From Anton the author of 'A B&B Weekend' comes another trampling novel. For those of you who enjoyed the last one, you will definitely enjoy this one too.
In the interests of writing more trampling stories, Anton has asked for feedback in the comments section below. If you can, leave a comment with what you liked or what you would love to read more of, and you might see it come up in future stories.
There has been some experimentation with AI to create some images to match the text, if you think you can come up with a better AI image that fits the story we would love to see it - shwtguy@outlook.com.
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Blue Island Trample: From Failed Gourmet Resort to Hot Trample Resort in One Year
The Foyer, June 2024
Goran Juric could hardly contain his excitement in early June 2024. He stood behind the reception desk at his little resort which in the last year he had converted from a failing gastronomic destination into what he hoped was going to be an all-summer trample resort. The floor of the reception area was entirely tiled with—slaves. They lay side-by-side, leaving very small spaces of floor uncovered. These small spaces allowed other slaves this morning to leave the hotel without stepping on any fellow slaves, to walk down the 300-meter path to the ferry terminal to meet Peer, Rick, Thor and Uzi, the four returning tramplers from the previous summer who had given Goran the whole idea of turning the hotel into a trample destination.
As the ferry docked, the Masters were easy to identify: four exceptionally good-looking late-20s guys wearing fashionable shades, T-shirts, shorts and thoughtfully chosen footwear—green suede Timbs on Peer, red Adidas high tops on Rick, black Vapormaxes on Thor and black combat boots on Uzi--identical stainless-steel check-in Rimowas (which the slaves commented are likely full of sneakers and boots) and carry-ons, and big smiles in anticipation of a great time. As soon as they got off the gangplank, the slaves took their luggage. The Masters knew the way from the previous year. As they walked up to the hotel they noted that the Bentley they destroyed the previous year was still there and still wrecked, but the flowers in the front yard they’d trampled had grown again.
Their faces showed delight as the entrance doors of the hotel slid open and they saw the foyer paved with slaves. The slaves, appropriately, were barefoot and shirtless, with just shorts on, some of the shorts doing a bad job of concealing their excitement at seeing the Masters. One after another, the Masters entered, making sure to stomp on as many heads, dicks, and other slave parts as they walked up to the reception desk where Goran greeted them. Goran welcomed them warmly, then said to Rick, the biggest Master, a giant over two meters tall and maybe 120 kg,
“Rick, I think you’re standing on the wrong slave’s head.”
Rick raised his shades and looked down. At the foot of the reception desk, four slaves were lying with each of their heads in U-shaped head supports that kept the slave’s face looking upwards even if a Master stepped on it. Without support, standing on a slave’s face is an unstable position—slave heads turn, throwing the Master off, sometimes even causing mild injury to the Master.
With the head immobilised in a the support, the slave’s head can’t roll so a Master can crush a slave face without the risk of ankle injury. Rick had not been aware that he was standing on a slave’s face—he knew he was standing on a slave by the soft, squishy feeling under the soles of his shoes and by the moaning when he moved his massive weight, but didn’t know, much less care, what part he was standing on. He stepped back off the face onto the slave’s chest to see why Goran said he was standing on the wrong slave. When he took his red Adidas high-tops off the face, he saw the big red letters on the slave’s face: THOR.
“Oh!” said Rick. “Thor, this is your face to step on!” Thor stepped back from the face he was standing on; big red letters on the slave’s face said PEER. The other two masters also stepped off the slave faces onto slave chests to see what was written on the slave faces, and all four of them had to change slave heads. So all four Masters moved from face to face, trampling them all thoroughly, to make sure they stood on the correct face—and thought it was charming and thoughtful of Goran to prepare such a reception. The slaves were not prepared for so much walking around on their faces and moaned loudly. The Masters were very pleased: What other hotel puts a name on a face for you to crush while you check in?
“This is great! Thank you so much, Goran!” said Peer, as his green suede Timbs with Vibram soles ground the face of the slave under him, making the slave moan.
Thor echoed his gratitude. He twisted his black Vapormax to make his slave moan louder as than Peer could make his slave moan with Timbs. He and Peer had a longstanding dispute about whether Vapormax soles could be as effective as Timb soles. Thor worked really hard to crush his slave’s face diligently to elicit the loudest possible moans. Still, the Timbs turned out to be more effective and Peer’s slave moaned louder.
Uzi was in combat boots and just stood still on the face of his slave. He was looking forward to the treads of his boots being reflected in swollen purple tread marks on his slave’s face. Grinding slave faces was so…2023, Uzi thought.
Goran was happy he had pleased the Masters, and said, “just wait until you get down to the beach and take turns running the ATV over all the slaves lying on the sand!”
The Masters, and Goran, all thought back to how marvellously different this was compared with last year…
The Foyer, June 2023
Last year, June 2023, Goran looked over his few bookings and realised he had two big hopes for the summer. One was to have a successful tourist season in his tiny aspirational high-end boutique hotel on a small island in the mid-Adriatic. The other was to get trampled. As the tourist season of the summer of 2023 approached, prospects for both were discouraging. The hotel was so sparsely booked that it was unlikely to be profitable. And who would ever trample him? The small island, never very populated, had lost most of its population. The parents and kids had moved to the mainland because the island was too small to support a school, as well as offering no jobs. The traditional work—subsistence farming, tending the olive groves and herding sheep and goats—and teaching their kids to do the same—was not what people wanted to do in the 21st century. As on many of Croatia’s rapidly depopulating islands, a few older people remained, heavily supported by government subsidies and expensive services such as ferries and air-ambulances.
Goran was 27, graduated in hospitality skills, and had full reign over his family’s abandoned property on the tiny island of Plavi. Not only Goran, but also his grandparents and parents now lived on the Croatian mainland and the property had become an expensive-to-maintain summer house, occasionally an Airbnb. Goran’s ambition was to use his new skills to create an upmarket tourist haven. He had advertised it as a gourmet experience on a jewel of an island with attractive weather, pristine isolated beaches, and gorgeous landscape of white karst with Aleppo pines and agaves. The first season, in 2019, was slow; 2020 was a bust because of lockdowns; in 2021 and 22 the world was recovering but Goran’s business had still been slow. Would it finally take off in 2023?
Among the earliest guests of 2023—arriving early June before the tourist season really got started—had booked all 12 rooms even though there were only a few of them. It was in fact a business booking—some photographers were coming with 4 guys to take pictures of them in sneakers and other footwear, for advertising. They had wanted to use the stunning natural backdrops in their photo shoots.
As he saw them arriving, Goran had to work hard to maintain his composure. The four guys that he assumed would be modelling the shoes were stunning exemplars of early 20s athletic masculine beauty. The shoes they had on were new and beautiful, and Goran was sure their luggage contained many more pairs in which he’d see them pose over the next few days. Goran was a bit surprised to see the four dudes arrive on their own. There were no cars on the little island—the dudes walked the short distance from the dock and had arrived on the 10 am boat.
“The film crew is arriving on the 2 pm boat” said the tallest one.
He said this while looking Goran straight in the eye from above; his perfect face and gorgeous masculine smile almost overwhelmed Goran. Goran was just over 180 cm and he suspected this guy to be 205 or 210. He tried to stay calm and consider what to do with these guys, whose rooms were not yet ready. This early in the season, and with so few bookings, Goran was almost a one-man show in his little hotel. He had some help from a pair of old village ladies who still lived on the island; they always worked together because one was blind and the other, deaf; they mostly did housekeeping during the day and then went home to their houses not far away on the island.
“While the maids get your rooms ready, would you like me to give you a tour of the property?”
He took their passports and learned their names—Peer, Rick, Thor, Uzi—offered them frozen moist facecloths and cold drinks, and then they set out.
Hotel Tour
Behind the main building of the “hotel”—really Goran’s grandparents’ old stone house converted to an 8-bedroom luxury hotel—Goran showed them the “Pavilion”—another house with four bedrooms. They’d be staying there as it’s the nicest place to stay on the property—the best views, the most privacy. A short path led to the beach. Like most Adriatic islands, this one was made of shiny white karst limestone, but unlike most, this one had a small sandy beach on Goran’s property. As the beach came into view, Thor commented that there were people on the beach, but he thought they had bought out the whole hotel. Goran sensed a bit of aggression in Thor’s voice—as if Thor would beat him up if he gave the wrong answer. Or maybe trample him? This was hot as an idea, but highly improbable, Goran thought at the time.
“It’s before checkout time,” answered Goran. “All these guests will be leaving on the same boat that your film crew is coming on.”
They came to the top of the steps that led to the beach and started walking down. Adjacent to the bottom of the stairs, two women stood on the beach in lively conversation. They were in their late 50s. Their appearance betrayed a chronically unheeded call to rein in their dietary intake. Fat bulged out of the bathing suits wherever it was possible to bulge out, and a few places where one would not have thought it possible. One of the women held a plate with some breakfast on it. At one point in the conversation, she felt a need to emphasise a conversational point with both hands, so she put the plate on one of the steps. This happened just as Goran was leading the four guys downstairs; they followed in two pairs. When Goran saw the woman put her plate on the step ahead of them, his fantasy was that the breakfast should meet its doom under the feet of one of these awesome guys. Would they avoid it stepping on it entirely? Would the front guy (Thor) sidestep it, but the guy behind him (Peer) not see it and crush it? This might lead to this bitch having a powerless temper tantrum which would be enjoyable to observe, Goran thought.
