The marks

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THE MARKS

They cannot see the marks. Or probably they do see them, but they don't pay much attention. Not that it bothers me. It helps me avoid one of those "you don't want to know" situations. But the marks are here. They have been engulfed through time and after all those sessions. Each mark brings back a memory. The memory of a time, a place, a woman. The memory of a shoe which caused this mark. I can see the marks: most of them round and thin, some of them wide, depending on the heel that caused them.. The smaller ones, the thinner the heel that caused them. I can see some that are the size of the head of a nail. Those are my favorites. Marks caused by metal-heel tips that were planted firmly on my chest and belly, or crushed my manhood, as if this was the natural thing to do. These marks are my pride and joy.

I am a trample-addict and foot and shoe-fetishist for as long as I remember myself. I have tried to receive maximum pain and satisfaction under the feet and shoes of numerous women over the years, both in my country and abroad. The feeling remains the same over the years: The feeling of anxiety before each session, the excitement and the slow but painful build-up before the climax. Ever so painful but so relieving at the same time. My favorite part of every session is right at the beginning: It’s the time when the sole of the shoe brushes ever-so-gently on my chest and abdomen, and the tip of the heel prods in the same gentle fashion my genitals. It is the time when the girl (or girls, for that matter) test their footing. The more experienced ones simply try to find the weak points, the delicate parts of my body that can receive maximum pain with the minimum effort. The novice girls, simply try to understand what goes on (“How can someone get off on THAT?”) before they fulfill the needs of another weirdo. They get the hang of it, finally.

People say that as you get older, you become more appreciative of things you didn't like. They are right. I listen to music I didn't like, I see movies that I thought to be stupid, and I like more types of shoes. In the beginning, only spikes would do. It had to be this way. Even before my first time, I only dreamt of stilettos and thigh-high boots. Through time, I came to appreciate all the other different types. From the soft flat sandal, to the knee-high boot with the round heel. I became an admirer of the wonderful sound of the flip-flop, as the young ladies try to find their balance in the beach. I adore the sight of a Dr Scholl's sandal as it clicks against the heel of the lady. I enjoy the sight and sound of those wonderful mules, especially as the woman tries to climb or get off of the bus or the subway. I never came to terms with platforms, but that's another story.

The greatest advantage of being a shoe-fetishist (and the biggest problem) is that you are able to marvel at all those wonderful sights and sounds, all day long, everywhere. The women that pass me by can never imagine what joy and pleasure cause me as I go straight past them, with just a small change of my glimpse, in order to check their footwear. And this is where the torture begins: Suddenly the mind starts recreating all those scenarios, I have created through time. What would it feel like if this woman was to use me as her carpet, her footstool? What if I were to become one of the people of the countless stories I have read over the years, who become a walking passage for all those beautiful, cruel, unforgiving ladies? One of my earliest fantasies involved hundreds of women in Troy, all of them dressed in long white dresses and soft flat leather sandals. I would be a prisoner of war, and my punishment was to be tied to the ground, completely naked, arms and legs outstretched, so that all my body was exposed to their mercies. And all those wonderful girls would simply pass over my body, trampling me, crushing my penis, wiping their sandals all over me. Scores of women, crushing me one by one, so that the torture would last as long as possible, without even thinking for a minute that I deserved anything better. They wouldn't even try to share a look at me, to see the state of my swollen face, my mangled cock and balls, by broken hands. This was my fate and it was the most natural thing to do. (Beat that, Wolfgang Petersen!).

Most people cannot remember how it started, or have simply erased their memory of their very first experience. I remember. It was 1977, I was 3, and the old black-and-white TV, was showing one of those silly old third-grade Greek films. In one of the scenes, the actress was waiting in the harbor for a stranger who was coming with a ship from one of the islands. In order to recognize her in the rendezvous, she was carrying a rose. The guy never showed up, and the scene ends with her throwing the rose to the ground and crushing it under her ugly low-heeled pump (it was the 70's, you know). What intrigued me was that she crushed the flower not by applying any force, but by simply putting her foot over it, as if it was the most natural thing to do. I saw again the movie some years ago, and I kept the scene on video. I don't know if I still have it, but it's still a wonderful memory.

In the next few years, I fed my imagination with the fantasies I created watching my classmates. It was lovely. You had Mary Janes, dress shoes for the celebrations, sandals when the weather got warm, boots for the winter (how I adored those flat-soled thigh-high boots back in the beginning of the 90's!). Some girls even wore high-heeled pumps (most of them white, some of them black), which was considered a minor scandal for our conservative school society, and gave ground to countless rumors. These girls were my goddesses, my idols, and their feet were the shrine I wanted to worship all day long. The fact that I was considered one of the nerds of the school didn't help me approach any girl. I looked from the distance, in silent agony, all those girls as they passed by. I guess it was for the better....

