'd lost a tooth or two. He tried to get breaths where he could. When he could. But with all those feet, crushing, climbing, crushing, smashing his body, it was too much. Through all the searing pain came the thought that all these women crushing him underfoot didn't know he was there and didn't care he was there. Hadn't one of them asked herself "What's this I'm stepping on?" If she did, she didn't stop to check. Just as well. Once order had been restored, and the 317 women who'd climbed that 15 foot stretch of stage (with Barry's body occupying the middle 6 feet of it) had been contained by onstage security and ushered off, one of the guards noticed the massive trail of red barefeet and sandal prints originating at the stage's edge, in the center of the breach. Too late. Barry's family had some life insurance money coming. And Barry had gotten the final and ultimate trample.
View Portfolio
Visit Notebook
Send Gift Points
Awards
Badges
Send Email
Community Newsfeed
General Discussion
Sponsored Items
Book of Trinkets
Static Items
Books
Groups
Interactive Stories
Audio
Campfire Creatives
Community Notes
Crossword Puzzles
Documents
Folders
Images
In & Outs
Madlibs
Photo Albums
Polls
Product Reviews
Quizzes
Survey Forms
Web Pages
Word Searches
More by this author