It worked out better than Goran had hoped: Thor and Uzi were the front pair, and Thor was on the same side of the stairs as the plate, walking down in new Jordan Retro 6’s. Thor could clearly see the woman’s breakfast and made no effort at all to adjust where he would step. As Thor’s Jordan came down on the eggs and croissant on the plate, the woman turned quickly to try to rescue her breakfast, but she was too late. The eggs were mashed, the French croissant turned to Swedish flatbread, and the plate was in pieces. The woman had grabbed the edge of the plate and now pulled out just a broken piece of porcelain. Bits of mashed egg and croissant detached themselves from the sole of Thor’s Jordans and were smeared on subsequent steps below, as Thor’s beautiful shoes released the food that had been stuck to the sole. The group came onto the beach and Thor casually turned to the woman, shrugged, and said far too casually: “uh, too bad about your breakfast.” The other guys laughed. Goran shrugged as if to say, “I can’t control my guests.” But he had to be careful how he walked to avoid having his boner show too much.
They walked down the beach. Goran spotted a few lounge chairs, not occupied by anyone, but with bath towels on them, and a tote bag next to one of them. Close by, three women were lounging in the water. Goran couldn’t wait to see the back of these guests. These ladies were the most entitled, demanding, annoying guests he’d ever had. They were the type that regularly sent perfectly good food back in the dining room. They interrogated him about the ingredients—one day they were gluten-sensitive, another day it was dairy, some days it was both, but when they saw a cake that contained both dairy and gluten that they really wanted, they were happy to help themselves anyway. It amazed Goran that they were in the water: wouldn’t the hours spent applying make-up in the morning get washed off? Might their nails not get broken, the nail polish chipped?
At this point the four guys were walking four-abreast behind Goran on the beach, Rick on the right of the line. Of the four, he was the biggest—easily 2 meters, easily 120 kg, perhaps more. He was in 6-inch Caterpillar boots, probably size 48 or 49, Goran thought. As Goran pointed out the plant life, the history of the island, and when good times for swimming are, he led them as close as he could to the lounge chairs, in the hope that the tote bag might suffer the same fate as the breakfast. He needn’t have worried: Rick’s giant boot made positive landfall on the bag. Some delightful crunches could be heard. A few things were definitely breaking inside. Rick stayed poised with one boot on the bag, rocked a bit back and forth to crunch and destroy things more thoroughly, and then, almost without breaking his stride, continued walking with the other three. The women in the water heard the crunching and saw Rick in action, and although they started moving out of the water and towards the shore to confront the guys or rescue the tote bag from destruction, the guys were long gone by the time the women made it to dry land.
Goran pointed out a wind-sheltered place on the beach where a concrete ping-pong table stood in the sand. A couple of pimply teenagers were trying to play but had a long way to go before they could sustain a rally. As they walked past, the ball fell into the sand in front of Peer. Of the four big guys, Peer was the smallest giant: barely 190 cm tall and probably around 95 kg, Goran estimated. He was wearing a pair of red Adidas high-top Crazy BYW Hus. The ping-pong ball offered no resistance to being flattened under them, of course. Peer had not visibly made any effort to either crush it or avoid it, but after its demise under his shoe, he bent down and picked up the destroyed ball and threw it back on the ping pong table. “Sorry, guys,” he said, his gorgeous face breaking out in a big smile under his shades.
As they came back to the house, they passed the Pavilion again and then got to the main house. They stopped in the dining room, the room that Goran had spent the most decorating. It was in cool whites and greys with big windows that slid out of the way in good weather. White Calacatta marble on the floor was partially covered by a big Merino wool carpet that looked like a grey sky—mostly white and grey clouds. Peer asked whether it wasn’t risky to have a pale carpet in the dining room. Goran wasn’t sure if this was a Nice carpet, shame if anything happened to it type of comment. “Most things come right out of it with cleaning,” answered Goran. “Only maybe red fruit juice might not. That’s why I would not serve pomegranate or cherries here. But a dark carpet just wouldn’t look good in here,” he said. Rick stored away this potentially useful information: red fruit juice is kryptonite for the carpet.
After lunch, the rooms were ready and the guys came to the reception desk to get their room keys while departing guests checked out. One of the women held the tote bag that Rick’s Cat boots had flattened on the beach. She was barely 145 cm tall and everything she wore had some sort of brand name screaming from it. The make-up and the hair were perfect. When she saw Rick, she started to shriek at him. He looked bemused from a height of 60 cm above her and maybe three times her body mass. Goran wished Rick would just step on her with his big Cats the way he’d crushed the tote. When Rick offered no answer to the shrieking—instead just looking at her distress with a big smile the way one might look at a slowly-dying poisoned rat—she turned on Goran.
“My diamond-encrusted Prada shades were in there in a ‘crush-proof case’!” she screamed. She reached into the crumpled tote and started lifting out the pieces of the case and bits of the shades and putting them on the reception desk. For once she wasn’t exaggerating: the case was flattened; the glasses were demolished; one arm was detached, one was broken half-way along its length; the nasal bridge was broken; both lenses had been pushed out of the frame; one was scratched, the other was broken in two. “These things cost thousands. I’m going to hold you responsible!” she yelled at Goran. Goran asked to see the tote. She shoved it in his face. He looked inside. He pulled out a wooden Buddha.
Her face dropped. “How did that get in there?” she exclaimed. “It must have fallen off the dining room windowsill during dinner.”
He pulled out the plinth on which the Buddha had been displayed. “The plinth jumped in after it?” asked Goran, sarcastically. Caught in her theft, she had to shut up and the argument ended. The obnoxious guests left down the path to the boat dock. The boat came, the film crew got off, the obnoxious women got on, and the film crew walked up the path to Goran’s hotel to check in.
The film crew boss was a lean dude with a goatee in expensive clothing that insecure older guys wear when they no longer feel physically attractive. He didn’t flinch when Goran charged him a €500 indemnity each, for “possible” damage to property. It wasn’t as if Goran had any doubt that damage would result from their visit—he would even encourage it. The boss agreed that the “boys” could sometimes be a bit destructive, but that’s what he needed for the film shoot. The photographs were meant to show the sneakers and boots as powerful, he said, so they needed to show guys as potentially destructive. And in any case, energetic 20-year-old guys can also be inadvertently destructive, he said to Goran, who smiled inwardly having already experienced it. The film crew would stay in the resort only for as long as was needed to get the work done. The “kids” would stay a bit longer just as a reward, to enjoy the property and the advertised haute cuisine.
Figuring it out
The shooting started the same afternoon. When he wasn’t preparing their dinner, Goran watched these amazing specimens of perfect physique put on their red Adidas high-tops and head outside in the direction of the beach. Later, he saw the videos. One of the videos focused first on a bunch of yellow flowers growing out of cracks in a white rock. You hear footsteps, and a big red high-top crushes the flowers. The shoe lifts up and walks off and the flower appears to recover a bit before the next red high-top crushes the flowers more. The third one leaves the flower mostly destroyed, but it rises slightly from lying flat on the rock. After the fourth one, the petals are ripped off and the stem is flat, horizontal, crushed against the rock. The powerful red shoes are shown marching into the distance over beautiful white rocks, blue sky and with the turquoise sea in the distance.
Another day shot the first week showed the antique white Bentley in the driveway. It was not driveable, but Goran had brought it to the island and parked it in front of the house as a decoration. The video showed the guys tromping through the front yard crushing the herbs and some tomato plants, then marching over the Bentley, leaving muddy footprints on the clean white car. From a point of view at front of the roof, the video shows pairs of shoes advancing and denting the roof. (Likely Rick’s, thought Goran.). When the roof doesn’t dent sufficiently, a few full-strength stomps fixes the problem and the roof caves in significantly. From a vantage point in front of the car, a pair of guys slide down the front windshield smearing mud on it, while the other pair of guys step off the roof onto the side mirrors, breaking them off, and jumping onto the ground. In a few seconds, four pairs of powerful high-tops had transformed a beautiful antique white car into a muddy mess, with the mirrors dangling off the sides on their wires.
Other days provided other videos. They all involved awesome looking guys wearing awesome looking shoes or boots and things getting destroyed under them. Goran spent most of his days preparing food for them—the “boys” had amazing appetites and their photographers and other crew were also good at making fine food disappear.
The weather had stayed excellent day after day, and all the photos and videos that had been needed were made. The crew prepared to leave. The “boys” were staying a bit longer just to “enjoy themselves”.
Goran had enjoyed the destruction. He walked around his little hotel noticing the crushed plants, the muddy sneaker footprints, the dented car, and kept getting hard to these things. He saw the guys walking around and fantasized about how great it would be if he could come up with a pretext for getting his body between their soles and the floor.
At the same time, in private, the guys were discussing Goran. They all thought he really needed to be trampled. They all sensed that he’d love it. So, a plan was hatched to see how he’d react to a trial of it.
As they were having lunch the next day, Peer came into the kitchen in his green suede Timberlands, looking for an extra mug. Just at that moment, Goran was fixing the sink, lying on his front on the floor. From this position, Goran turned to face Peer. He first eyed the green Timbs. The pleasant colour belied the aggressive, hard sole; Goran imagined how much destruction could be visited upon anything between the sole and the floor. Goran’s eyes moved upwards to the shapely pale calves with minimal blond body hair; the greenish-blue board shorts, the blue synthetic T-shirt that hung from his well-developed pecs, and above it, the muscular neck, the perfect face, the blue eyes and the platinum hair. At maybe 90 kg and 190 cm he wasn’t exactly tiny, and certainly much bigger than Goran himself, but the three other guys were all bigger. Goran was having a visual feast. Peer interrupted it:
“Where are the mugs?”
“In the cupboard above the sink,” said Goran, pointing straight above him.