Time passed and the first time I managed to cross the border from fantasy to reality was in September 1995. I can remember everything from this very first session. From the moment the cab took me to downtown Athens, to the minute I got back to the hotel having smoked a pack of cigarettes on the way back in order to cool down the excitement. Sophie (that was her name) was all of my dreams come true in one package. I remember the time I laid my eyes on her. She was taller than me (she had the advantage of her 5' metal-heel black pumps), busty, with long blonde hair, a wonderful face and her smile..... What I really remember was her loving smile. She knew that she had a novice in her hands, to mold as she pleased. Not that she backed up. She worked me over good, first with some soft thigh-high boots, then some 2' sandals with wide heel (those really hurt) and in the end her unforgiving pumps. All that time, through the pain and pleasure all I could see was her gorgeous face, as she looked down at me, and that smile....I still get shivers as I remember her. I tried to find her ever since or at least to recreate this wonderful atmosphere, but in vain. After all, the first time is like nothing else.

I served past of my military service in Athens in the next couple of years. At that time, Athens was paradise. The center was crammed with private houses, brothels and "massage parlors" where you could have all your fantasies turned to reality. The fall of the Iron Curtain had filled the place with gorgeous girls from the Soviet Union and the neighboring states who would do anything for mere 30-50 Euros. After all, it was their chance with guys like me, to relieve some of the aggression they built up while at the hands of the "regular" customers. Some of them thought it was funny (I can imagine them telling to each other in their Slavic accents "how can he like that?"), but once they got the hang of it, they liked it. After all, I was the one to receive the pain.

The rest is simply history. I have served at the feet of hundreds of women, and of the girl I used to be with for a brief period of time. The girl left briefly after I exposed my fetish to her, but I want to believe that there were other differences that led to the break-up. I want to pay my homage to three wonderful ladies in particular.



a. Mistress Joyce in Amsterdam: I met her in the "red-light district" back in 1997 and I spent every weekend of my six-months stay with her. She was simply gorgeous and had the same loving and caring attitude I found in Sophie. This is where I understood and enjoyed the feeling of metal-heel tips against my body. She was my joy and pride, and I couldn't wait for the weekend to arrive. I got back in Amsterdam a couple of years ago, but I didn't find her.

b. Mistress Jasmine in Paris: I had the pleasure of a session with her last November. She is UNBELIEVABLE. She is beautiful and although petite, she can cause great damage with her spikes and boots (metal heel-tips lovers, she is your fantasy). What really intrigued me is that her attitude is one of a spoilt Princess, who really thinks that male servitude is granted and natural. If you are in Paris, visit her at any cost. She also has a Web page.
http://www.maitresse-yasmine.net/accueil/?l=us

c. Mistress Anne in Thessaloniki, Greece: She is my Mistress for the past 7 years, and I adore Her. We have explored all the aspects of trample fetish. She is very open-minded and willing to experiment alone (and with Her friends) in all of the fine points of trample. She has been a true help to me in difficult times and I simply adore Her. The world is not enough for Her.

Well, that's it for now. Hope it wasn't too boring. I want to dedicate this story to all the people who have provided guidance over all these years (starting from Kingfish, Wormee and his wonderful stories and the late Daddo, to AYF, kenrug, Stryder, Waffled... forgive me for all those I miss) and have helped me understand that I am not alone in my fetish. I wish everyone the best. Enjoy life, and live it the way you want. I know I try to.

 

μακαρι να μπορουσα να το διαβασω κ εγω...
νιωθω ενα ειδος ρατσισμου οταν καποιοι δεν γραφουν ελληνικα αν και ειμαστε στην ελλαδα...κ απευθυνονται μονο σε οσουν γνωριζουν
ισως θεωρουν δεδομενο οτι ολοι γνωριζουν αγγλικα

 

εμενα παλι, η σκηνη που εχει σημαδεψει τη σεξουαλικοτητα μου ειναι αυτη της Μπ.Μπαρντο στο φιλμ "και ο θεος επλασε τη γυναικα", στην ακροθαλασσια,που προκαλει και χλευαζει τον αδελφο στην ταινια του Ζ.Λ.Τρεντινιαν(δεν θυμαμαι το ονομα του ηθοποιου) ,πατωντας τον ταυτοχρονα με το υπεροχο γυμνο της ποδι στο κεφαλι!Κι'ενω η αισθηση των γυναικειων πελματων που συνθλιβουν το σωμα μου με στελνει στον παραδεισο,αυτη των παπουτσιων με αφηνει αδιαφορο!(ειναι φυσιολογικο αυτο γιατρε μου?)
Anyhow,χαρηκα που εγινα κοινωνος της ιστοριας ενος "συναδελφου" στις προτιμησεις(πανω κατω...)και πρεπει να ομολογησω οτι ζηλεψα λιγο,καθως οι δικες μου εμπειριες υπολειπονται πολυ του φιλου tramledor

 

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πολυ καλη ιστορια!!!Βαλε και αλλες!