Chapter 16: Trampling Domination
He stood over her, a silhouette against the grimy window light. She was a still life beneath him, a canvas of violet and rose, her breath a controlled, steady rise and fall. The arch of her feet, planted firm on the carpet, was her only anchor. His own bare feet felt cold on the dusty floor.
“Just walk,” she said, her voice a low thread. “I won’t break.”
He placed his right foot on her lower belly, just above the line of her shorts. The contact was electric. Her skin was warm, resilient. He put maybe ten percent of his weight onto it. Her abdominal muscles tightened instantly, a hard plate forming under his sole. Her breath hitched, then evened out.
“That’s nothing,” she laughed, though the sound was strained. “Come on, you fat fuck. Give me your weight.”
The obscenity, coming from her beautiful, bruised mouth, sent a jolt through him. He shifted more of himself forward. The sole of his foot molded to the curve of her torso. He felt the firm ridge of her hip bone under his arch. Her stomach compressed under his weight. A soft grunt escaped her lips.
“Good,” she breathed, her eyes closed. “That’s better.”
He lifted his left foot, brought it down to straddle her, planting it on the carpet beside her ribs. He was standing over her now, one foot on her, one foot on the ground, like some absurd, predatory stork. His cock, already half-hard from before, thickened painfully against his jeans.
He took a step. The foot on her slid upward, over the bruised plain of her midsection. His toes brushed the underside of her breast. He put his left foot down on her lower stomach, beside the other. For a second, both feet were on her, all eighty-three kilograms of him supported by the tense, yielding wall of her abdomen.
Eva’s face contorted. Her neck tendons stood out. A sharp, guttural exhale punched its way out of her. “Fuck yes,” she hissed. “Finally.”
He was doing it. He was really standing on her. The fantasy was pavement under his feet, warm and living. He took another clumsy step, his foot landing higher, on her belly. Her body jolted. He froze.
“Don’t stop,” she gasped. “Walk. I can take it. Walk on me, sweety.”
He walked. It was a graceless, shuffling gait. His feet found her thighs, the firm meat of them. They found her stomach again, sinking deep into the softness until he felt the rigid resistance of her core. He avoided her ribs, her breasts, her face. Each step was a negotiation between his desire and his fear, his lust and his awe. His erection was a relentless ache, trapped in denim.
He looked down. Her eyes were open now, glassy with a pain that veered into rapture. Her lips were parted. Sweat beaded on her forehead.
“Touch yourself,” she commanded, her voice raspy from the pressure on her diaphragm. “I want to see you get off on this. On flattening me.”
He fumbled with his jeans, the button, the zip. He shoved them down past his hips. His cock sprang free, fully hard, angry red and dripping. He wrapped his fist around it. The warmth, the silken friction against his palm, was absurdly good. He began to stroke, slowly at first, his gaze locked on the sight of his own feet planted on her body.
“Harder,” she moaned. “Step harder. Make me feel it tomorrow.”
He increased the pressure. As his foot came down on the swollen, tender expanse of her belly, he squeezed his own shaft. A grunt escaped him, echoed by her choked cry. The room stank of sweat and dust and the charged, metallic scent of his own arousal. He was a god, a brute, a trembling boy, all at once.
He stopped walking, settling with both feet on her abdomen, his weight centered. He sank down into a crouch, his knees wide, his balance precarious. The full focus of his mass pressed down on one singular point. Eva’s back arched off the floor, a silent scream etched on her face. Her hands clawed at the carpet.
Freeing his other hand, he reached forward. He grabbed one of her breasts, roughly, through the thin fabric of her top. He kneaded it, pinched the nipple hard. She whimpered, a sound of pure, shattered pleasure.
Her own hand snaked up from the floor, trembling with the strain of holding his weight. It found his thigh, gripped it, then traveled inward. Her fingers, slick with her own sweat, closed around his cock where his own hand was stroking. She took over.
Her grip was fierce, desperate. She jerked him with a frantic rhythm that matched her ragged breathing. “Come on,” she spat, each word a struggle against the weight crushing her lungs. “Come on, you fucking… crusher… come on my… stomach… mark it…”
The vulgarity, the sheer filth of it, the feel of her hand working him while his feet pressed the life from her core—it was too much. The coil in his groin snapped.
With a roar that startled even him, he came. Thick, hot pulses of cum shot out, streaking across her bruised skin, painting white stripes over the purple and yellow. He kept pumping, emptying himself onto the canvas of her pain. As the last shudder racked him, he lost his balance.
He toppled sideways, his feet slipping off her. He landed heavily on the carpet beside her, his jeans around his ankles, his body spent.
For a long minute, there was only the sound of two people gasping for air. Then Eva began to cough, a deep, wet sound that racked her whole frame. She curled onto her side, facing him, her arms wrapped around her middle.
Slowly, a smile spread across her tear-streaked face. She looked at the mess glistening on her stomach. She dragged a finger through it, lifted it to her mouth, and sucked it clean.
“Good boy,” she whispered, her voice wrecked. “Now you know how it feels.” She winced as she tried to sit up, then gave up, lying back down. “Help me to the couch. And get a towel. You made a fucking mess.”
He moved, his limbs weak, his mind blissfully hollow. The fantasy was no longer a fantasy. It was a stain on the carpet and a look in her triumphant, pained eyes. And he knew, with a certainty that settled deep in his bones, that it was only the beginning.