Peer hesitated. The mug could not be reached without Peer stepping on Goran, who was lying on his stomach in front of Peer. Goran could sense the hesitation. There were two potential outcomes, Goran thought: the normal outcome, that Peer would say, I can’t reach it, can you move over slightly. And the wished-for outcome, that Peer would just step on his back and get the mug. To Goran’s surprise and delight, he felt the hard, heavy sole of Peer’s Timbs on his back. He heard Peer reach for the mug, then step off him and amble back to the dining room. “Thanks,” said Peer casually as he left the kitchen, as if it were perfectly normal to step on the proprietor’s back to reach a mug.
Goran was super excited. But was this a one-off, or was he getting more? His dick was having a field day. His hands trembled with excitement.
The film crew checked out, and now the only four guests were these guys. At dinner, the same problem recurred with the sink; this time Goran was on his back, looking up at the drain when Rick entered the kitchen. Goran’s dick raised the crotch of his shorts slightly; because he was on his back, Goran worried that Rick would notice. Rick’s eyes met Goran’s. Rick realised he was here to cross the Rubicon. Unlike Peer’s timid approach, there was not going to be any ambiguity or plausible deniability if Rick now stepped on Goran, regardless of the excuse. Is he going to be charged with assault, or were both of them going to have a great time?
Unlike Peer’s face which usually looked happy, Rick’s resting face looked mean. From the floor, the height and weight looked even more impressive. Rick was darker in hair and complexion, and clearly spent time and effort maintaining a robust physique. He was wearing yellow Tns as he entered the kitchen. Goran got lost in thought, pondering what would be worse for a theoretical ant on the floor: to be squashed by Peer’s Timbs or Rick’s Tns? Or for him, Goran, what would be hotter or more painful: to be trampled by Peer’s Timbs or Rick’s Tns? And also, did Peer tell the other guys about Goran’s mild (non)response to getting stepped on? And if Rick wants, say, a plate, which was not in the cupboard above Goran, should Goran nevertheless tell Rick that the plates were in the cupboard above him, just to get Rick to crush him? He could always feign not having heard correctly what Rick was looking for…
But this reverie was very quickly interrupted as Rick said,
“Where are the mugs?”
“Just above me,” pointed Goran.
Without hesitation, Rick stepped on Goran’s chest and opened the cupboard. Goran’s dick went straight up in the air, tenting his shorts, but out of Rick’s sight. Rick stayed on Goran’s chest and started moving the mugs around the shelf, first looking at one, then another, as Goran worked to breathe under his massive weight. After maybe half a minute, Rick asked Goran, slowly—“What do you think, Goran?” As Goran struggled to breathe, Rick asked very casually, “Do you think the blue mugs are better, or the black ones?” He pulled out a blue one and held it in one hand, and black one in the other, while looking straight down at Goran’s reddening face under him. Clearly, Goran thought, this was now a deliberate trampling, not a bashful search for a mug.
“Dunno, you choose.” He was thoroughly enjoying Rick crushing him and hoped it would last forever. Rick was obviously in no hurry to get off either. “I think the black ones are a bit bigger.”
“What do you have on the shelf above?” asked Rick as he started backing up, aware of Goran’s elevated dick right behind him and the need to back up so as to crush it with the full 120 kg he could transmit through his heel. He backed up bit by bit over Goran’s abdomen and stood on tiptoe, as if to see what’s on the higher shelf. Goran knew Rick didn’t care what was on the higher shelf and only wanted to sink his toes deeper into his abdomen. This was so hot, he thought, getting deliberately trampled by the biggest of the four guys under the pretence of checking out his cupboard. Rick wasn’t finished. He was taking his time mashing Goran’s abdomen, knowing he had as much time as he wanted, but the prize moment will be, Rick knew, when he lands his heavy heel on Goran’s dick. He backed up a bit more, twisted his toes in Goran’s abdomen, and then finally honed in for the kill. 120 kg came down on the flagpole dick. Goran winced. Rick smiled. He could actually feel the dick through his shoe and twisted his foot the way one does to make sure a bug is totally dead. “Looks like the shelf is empty,” he said. “Where did you get the T-shirt?”
With his right heel on Goran’s dick and his left foot on the right side of Goran’s pelvis, Rick could see all of Goran’s T-shirt. On it was the word „Fjaka“. "What does that mean?” asked Rick, with a slight grinding motion of his right heel just for the pleasure of watching Goran’s face wince.
The truth is, Fjaka is a kind of Dalmatian state of mind, maybe a zen, not really laziness (the Dalmatians insist) but a disconnectedness from the world, a meditation…a challenge to explain to [hardworking] non-Dalmatians under normal circumstances and especially hard for Goran to explain while Rick used his 120 kg heel to annihilate Goran’s dick. Goran stammered but came up with nothing comprehensible.
“I’m not that keen on things I can’t understand,” indicated Rick. If you can’t explain it, I don’t want you to be wearing it.” His right foot still on Goran’s dick, Rick placed his left heel on Goran’s neck. “One more chance to explain it, or the shirt goes.” With the heel on his neck, Goran had even less of a chance of explaining the concept. Rick’s heel grabbed the shirt’s neckline and pulled downwards. Goran felt the tension of the collar against the back of his neck; then the neckline snapped. Rick’s heel dragged downwards, ripping the shirt down the middle, leaving bright red tread marks on Goran’s sternum and abdomen.
Then he stepped on Goran’s chest again, grabbed a mug, and got off Goran’s chest with a little extra jump just to inflict a last little bit of pain before getting off. He headed towards the dining room with the comment: “Next time, wear shirts I can understand. And make sure tonight’s dinner is outstanding. The next few days might be very challenging for you, but more so if the food is not the best quality and sufficient quantity.”
Goran was thrilled. Even if the hotel business was desultory, it looked likely that his trampling goal was going to be met. He had no idea what was in store, but the summer had suddenly taken a major turn for the better.
The Enslavement
After dinner that evening, Goran was standing at the kitchen counter looking at the food inventory lists. In front of him on the counter, on a plate, was one of the appetizers he’d served for dinner—a mille-feuille with scallops and shrimp, topped with a touch of Béarnaise. He was preparing to snack on it as he contemplated the menu for tomorrow. In equipping his gourmet resort for fancy eating, Goran had bought some fancy china that now stood on the counter. Four earthenware Japanese bowls met their doom first under Thor’s left Vapormax. Then there were three dainty Turkish coffee cups on three saucers, hand-painted and gilt-edged, instantly reduced to rubble under his right Vapormax. The left Vapormax next landed on a stack of Rosenthal dinner plates that didn’t all break, so Thor kicked them off the counter onto the floor. The right Vapormax then landed on a group of Czech crystal shot glasses that didn’t stand a chance. All of this destruction probably took less than two seconds. The next step was onto Goran’s paperwork, right in front of Goran. Then, as Goran watched, Thor’s right foot lowered itself onto the plate with Goran’s mille-feuille delicacy. The pastry vanished from view under the size 13 Vapormax and little bits of crushed shrimp and scallop oozed out from the sides of the soles. As Thor thrust all of his weight on right foot, more food got squished outwards and the plate cracked under the weight. Goran heard the other three guys enter the kitchen behind him. He looked up Thor’s muscular legs, then to his shorts, where Thor’s dick clearly bulged enjoying the destruction and his dominance over Goran. As he looked straight up at Thor, Goran could see Thor’s washboard abs under the edge of his T-shirt. Thor’s handsome face, stern, yet clearly having fun dominating Goran, was way, way above all this.
“Lower your shorts!” Thor commanded Goran.
Goran obeyed. His dick popped out, hard, rising from horizontal.
“Move forward” Thor commanded.
Goran did. His dick hovered right above the counter. Thor lifted his right Vapormax off the mille-feuille and placed it on Goran’s naked dick, squashing it on the counter.
Thor turned to the other guys. “This is more effective than any restraint.” There’s nothing he can do.” Goran had no doubt of that. The vicious soles of the Vapormax clamped his dick to the counter and indeed he could not budge. Thor addressed Goran,
“So for as long as we choose to stay, we’re your only concern?”
“Yes,” Goran said, feeling a lump in his throat, and looking at Thor’s shoe which was crushing his dick, and wondering what would be left of it when it got free.
Thor twisted his foot a bit to make sure he was being effective. Goran yelped.
“Yes, sir!” Goran said.
The shredding stopped.
“Day and night, you will immediately obey our slightest whim?”
More shredding, more yelping.
“Yes, sir!” Goran said.
“We are your Masters, and that’s what you’ll call us, and you’re a worthless piece of slave shit under our feet?”
“Yes, sir!” Goran said.
“OK, then!” Thor said, lifting his foot off Goran’s dick. “Lie on your back!”
Goran stood on his feet for a second, taking stock of his flattened dick with Vapormax tread imprints all over it, holding it gently in his hand. In a flash, Rick towered over him, stepped on his left foot and pushed his shoulders, so that he thudded onto the floor on his front. Rick said,
“I thought I heard Thor tell you to lie on the floor. When we issue an order, we mean for you to carry it out immediately. No standing there and looking at your dick. He told you to lie down!” Rick was still in his Tn’s, one of which was clamping Goran’s left foot to the floor, the other kicked Goran’s hand away from his dick, nicely imprinted with Vapormax tread marks. Thor jumped off the counter, landing on Goran’s chest and moving onto his head. Peer, still wearing his green suede Timbs, jumped onto the counter, walked over to above Goran, and jumped off the counter onto Goran’s chest that had just been cleared by Thor, whose Vapormaxes were now grinding Goran’s ear. Goran yelped in pain and grabbed at Thor’s foot. Uzi, in his red Adidas high-tops, kicked one of Goran’s hands away and stepped on it; Peer stepped on the other one. Meanwhile Rick had gotten off Goran’s foot and was now doing his best to use his Tn’s to re-traumatise Goran’s dick, kicking him in the balls, in the dick, in the upper thighs, or anywhere those abrasive soles happened to land—it really didn’t matter.
“Ok, guys!” Rick spoke. That’s good for now. “We gotta make him last a few days. You can’t finish him off tonight. Bedtime”.
Pavillion torture
With that, they all left to go to the Pavilion, the separate building with a narrow little foyer that led to four bedrooms. The four big beautiful bedrooms shared an elegant large bathroom. The small foyer had six doors: one for each bedroom, one for the bathroom, and one for outside. The Masters had already been staying there while the shooting was happening, but without a slave in the foyer.
Rick said to Goran, “From now on, you’re sleeping here on the floor. That way, any of us heading to each other’s rooms, or to the bathroom, would have the opportunity to trample you anytime during the night that we choose. You’ll also be at hand if we need a snack or a drink from the kitchen”. Goran nodded. The bulge of pleasure in his shorts was easy to see. Rick pointed to the floor. Goran lay down.
As soon as Goran was horizontal, Thor planted his left Vapormax on his chest and shoved his right one in Goran’s face. It still had bits of mille-feuille and seafood stuck to the soles, now mixed with dirt. Thor told Goran to lick them clean and make sure they were pristine before he stopped licking. Goran got started. Vapormaxes can hold a lot of food/dirt, but they’re also easier to lick clean than Timbs, Goran thought. Still, Thor was over 100 kg and he wasn’t getting off his chest until his shoe was clean, so as the minutes continued and his breathing got harder, he licked faster.
The preparations were very busy in the foyer that night. The Masters “needed” to go from their bedrooms to the bathroom multiple times, in different footwear or barefoot, and each time and every movement from any room to any other involved walking through the foyer—crushing Goran with a stomp to the dick and a step on the head and then whatever other body part seemed like a good idea to crush. The Masters also visited one another in each other’s room, crushing Goran every time. There was still a lot of footwear their handlers had not taken with them, so at one point they all put on football cleats to go visit one another in their rooms, tarrying in the foyer and talking to each other there to allow the cleats to sink into Goran’s body. It occurred to one of them that Goran would be an excellent mat to lie in front of the washbasins while they brushed their teeth. The cleats allowed them to brush their teeth and spit out on him without the risk of slipping off his body. Always thinking of safety (for themselves), they were. At the end of all this torture, Goran was dragged back into the foyer.
Peer wondered whether it would be possible for the four of them to apply all their 450 kg or so to Goran’s trunk—that is, between his neck and the top of his pelvis. They were barefoot at this point. They all jumped on Goran but amid all the laughing and abuse, they realized that what made it difficult was not the size of their feet but the size of their bodies. The narrowness of the foyer, however, made it possible for each of them to stand, bracing against the walls of the foyer, with their feet sideways on Goran, two facing one way and two the other. This got all the feet and all their weight on the slave. Breathing was completely impossible under 450 or so kg so they got off after a short time, but there was a round of high fives at the accomplishment.
The next morning, as each guy got up and trampled Goran on the way to the bathroom, they realized that he’d make a great toilet mat. He was made to lie on his back in front of the toilet. Each Master would stand on his chest to piss in the toilet, but the spray and the splash would end up on Goran’s body. No matter, he got to lie on the shower floor and get trampled by each of them as the soapy water ran off their bodies and onto him. Then they sent him to the kitchen to prepare breakfast for them. Meanwhile they relaxed by the pool and discussed the day’s trampling strategies. The resort still had a number of expensive, fine things to destroy; the discussion was about what to attack next. It had been fun to dent the shit out of the Bentley and rip off its mirrors, trample the garden and reduce the fancy china to rubble, but maybe today they should attack the super-expensive pale-grey Cashmere carpet in the dining room that Goran liked so much?
Redecorating the Dining Room
In their initial tour of the place, Goran had remarked that the carpet had been specially commissioned for the dining room. He pointed out that some fruit stains might be permanent, so he’d never serve pomegranate or cherries in the dining room. Yet there was a bowl of pomegranates on a table in the front hall of the hotel, the Masters noticed. A plan was formed.
Although breakfast was normally served on the patio, the Masters insisted on eating it in the dining room this morning. Uzi had come to breakfast in camo pants and combat boots (“despite the absence of a threat of imminent hostilities, a very hot getup” Goran thought). He spread some peanut butter and jam on a piece of toast then “accidentally” dropped it on the carpet, where of course it landed jam down. Goran bent down to pick it up, half knowing that this was a ruse—and indeed, Uzi’s boot landed on his head. Uzi stood up, right boot on Goran’s chest, left kicked Goran a few times in the chest, and then stepped on the toast which Goran had failed to pick up and ground the peanut butter into the carpet. Then he sat down and and commanded Goran, “get off the floor and pour me another coffee.”
After everyone had a coffee refill, Rick commanded Goran to show them how he did planks. Goran complied and got on his feet and elbows, horizontally, holding that position as long as he could. Peer, Rick and Thor were in different coloured Airmaxes. After about 30 seconds, Peer stepped on Goran’s shoulders, then Uzi, then Thor, crushing Goran to the ground. Rick had brought the pomegranates from the front hall and put the bowl onto the table in the dining room.
The Masters told Goran to do this again—show them a plank. But this time, they placed a pomegranate under his chest. Goran objected. He thought they had forgotten what he told them about indelible fruit stains on his priceless custom carpet—despite all the destruction so far, he somehow hadn’t expected them to try to deliberately destroy the carpet. He now realized that was the plan.
“I know where this is headed, but can you not put something else under me, like an apple, that’s not going to ruin the carpet and still give you Masters the fun?”
“How would that motivate you to stay off the ground?” smiled Uzi malevolently.
So the pomegranate went under Goran, he formed the plank, and once again, Peer got on him, stepping on his shoulders; then Thor, right behind Peer, and then Uzi on his lower back, while Rick crouched down and encouraged Goran to stay off the pomegranate…
“Keep it up, dude, just think how much damage you’ll do if you collapse on it—you’ll crush it, all that bright red juice will leak out onto the carpet and it will be ruined, you’ll never be able to get the stain out…stay up, be strong…”
Rick was crouching with his face opposite Goran’s. Goran’s face was red, sweat streamed down it, he was breathing hard through pursed lips, holding up on his back three Masters, two of them over 100 kg. Rick was loving it. The outcome was assured; the power imbalance guaranteed that, no matter how much he resisted, Goran would get crushed, and the pomegranate would leak into the carpet. It was maximal effort by Goran vs. effortlessness by Peer, Thor and Uzi; all they had to do was stand there and wait for Goran’s arms to fail.
After a couple of minutes with more than 300 kg on his back, his arms shaking wildly, Goran collapsed to the ground. He could feel his chest crush the pomegranate under him. Peer, Thor and Uzi stayed on his back for at least a minute longer to make sure the fruit was fully crushed and all the indelible red juice had soaked into the priceless grey carpet. Then they got off with big smiles on their faces. Then they started kicking Goran to get him to roll over, so everyone could see the big red stain.
That was only the beginning. They forced Goran to move over to another spot on the carpet, plank again, and put another pomegranate under him.
“Hey Goran, to be fair to you, we’ll just get two Masters to crush you instead of three this time!”. So Rick and Thor stood on him, but he still failed faster than the first time.
Goran had resisted the first few pomegranates. He held the planks for as long as he could and felt huge anxiety when he could no longer hold them. Maybe he could arrange furniture to hide the stains, later? Maybe he could cut the stains out and replace them without destroying the carpet? But as number of crushed pomegranates mounted and his body got tired, he gave up ever faster. At that point, the Masters told him to move the furniture off the carpet—that they’d be right back. They were going to the Pavilion to change footwear. Goran was still grieving over the stains to his prized carpet, lying on it, enjoying the embrace of its plush softness when he heard the clickety-clack of four pairs of football cleats on the stone floor outside. The sound made his dick bulge.
The Masters announced that it was time to play a game of “step over Goran”. Two Masters would play at a time: They would stand in the middle of the carpet facing each other and holding each other’s shoulders, while Goran lay on his front between them in the middle of the carpet. At the word “go” from Goran, each Master would try to step over onto the other side of Goran and keep his opponent from doing so.
The first two to play were Uzi and Thor, who were almost evenly matched by size and strength. When Goran said “go”, each of them pushed hard against the other. The cleats dug into the carpet and started ripping it. There was the sound—terrifying to Goran, satisfying to the Masters—of ripping warp and weft. The rips in the carpet reduced their ability to push, so they moved their cleats moved to another spot, which also ripped, but in the meantime an advantage was gained. After a short time, Uzi had pushed Thor enough that he managed to step on Goran’s back. Now the advantage was significant, since Goran’s back was less prone to ripping than the carpet was, and the grip was better. Not only that, but Goran wailed in pain as cleats ripped his skin, music to the Masters’ ears. Rick and Peer, watching from their side, rubbed the front of their shorts with pleasure. However, Goran was sweaty, and Thor managed to push back on Uzi, with Uzi’s cleats leaving deep red marks in the skin on Goran’s back as he tried to hold his position on Goran’s back against Thor’s stronger pushing.
Uzi had to step backwards off Goran and now Thor could step onto Goran from the other side. Thor’s cleats were a bit wider—the marks on Goran’s back were wider but not as deep. Ultimately, Uzi had ripped so much of his side of the carpet that he had no grip on the floor; Thor overwhelmed him, stepped off the opposite side of Goran and thus Thor won the first round.
Now it was Rick’s and Peer’s turn. They made Goran move to an intact area of the carpet. But here there was no contest, given how much bigger Rick was than Peer. Rick allowed Peer to get up on top of Goran’s ripped-up back, just so Peer could have the fun off sinking his cleats into Goran’s flesh, but then he easily pushed Peer off the side he’d come from and got on top of Goran himself, sinking his cleats with his 120 kg into Goran’s back as Goran wailed—he would have wailed anyway, but now his skin was already ripped up by all the other Masters’ cleats, he wailed louder.
Although they were going to do a third round—Thor vs. Rick—Goran’s back was oozing blood on the carpet and he looked like he wasn’t going to withstand another round. So instead, they commented on how effective they had been in the first two rounds.
Uzi said, “Rick, I think you made this one. It’s nice and deep.”
“Thanks, Uzi. Yeah, I got these great new screw-in cleats. It really pays to buy quality. But yours aren’t bad. Look—I think these three deep ones are from your cleats.” He pointed to three oozing scrapes on the side of Goran’s body.
“I know, this is when I slid down. I think Goran didn’t like the slide.”
Peer said, “he didn’t seem to mind when I slid down. Maybe my cleats are too dull.”
Thor examined Peer’s cleats and said— “I think the cleats are OK; it’s you who are the problem, you’re too light.”
“I’m still over 100 kg.” responded Peer.
To Goran they said:
“Why don’t you clean yourself up—look at you—bits of wool sticking to your bloody back.”
“Maybe you can put a fresh shirt over your sorry back!”
“This carpet wasn’t so strong after all—look at it.”
“I don’t know how you’ll get all these stains out, Goran, or repair the rips. I think this carpet’s history! It wasn’t such good quality as you thought. I hope you didn’t pay too much for it? You might as well just pitch it, no?”
It wasn’t visible in all this mess but in addition to the oozing blood and dripping sweat, Goran had cum in his pants. He welcomed the opportunity to clean himself up. With difficulty, he lifted his sorry carcass off the floor and limped away to the shower.
The guys looked at each other. High fives all around. The area of the dining room where the carpet had been looked like a war zone, with shreds of carpet stained red with juice and blood. Goran’s sweat and blood were also smeared on the white stone floor underneath. The four of them clicked-clacked with their cleats back to the pavilion, dumped the cleats and then proceeded barefoot to the beach. It was a lovely sunny day, they’d had some good exercise destroying a slave and his things, and now it was time to relax.
Sharing the Pain
Eventually, Goran showed up on the beach in a red T-shirt and black shorts to ask for drinks orders. The reason for the red shirt was obvious. The Masters made Goran remove it to admire their work. Some abraded areas were still oozing a bit. Massive streaks made by cleats were visible on regular and bruised skin. Peer said,
Goran, you look pretty beaten up. Are you sure you can take more of this? What about if you shared some of it: like, do you have any friends who want to get trampled?
Goran took the drinks orders, went to the house and came back with the drinks. Uzi tried as well,
“Look Goran, we just want to be nice. Usually it’s better to have a better ratio of slaves to Masters. Despite our remarkable restraint, look at yourself—you’re oozing blood everywhere, you’re swollen and bruised all over. And your place—everywhere you look there’s been some destruction, and we’ve only been here a few days. We can see how damaged you look after just a little cleated trample this morning. (Um, yes, and getting trampled multiple times in the foyer last night and in the bathroom this morning, it is true). We know how much it will hurt if we go at you soon again, four of us on just you. But if you had a friend or two, some of that action could be distributed a bit better and you’d make it through our visit in better shape. Wouldn’t that be nice?”
In fact, Goran did have a friend that would probably want a trample, and it would be hard to imagine a better opportunity—four awesome-looking mean guys with a bunch of great ideas about how to do this and obvious trampling experience. He made the call. The friend—Zdravko—lived on the mainland and would need a while to get there—maybe not until the following day. But it seemed like these four dudes were OK to give Goran a break until then. Or so he thought.
The Beach and the ATV
The next day was perfect beach weather again. The Masters ordered Goran to sweep the beach to prepare it for them, and to take a cooler of beer to the beach. He was still sore from the previous morning’s cleats-attack, but he’d managed to clean up the mess in the dining room and was now moving a bit more easily.
Sandy beaches are rare in the Adriatic, but Plavi was blessed with one. It was surrounded by some cliffs and very private. Goran’s family had a massive old Russian Sokol ATV that he used to pull a rake attachment to clean the sand of seaweed, large shells and garbage like plastic bags that occasionally washed up on the beach. Goran was always the driver, but he certainly fantasized about what it would be like if someone else ran him over with this thing. The great thing about the Sokol was that it had enormous, low-pressure tires like a Sherp, and not small, high-pressure ones like a regular ATV.
The Masters arrived just as Goran was finishing cleaning the beach with the ATV. They hadn’t noticed the Sokol earlier but now when Uzi looked at it, he totally saw its “potential”.
Goran had set up the volleyball net on the beach as well. Peer and Thor got one side by a coin toss, which they felt was not right, since Rick and Uzi were better volleyball players.
“You guys need a handicap,” Peer said. “How ‘bout you put Goran on your side?”
Rick smiled. “Great idea.” Turning to Goran, he told him to lie on his back in the middle of the court.
It actually turned out to be a mediocre idea. Goran lay on his back in the middle of the court and Rick and Uzi naturally jumped on him a few times during the game. But the need to pay attention to where Goran was, not to trip on him but still to play well, was too much of a handicap. Goran got trampled—and although it was nothing compared to the previous morning, he was super sore and his friend had not yet arrived. In any case, the game wasn’t so much fun, Rick and Uzi lost badly because they were too focused on trampling Goran and not on the game. The game ended quickly.
The guys decided to go for a swim instead. Goran suggested he could go prepare lunch. He was sore and bruised and really needed some time out from the constant punishment.
The Masters looked at each other…what was better: letting Goran prepare lunch or keeping him around to get crushed again? The answer was obvious—he could make lunch after getting crushed again.
But first, they wanted to go in the water. They were hot after the game and the water sparkled invitingly.
“How do we make sure Goran stays here while we’re in the water?” asked Peer.
“There’s always a solution to everything,” said Uzi. “Goran, lie on your back in the sand!”
Goran did as he was told.
Uzi climbed into the ATV and started the engine. The massive Sokol had four large low-pressure balloon-type tires with deep, aggressive treads. The engine roared, the vehicle started to move slowly towards Goran. Goran was lying in the sand such that his head was closest to where the Sokol was coming from. Uzi sat comfortably atop the ATV, wearing reflective shades, looking at Goran’s body on the sand below and in front of him. Goran’s utter vulnerability excited Uzi. He could feel his heart pound and his dick bulge. He smiled broadly. He would make this delicious moment last by rolling slowly towards Goran.
Goran extended his neck and looked back at Uzi’s handsome face, above and behind him, driving the Sokol. He could see the huge front left balloon tire slowly approaching, grinding the sand. If it kept going straight, it would just miss his head and crush his right shoulder. This was very hot. He knew the Sokol’s curb weight was about 1000 kg, so about 250 kg/tire, but the tires were so huge and low-pressure that the weight was distributed over a large area and ?probably wouldn’t kill a guy if they ran over him. He had often fantasised about someone running him over with his Sokol, and now it might happen. His dick was sticking up in his shorts. The giant tire rolled forward. Uzi’s white teeth showed a big smile. The tire came close, then rolled slowly past the right side of his head without touching it, just as he thought it might. He could hear the treads churn up the sand, the little shells in the sand crack under the weight. He could smell the hot rubber. Then the treads caught the skin of his right shoulder and started to roll down the side of his right arm, crushing the side of his arm into the sand.
Goran’s powerlessness turned both Goran and Uzi on. Goran was almost ready to cum. He couldn’t resist touching his dick, and since his right arm was getting rolled over and crushed by the Sokol, he started moving his left hand towards his boner. Uzi was now looking straight down from his seat at Goran’s arm getting mauled by the front left tire. He saw Goran’s dick, which was tenting his shorts, and he saw Goran move his left hand towards it. This was the moment. Uzi smiled broadly. “Perfect timing!” he thought. He stomped on the gas. The massive tire jumped up on Goran’s pelvis, crushing his left hand and his dick at the same time. Perfect, thought Uzi. He cut the engine, pulled the parking brake, and smiled.
This was so excellent, thought Uzi. Not only was the Sokol parked on Goran’s dick, but it was also crushing his left hand. And not only that: Goran’s body was now lying alongside the Sokol, and Goran’s head was now conveniently exactly in front of the running board of the machine. As Uzi got off the Sokol, there was no convenient way to avoid stepping on Goran’s head—not that he had any intention of trying to avoid it. It was perfectly positioned: Uzi’s left foot stepped on the running board and his right heel then landed direct on Goran’s cheekbone on the sand below.
The other Masters were impressed. Time for a celebration. They each grabbed a beer from the cooler that Goran had brought earlier; then each of them stepped on Goran’s face to get into the Sokol. Goran could feel the weight on him increasing. With the Sokol empty, maybe 250 kg—a quarter of the beast—was crushing him. But as each Master first crushed his face and then added his weight to the machine, the pressure on him went up by at least another 100 kg, as the four Masters together might have weighed 450 kg.
The Sokol did not actually have that much room for all four of them to sit, so Peer, who got on last, sat on the floor of the Sokol and dangled his feet in Goran’s face, kicking sand in it, poking his toes into Goran’s nostrils and mouth, occasionally spitting some of his beer onto Goran. Nothing Goran could do about it: his right arm was under the Sokol’s chassis, and his left hand was still pinned against his pelvis and his dick by the massive tire. He couldn’t wipe his face from the sand, the spittle, or the beer.
As they finished their first beer, all the Masters got out of the Sokol, happily crushing Goran’s face as each of them alighted, to get a second beer, and then crushed Goran’s face again to get back in.
Then they noticed a guy walking down the steps to the beach.
Zdravko
“Have you guys seen Goran?” said the guy.
At this point, the Masters had climbed back into the Sokol with their beers and Peer was sitting on the step of the Sokol with his feet covering Goran’s face. With the Sokol’s big tire parked on Goran’s pelvis and Goran’s face covered by Peer’s feet, it was not surprising that Zdravko did not notice that Goran was right there. Peer momentarily lifted his feet off Goran’s face.
Zdravko looked at Goran, pelvis and left hand crushed by the massive Sokol tire, face bruised from all the time the Masters had stepped on it to get in and out of the Sokol. He was speechless, but his face betrayed his envy of Goran’s situation.
He took a couple of steps in Peer’s direction and stretched out his hand.
“Hi! I’m Zdravko.”
“Crumple zone” said Uzi quietly to the other Masters. They were still sitting on the Sokol.
Peer put his feet back on Goran’s face, stood up, crushing it again, then stepped off his face, stepped forward, and grabbed Zoran’s outstretched hand as the other three guys all jumped off the Sokol onto Goran’s face and then took steps forward and surrounded Zdravko.
Uzi stood immediately behind Zdravko with Rick and Thor on either side. Zdravko was not only boxed in, he was also 15-20 cm shorter than Peer, the shortest of the Masters. Peer’s knee came up into Zdravko’s crotch, crushing his balls. Zdravko’s knees buckled. Uzi put both hands on Zdravko’s shoulders and pushed him down into the ground. Zdravko’s crumpled body on the ground was against 8 strong shins of the four masters, who now started trampling him without allowing him to spread out on the ground. The masters held onto each other for balance as Zdravko lay in a crumpled mass getting mashed under their feet. Eventually they allowed him to stretch out so they could stand on him—Rick on his head, Thor and Uzi on his trunk, and Peer on his dick, grinding it with his heel into Zdravko’s pelvis.
Rick got off Zdravko’s head so they could see each other and spoke:
“Zdravko, you got invited because you’re a slave. Right, Zdravko?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Zdravko: do slaves offer to shake Masters’ hands?”
“No sir.”
“If a slave wants to greet a Master, what might be appropriate?”
“Fall down at the Master’s feet and kiss them, sir.”
Rick said to the others,
“OK, guys, get off him so he can do it.”
They got off. Zdravko crawled on hands and knees to each of their 8 feet and kissed them as the other Masters took the opportunity to kick sand in his face.
It was time to release Goran from under the huge tire so he could make lunch. Uzi got on the Sokol, stepping on Goran’s face as he did so, revved up the Sokol’s noisy engine and backed the Sokol up off Goran’s dick, left hand and pelvis. As the massive tire came off his body, it was fun to see the imprints of the treads deep in Goran’s skin. Goran shook out his hand, stroked his dick, and struggled a bit to get up.
As Goran arose from being flattened and Zdravko spat the sand from the Masters’ feet out of his mouth, Rick yelled: “Hey slaves!” It’s lunchtime. Get busy!”
Licking Masters’ shoes properly: a controlled trial
Lunch was to be served on the patio. The Masters had been barefoot on the beach, but now that they had two slaves, Rick wanted to do some experiments with them, so he asked the other masters to put on their boots, whichever ones they preferred but to be able to kick and stomp effectively while protecting their toes. Peer put on his green suede Timbs, so Uzi followed with the indigo-coloured ones and Thor wore bright red ones. Rick wore white high cut AF1s that still had plenty of dirt on them from trampling some flowers. They all wondered what the experiment would be.
“A motivational experiment,” said Rick.
The patio table was a round glass top on a metal frame. It was covered with a white linen tablecloth and beautifully set when they got there. Zdravko and Goran showed up with the appetizer, some beautifully arranged ceviche on little plates. Rick said,
“You guys don’t both need to serve us. Goran was previously doing a fine job without Zdravko and I’m sure Zdravko can do that too. So, one of you can continue serving the meal, while the other one crawls under the table so we can do a little experiment. Later, we’ll switch slaves.”
There were smiles all around at this command. Goran and Zdravko said some things to each other in Croatian, then Goran crawled under the table. Rick gave the instructions:
“The experimental outcome will be how clean my shoes are. Goran can lick one, then Zdravko will lick the other. You guys will use your boots to motivate them. Goran will be doing it with the tablecloth on the table, so you can’t see what part of the slave’s body you’re impacting. Then when Zdravko gets under the table, we’ll remove the tablecloth so you can see exactly where to kick him, and he’ll lick my other shoe. And then we’ll check out my shoes, to see which motivational technique works better: kicking the slave blindly, or kicking him in a way that you can see what you’re doing. Goran—lick my left shoe clean, as clean as you can get it. And you guys can get started with the motivation.”
Peer lifted his fork and gently lifted a pale pink piece of fish off his plate. The sun reflected off his wine glass as Uzi poured him some Istarska Malvazija—an outstanding local white wine. The pink fish was beautiful, dangling off the fork. At the same time, under the table, Peer lifted his green Timb and let fly straight ahead of him. “Oww!” came from somewhere under the table. Uzi poured some wine also in Rick’s, Thor’s and his own glass, and as he did, gave three rapid kicks under the table with a nice thud from each one, and another Oww after the third one. Rick could feel the licking and told Goran to lick harder—the dirt was sticky. As well, to make sure that the sole was pristine, too. He told the Masters not to let up with the motivation, and they obliged. At one point the kicks were coming thick and fast from all three sides. Once in a while, instead of a dull soft thud at the end of a kick, it was a hard endpoint and louder Oww. Likely boot vs. head, the Masters thought. That’s why wearing the boots for this experiment was such a good idea: kicking the slave’s head without sturdy footwear might hurt the Masters’ toes.
Eventually the ceviche all got eaten and Zdravko came to collect the plates and set out the main course. But in between courses it was time for an evaluation. The Masters got up; Rick looked at his left shoe, which was clean(er), and his right, which was still full of caked-on dirt. Goran crawled out from under the table. There were some nice bruises in a variety of places; also some scrapes where the edge of the Timbs soles—the treads—rubbed against his body forcefully and ripped away some skin. There was a big purple swelling over his left cheekbone where one of the Timbs had probably landed a direct hit. Because of the tablecloth, though, no one could tell for sure.
Rick said to the other 3 Masters, “ok so we couldn’t call my left shoe exactly pristine—so your motivational efforts could be improved on. Now you’ll be able to see exactly what you’re kicking, so hopefully the right shoe will be cleaner.”
As Zdravko now crawled under the table, Goran removed the tablecloth and laid out the main course. Uzi landed the first kick, to Zdravko’s left shoulder. Big Ow. Zdravko started using his tongue on Rick’s right AF1. It was a big shoe and required lots of licking. Zdravko started on the front and side over the great toe. The grit he was licking bothered him in the mouth. Thor sat opposite Uzi, took a bite out of a lamb chop and kicked Zdravko’s right shoulder, while Peer, after disappearing a forkful of mashed potatoes, kicked him in the ass and stomped on his feet which stretched out behind him under Peer’s chair. Zdravko was on hands and knees—just as Goran probably had been—but the Masters had a clear view of this, and Uzi could clearly see Goran’s hand on the ground under his chair. So Uzi started stomping on Goran’s left hand with the edge of his heel. That hurt—Zdravko lifted up his hand and momentarily stopped licking. “Keep licking!” urged Peer and landed a few nice kicks on Zdravko’s ass before going back to the lamb chop he was about to bite into. Zdravko instead used his left hand to hold the heel of Rick’s shoe to guide it into his mouth for easier licking. Thor lifted his boot up and put the back of it on the back of Zdravko’s neck, pushing his head down into Rick’s shoe.
When the lamb chops were done, Zdravko came out to collect the plates, and Rick again got up to examine his shoe. He compared the two. Opinions varied. Neither shoe was perfect.
Rick was not happy with his shoes not being pristine. The other Masters felt the right shoe was cleaner because they could motivate the slave better when they could see what they were kicking. Rick, however, felt that both slaves needed some punishment, and of course the other Masters agreed wholeheartedly. Rick suggested “ping pong punishment”.
Beach Ping Pong
Rick felt it was time to finally make use of the ping pong table on the beach. The six of them, all barefoot, walked down to the beach and the two slaves were made to dig their own “shallow graves” on either end of the ping pong table, at approximately the distance from the table where a player would stand. The “graves” were maybe 20-25 cm deep, just deep enough that when a slave lay in the grave on his back, the top of his abdomen, chest and face would be level with the rest of the beach. Thus the masters would not be tripping over the bodies of the slaves while they played.
Rick and Uzi on one side; Thor and Peer on the other; one slave on each side, buried in such a way that their face was straight upwards so he could breathe. As well, a Master can’t normally step on a slave’s face easily because the head tends to roll, but when buried in sand and buttressed by sand on both sides, the head tends to stay put and a Master’s foot can crush a slave’s face without fearing that the slave’s head will turn. There are times that Masters falling off a slave’s face when the slave’s head turns have injured themselves slightly.
The Masters tried to focus on the ping pong game, but it was more fun to be aware of the sensation in the soles of their feet, with any jump or step, what part of a slave’s body was being crushed. At one point, Thor felt a crunch and knew he’d stepped on Goran’s nose. It bled a bit, but luckily the sand absorbed the blood. Rick eventually succeeded in placing his broad forefoot over both the mouth and nose of the slave and stood there as the slave fruitlessly tried to shake him off and tried to lift him off with his hands. Rick totally ignored this, but eventually the need to hit a ball made it necessary to get his foot off the slave’s airways.
The ping pong continued until the slave’s faces were swollen and bruised, their chests sore, their dicks repeatedly stomped on.
The Sad Good-bye
Later that evening, the four Masters came into the kitchen as the slaves cleaned up the dinner. All four Masters were in Caterpillar boots. Rick pointed the slaves to the floor, and both slaves obediently lay down on their backs on the kitchen floor. Rick got on Goran’s chest. The other three stood on whatever parts of Goran or Zdravko were handy and stood there without moving.
Rick said to Goran,
“Unfortunately we have to leave in the morning”. Goran tried to say something, but with Rick massive weight on his chest and Uzi on his abdomen, he was struggling to breathe let alone actually speak. Rick said quietly to Uzi,
“Can you fucking get off his abdomen? Stand on his dick! He doesn’t need to breathe with his dick.”
Uzi moved his Cats onto Goran’s pelvis, taking care to place the heel of one of his Cats on the bulge in Goran’s shorts and twisting it. Goran winced, but at least he could speak. His face was still swollen from the ping pong game.
“That’s too bad. It was nice having you guys here.”
Rick lifted his right foot, leaving all his weight on his left. With the toes of his right boot, he started gently kicking Goran’s chest, trying to land some kicks on Goran’s nipple, just for the pleasure of watching him wince when he scored a direct hit.
“We were thinking, though…”
Rick explained to Goran that it really wasn’t necessary, from their POV, that the hotel be empty when they were there. It’s just that you can’t mix the trampling crowd with the non-trampling crowd. However, surely there were enough people into trampling in Europe that Goran might be able to make his resort into a trampling destination. The four of them would be happy to return and help trample anyone they found on the ground, and indeed, share the work of trampling with other Masters if others came.
“Nothing would please us more, for example, than walking into the foyer, and instead of seeing the marble tiles, seeing wall-to-wall slaves lying on the floor,” Rick continued. It would be so great not to even have to look where you’re stepping with your boot, but just to feel the give of soft flesh under those hard soles…
“It would also take some of the pressure off you, and Zdravko, if he’s here. Look at you guys. There’s no part of your body that doesn’t have boot marks, tread imprints, little round bruises from soccer cleats, scrapes from us kicking you when you were under the table, a swollen nose from my heel when we were playing ping pong. It is indeed a great privilege for you guys to have all these marks all over you, but you should bring in other slaves to share it, and it would do wonders for the profitability of your resort, huh?”
With this, Rick used the edge of his boot sole to rub Goran’s chest painfully up and down in order to elicit agreement.
But Goran didn’t need pain to agree. This was a great idea, and when the Masters left the next morning, after another energetic “good-bye” trampling of the two slaves, Goran got busy re-imagining his resort as a trample destination for 2024.
The Return, June 2024
And so, early June 2024, Goran could hardly contain his excitement. He stood behind the reception desk at his little resort which now had more space to accommodate the slaves and tramplers he had attracted. The marble tiles on the floor of the reception area were entirely covered—with slaves. They lay side-by-side, leaving very small spaces of floor uncovered. These small spaces allowed other slaves to walk across the area without stepping on any fellow slaves, to walk down the 300 meter path to the ferry terminal to meet Peer, Rick, Thor and Uzi.
As the ferry docked, the Masters were easy to identify: four exceptionally good-looking late-20s guys with thoughtfully chosen footwear, identical stainless-steel check-in Rimowas (which the slaves commented are likely full of sneakers and boots) and carry-ons, and big smiles in anticipation of a great time. As soon as they got off the gangplank, the slaves took their luggage. As they walked up to the hotel the Masters noted that the Bentley they destroyed the previous year were still there and still wrecked, but the flowers in the front yard they’d trampled had grown again.
Their faces showed delight as the entrance doors of the hotel slid open and they saw the foyer paved with slaves, just as they had wished. As they entered one after the other and walked through the small slave-paved foyer towards the reception counter where Goran greeted them, they made sure to stomp on as many heads, dicks, and other slave parts. Goran welcomed them warmly, then said to Rick,
“Rick, I think you’re standing on the wrong slave head.”
Rick was still wearing shades, so he took them off and looked down. At the foot of the reception desk, four slaves were lying with each of their heads in a wooden crate packed with a cushion so that the slave couldn’t turn his head to the side. Rick had not been aware that he was standing on a slave’s face—he knew he was standing on a slave but didn’t really care what part he was standing on. He stepped back off the face onto the same slave’s chest to see why Goran said he was standing on the wrong slave. When he took his red Adidas high-tops off the face, he saw the big red letters on the slave’s face: THOR.
“Oh!” said Rick. “Thor, this is your face to step on!” Thor got off the face he was standing on, revealing the letters PEER. He motioned to Peer and pointed to the face. So all four Masters moved from face to face to make sure they stood on the correct face and trampled the other faces as much as possible as they moved. They thought it was charming and thoughtful of Goran to prepare such a reception. What other hotel puts a name on a face for you to crush while you check in?
“This is great! Thank you so much, Goran!” said Peer, as his green suede Timbs with Vibram soles ground the face of the slave under him, making the slave moan. The moaning was a bit familiar, so Peer stepped back on the slave’s chest to see the face that was moaning, but didn’t recognize him. It was Zdravko, who specially asked Goran if his face could be Peer’s welcome mat. Zdravko found Peer very hot and wanted to be under those green Timbs again. Peer didn’t really give a shit whose face he was demolishing with the Timbs. He stepped back onto Zdravko’s face and made sure the front points of his heels dug deep into Zdravko’s cheeks. Zdravko moaned even louder. Peer enjoyed the sound. He twisted his heels on Zdravko’s cheekbones to produce even more of the sound he loved so much.
Thor was also thrilled to be able to demolish a slave’s face while checking in. He was in his Vapormax and wanted to compete with Peer. (The two had occasionally had arguments about whether Timbs or Vapormax were more effective at causing slaves pain). Thor tried to make his slave moan louder than Peer’s as he ripped his face with Vapormaxes. Peer, not to be outdone, ground his slave’s face harder with his Timbs. Ultimately Thor had to concede defeat—Peer was more effective at making his slave moan and the resulting swelling, bruising and bleeding of the two faces definitely favoured Peer as the winner. Uzi watched the competition in combat boots and just stood still. His combat boots could easily have defeated both the Timbs and the Vapormax, Uzi felt, but grinding slave faces was so…2023.
Goran was happy he had pleased the Masters, and said, “just wait until you get down to the beach and take turns running the ATV over all the slaves lying on the sand!”
Slave Crush on the Beach
After the check in, on command from Goran, the slaves picked themselves up off the floor and walked out the back. Each slave was to lie on his back on one of the steps leading to the beach. Goran and the four Masters stayed in the reception area as the Masters walked behind the desk and towered over Goran.
“Goran, you may be running the show now, but you still need to get trampled before any of the fun stuff you have lined up for us,” said Thor.
“Crumple zone!” said Peer.
Goran remembered this trick from when it happened to Zdravko last year.
Uzi stood immediately behind Goran with Rick and Thor on either side. Goran was not only boxed in, he was also 15-20 cm shorter than Peer, the shortest of the Masters. Peer’s knee came up into Goran’s crotch, crushing his balls. Goran’s knees buckled. Uzi put both hands on Goran’s shoulders and pushed him down into the ground. Goran’s crumpled body on the ground was against 8 strong shins of the four masters, who now started trampling him without allowing him to spread out on the ground. The masters held onto each other for balance as Goran lay in a crumpled mass getting mashed under their feet. Eventually they allowed him to stretch out so they could stand on him—Rick on his head, Thor and Uzi on his trunk, and Peer on his dick, grinding it with his heel into his pelvis. Goran vainly reached for Rick’s foot that was crushing his face. Rick kicked his hand away and Uzi stepped on it with the heel of his combat boot and pinned it against the marble floor, grinding it at first to get a good position. Peer kept grinding his heel into Goran’s dick. Goran felt himself cum under Peer’s heel.
Having thus appropriately greeted Goran, the Masters walked out the back, over the terrace and were about to start down the steps to the beach. Thor remembered with pleasure how the previous year when he walked down the same stairs, he crushed the fat woman’s breakfast on a plate. But as the Masters reached the stairs, they noticed that each one of them had a slave lying on his back on each step, so as they walked down, the two Masters on the right stepped on a different slave’s head on each step, and on the left, a different slave’s dick. It so happened that the slave lying on the third step was Zdravko. Like all the others, he first felt Thor’s Vapormax land on his head and Uzi’s combat boot heel land on his dick. As soon as those were off, Zdravko’s head would feel Peer’s Timbs land on it, while Rick’s 120 kg landed on the dick in the high tops.
Goran, having run back to his room and changed, now ran down the steps, down the edge, without stepping on any slave. From the beach, Rick saw Goran running down the steps. Then he saw, at the top of the steps, a bunch of young guys, wearing face shields, all black clothing and combat boots, also started coming down the steps. Unlike the Masters, who took trouble to step on heads and dicks, and Goran, who took pains to avoid them, these guys jumped down the stairs without any regard to the slaves lying on them. Some of them clearly enjoyed stomping on the slaves’ heads or dicks, while others sunk their heels into the slaves’ abdomens or tried to step on their necks right under their chins, mostly just marking up the chins. The slaves wailed under the assault. For Zdravko, it was a hail heavy combat boot heels landing on different parts of his body. His head felt far worse after this than after Peer’s Timbs and Thor’s Vapormax.
“What’s happening, who are these guys?” Rick asked Goran when he arrived on the beach.
“It’s what you suggested last summer. Advertise the place as a trample resort. People had to specify if they wanted to be slaves or tramplers. But since you guys are Master tramplers, the actual position I was advertising for was “slave guards”—guys who like to trample but who would make sure slaves were behaving themselves, and would take orders from you, the Masters.”
“How come they all look about the same?” Rick asked. And indeed, they were all about 190-195 cm, about 100 kg, all identically dressed.
“I had lots of applications, so I had my pick. There’s three guys from the police college, two firemen, two from the medical school, one construction worker and two philosophy students. But yeah, I didn’t want any small ones, fat ones, or old ones; they all needed to be sufficiently imposing physically that the slaves would find them both exciting and intimidating.
“What’s with the face shields?”
“All of them have a number, 1-10, that you can see. But both the slaves and the tramplers are local, and the tramplers didn’t want to go back to their small towns or villages and face possible rumours or retribution. So if one of them wilfully assaults a slave, the slave will know his number and I will know his identity, but otherwise the guards won’t be identifiable by the slaves. Besides, it’s hotter for the slaves not to know whose combat boots are crushing them or see the guy’s face.”
Once the Masters were on the beach, all the slaves from the foyer and the steps ran down and sat on the beach, waiting for directions from Goran. But now that Rick was here, the directions were from Rick. The guards, 10 of them, despite having admirable physique themselves, stood about in awe of Rick’s physique and the air of authority.
“Listen up, you little miserable pieces of shit!” Rick politely addressed the slaves. His head turned to a slave that was still chatting with the slave next to him. He looked at Uzi, who walked over to the chatting slave, placed his right combat boot on the slave’s sternum, pushed him over, and stepped with both feet on his chest. Then he took his right boot again and with his forefoot, stepped on the slave’s mouth and nose and said, “Shhhhh! The Master is speaking!” He continued standing on the slave and grinding his nose with his boot and beckoned to the guards, who eagerly came to help. “Just stand on him—his mouth so he can’t make a sound and the rest of him so he can’t breathe too much—so Rick can finish”. The guards jumped on top of the slave with enthusiasm and followed Uzi’s directions exactly. The slave disappeared under an onslaught of combat boots. Uzi walked back towards Rick and the other Masters, giving a few slaves who were sitting on the sand, random kicks with his boots as he walked.
Rick continued. “When I finish, you slaves are going to lie down along the beach, side by side, shoulder to shoulder, on your back. As you can see, the monster ATV over there with the giant tires is a great tool for crushing all of you efficiently. All four of us will be on it to add to its weight and also to observe from above your reaction to getting crushed. We don’t want to see any weakness on your part! If you get dramatic, we will park the beast on you until you stop the drama. This will be unfortunate not only for the slave who’s being dramatic, but also for your slave colleague who is unfortunate to be under the other wheel, who will also have to put up with a long crush through no fault of his own.
“As well, the guards, the guys who are destroying your fellow slave under their feet right now for his disrespect to me, have instructions to keep you losers in line. They will observe you little shits before the ATV runs you over, and if you start moving instead of lying still on the sand, they have instructions to stop you. Our main concern is our safety and comfort, just like the flight attendants on a plane. If you change position before the Sokol runs you over, you could make the ride bumpier for us Masters who will be sitting on top of the Sokol to contribute some weight to your crushing, so the job of the guards is to enforce your staying still before the Sokol runs you over. Also, once you’ve been run over, if any of you looks too rosy, too fresh after getting run over, they have instructions to fix that. They’re still learning, so you will have to excuse any youthful exuberance they might show in carrying out their tasks. Now go, you little twerps, get into formation!”
Zdravko rose and put himself as the first slave in the line to get crushed. Everyone else lay down next to him to his left, shoulder-to shoulder. The guards got off the slave they were crushing. He took some deep gasps for air, then peeled himself off the sand and joined the other slaves to lie in the line forming on the beach. The four Masters got on the Sokol and turned it on. It roared menacingly into action. They started rolling towards the first slave.
Uzi drove the Sokol, as Rick sat on top over the front left wheel and Thor over the left back wheel. Peer sat on the seat behind Uzi. The slaves were lying side by side on their backs on the beach but with space in between. The Sokol’s wheelbase was broad enough that if the left wheels ran over the slaves’ pelvises, the slaves’ feet would be midway under to ATV and would not reach to the right wheels or get run over.
The first slave in the row, Zdravko, had seen the Sokol from a distance (and the previous year) but had not anticipated how massive it was when it was about to run over him. He had put himself in the front of the row because he was the only slave that had actually seen the Sokol parked on someone—Goran—and saw that Goran was unharmed afterwards. However, as the monster approached, he wasn’t so sure any more. The closer it got, the more he could smell the hot black rubber, smell the exhaust, and hear the powerful engine. All of a sudden, he brought his knees up and raised his head, as if he was going to make a run for it, and almost as quickly, he saw a couple of guards ran over to him. Their combat boots thumped along the sand and in a second, one of the boots slammed down on his head. The slave next to Zdravko saw this big black-clad dude running in his boots, face hidden by shield, boot treads kicking up sand as he went, lots of sand landing on Zdravko’s face just before the boot slammed into it. The guard stood on one foot on the side of Zdravko’s head to make sure it wasn’t going to come up off the sand again. The other guard jumped on Zdravko’s torso. Zdravko’s knees were bent, so the guard kicked one thigh hard to get Zdravko to straighten out his legs. Zdravko felt the dull pain of his thigh muscles getting kicked and the huge pressure from the boot on his head. His face was turned in the direction of the Sokol, which was getting ever closer. Just before it reached him, the guard that was on his torso jumped off, but the guard standing on his head stayed there, as he wasn’t in the way of the Sokol’s wheel.
Soon the huge black tire bumped against the side of his pelvis, climbed up the side of his hip and crushed his erection. The weight was enormous—like 3-4 massive tramplers crushing him at once. He could see the Rick’s face leaning over the left side of the machine, directly above him, looking as if to confirm that he was getting adequately crushed. The giant machine continued its path off his left hip, onto the sand and onto the next slave. From his right, the massive rear tire mounted his pelvis and crushed his dick all over again, then drove off his left side. The guard that had been standing on his head now got off with a twist of his boot treads to make sure he felt the pain.
Zdravko turned his head to look at the back of the Sokol—the big monster that kept on crushing other guys as it got further. But there was minimal time to look at the receding Sokol bumping over other slaves, since other guards started trampling him haphazardly as they followed the Sokol. The boots crushed his face, his neck, his chest, his abdomen; one guy (whom he could not see since another guy stood on his face) stuck his foot in his crotch and tried to find his balls to crush. There was much laughter and energy from the guards who probably never had a chance to energetically trample a willing victim. Then they moved on to torture the next few slaves in line.
On top of the Sokol, Rick and Thor watched the faces for unnecessary drama. The first few slaves took the crushing by the Sokol silently, but then the 7th or 8th in line started to wail—even before the front wheel drove onto him. Uzi stepped on the gas slightly, drove the front wheel onto him, and stopped. The slave wailed louder, started punching the ground with his fists in frustration. Peer jumped off the machine, put his boot on the slave’s face and shouted:
“Shut the fuck up!” Peer lifted his other boot in the air to give the slave the benefit of his whole weight. The weight of the Sokol on the slave’s dick and pelvis was much greater, but also much better distributed. The sole of Peer’s boot on the slave’s face hurt more. Peer also made sure that the front points of his heel dug into the slave’s stupid face. Then he got off the slave’s face and placed the side of each boot sole against the slave’s ears, then yelled:
“That machine is going nowhere until you shut up. Will you shut up?”
The slave continued to wail. Peer shouted to Uzi,
“Try steering!”
Uzi slowly started turning the steering wheel, which moved the front tire on the slave’s pelvis while the machine was parked on it. That ripped the slave’s skin which increased the volume of the wailing. Then Uzi stopped “steering” and the wailing died down. Peer motioned to a couple of the guards to come over and stand on the slave so he could get back in the machine. They were glad to make themselves useful—one obligingly got on the slave’s face and another one on his chest. Peer was worried that once the front wheel machine drove off his pelvis, the slave might move and the back wheel would run over him in a way that might injure him. The main point of the guards for this exercise was to keep the slaves that got squirrelly from moving and getting injured by the Sokol. Peer always considered the safety of the slaves—such a kind person.
The machine moved on, the back wheel ran over the dramatic slave, but now with his face under the boots of the guards, no one heard the wailing any more.
Thus ended the initial demonstration to the slaves the power of the Masters. Rick thundered at all the slaves,
“OK, you sad little worthless excuses for humanity, this is just a taste of the fun you’re in for this summer. Now line the stairs so we can go upstairs and unpack.”
The slaves lay back on the steps so the Masters and the guards could have something to trample on the way back to the terrace.
Conclusion
It would be a fun summer for the Masters, the guards, and the slaves. There would be dinners with slaves lining the floor of the dining room and guards standing in a row—standing on guard on top of the slaves. When not being crushed underfoot, slaves would be ridden by the Masters like donkeys. The guards would provide appropriate encouragement to slaves with their boots and whips to make sure all the needs of the Masters were being met by the slaves, regardless of the slaves’ level of pain or fatigue, which was definitely not the problem of the Masters or the Guards. Slaves in the bathroom would serve as bath mats, and slaves in the shower would keep the feet of the masters and guards from having to stand on the hard stone floor. Slaves would be fed whatever remained on the plates of the Masters and guards, after it was thrown on the floor and crushed under the guards’ boots.
And it was quite a turnaround for the financial outlook for Goran’s hotel—no longer a failing gastronomic experience but a highly successful trample destination. But the details of how this second summer of wild trampling went, you will have to read Part II.
*****
This is beyond hot… there are about 3 or 4 of my deep rooted trample fantasies in this story! Thank you for publishing.