Ocean Liner

I have received another great trampling story from Anton, who also wrote 'A B&B Weekend', 'Train Trample' and 'Blue Island Trample'. He would love to hear any feedback you have in comments to help him write further stories in future.

Before you get started, a note from the Anton on the images:

This represents my first attempt at illustrating a story using AI.  The AI I have access to is programmed to avoid creating scenes of power imbalance and violence—yet I am trying to get it to illustrate a trampling story at whose core is power imbalance and an appearance of violence.  So the reader still has to use some imagination:  Every time Tank (the Master here) is supposed to be crushing the slave, the Master is shown, but the reader’s imagination still has to supply the slave underfoot. In addition, the AI creates each image independently of all the others, so the two characters unfortunately look a bit different from one illustration to the next.

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1. A Tank runs over my travel plans

In my search for tramplers, I’ve experienced some good ones and some that definitely did not deserve a second try.  However, a couple of months ago, I was first trampled by a guy called Greg, whom I nicknamed Tank. I’m 35 and consider myself a pretty resilient slave. I’m around 170 cm and 68 kg and have managed tramples by guys even over 100 kg and over 2 meters.  But Tank was considerably bigger than those.  He wouldn’t give me any of his personal details, saying it should all be about how crushed I feel under him—and, with a smirk, if I don’t feel crushed enough, “I can certainly provide more.” He looks to be about 28 and is athletic, hot and merciless.  He towers over me.  When I stand near him, my head is below his shoulder level.  He has to lower his head to go through doorways.  In elevators he often has to crouch a bit. His weight is also not anything he would discuss.  115?  125?  Really hard to tell. Since, later on, I would have to pack his footwear, that’s at least one number about him I knew: US size 14.  Under those feet, anything and anyone would have to fight for its survival.

The first time he trampled me it was so severe and so thorough that I was still sore two weeks later when he started goading me into getting under his soles again. Even the goading was hot.  “I think you’re too weak to be my slave.”  “OK, since you’re such a wuss, I won’t use cleats this time.”  “What kinda slave are you, when a bit of bleeding and bruising takes you so long to recover from?”  “Timbs and Cats have soft rubber soles, it’s not like they’re steel”.

In the end, he knew how to get me under his boots, and I submitted every time despite the pain, the bruising, and the skin marks. This has continued for a couple of months; since I’ve known Tank, the trample marks and pain have never resolved completely; I work in pain, I relax in pain, I play pickleball in pain, and before the pain and bruising are even half way gone, he goads me into visiting him again and he crushes me again and teases me because I’m now so much more sensitive than when he started.  

Tank lives in a gorgeous penthouse on the Upper West and his extensive shoe collection takes up a whole room.  He also has his own gym in the penthouse. It includes a set of parallel bars which are as if designed to torture slaves.  His favourite trample gear is camo and combat boots, Cats, or Timbs. The parallel bars allow him to raise himself high and then drop, landing with his boots on different parts of me.  If he’s standing or walking, the parallel bars keep him balanced, allowing him to apply all of his massive weight to me.  And the two supports at each end of the parallel bars could be used to tie my ankles to, to keep my balls exposed, but so far he has not tied me to them because I’ve been compliant with staying in that position without being tied up.  He’s let me know, though, that he’ll do it if required:  he does not want to repeatedly go to the effort of kicking my legs apart when he feels like crushing my balls.

To get to his condo in the first place, I would take a private elevator that opens in his penthouse.  He’d be ready to go, lounging on an armchair in the gym.  He would make a hand gesture, pointing at me with a finger moving downwards, meaning “strip”.  I would leave all my stuff and clothes in a little pile, being sure not to bring breakables in my backpack because he would often trample the pile.  I would lie on the floor between the two parallel bars, with my ankles on the outside of the supports, as he had first commanded, leaving my balls easy to see and crush.  He would mount the bars, and the torture would begin.

On the most recent occasion, he balanced his whole weight on my head, then answered a call on his phone.  He continued to stand on my head as the caller talked.  My head felt like it would split so I started knocking on his ankle through his boot.  He managed deftly to pin my hand under his boot, between his heel and my skull, and continued listening.  He then made a few brief comments which I didn’t hear well (one ear was crushed against the carpet and the other covered by my hand crushed by his boot.). He put the phone in his pocket and finally got off my head and marched down my body.

He turned around, slid the front of his boot down my groin, pinning my balls on the floor and looked at the pained expression on my face with a smile.  Then he jumped up on the parallel bars, did a few flips, and jumped off, straight on my abdomen.  He repeated this a few times, dropping his massive weight also on my chest, and on my pelvis, being sure to land a heel on my dick. 

When he was done with the trample, Tank sprawls on a comfy armchair, mentioning how tired from all the walking and crushing.  I peel myself off the floor, run to the kitchen to get him some fizz, and then fall on my hands and knees in front of his armchair so he could crash his size 14 boots on my back to serve him as an ottoman and kick me in the ribs while sipping his drink.    So as usual, from the moment I got out of his elevator to the point that I bring the drink and get on the floor as his footrest, there was no talking—only moaning on my part and hand gestures as commands on his.  And the occasional breakthrough of a look of pleasure when he made me moan particularly loudly.

It was a good position for him. I was as usual on all fours with his boots on my back, dying of thirst as I watched him sip a long drink as he chatted with me.   If he wanted to emphasise a point, he could slam a boot down onto my back.  If he didn’t like what I said, he could kick me in the side and knock me over.  If I was talking and he wanted me to shut up, he could shove a boot in my mouth.  Or he could use his boots to flip me on my back, stomp on my face and leave his boot there so there was no way I could talk.

On this occasion, we found that we both planned to go to London soon.  I was attending a conference.  He, as usual, was vague about why he was going.  I asked what flight he was on.  He told me he was taking a ship.  The Queen is an ocean liner that shuttles between NYC and London.  I had never heard of it but the idea of going to London by ship instead of flying intrigued me. He would share his suite with me because it “would be better to have a slave on the floor than just a carpet.”

It sounded hot, but as it was, I could barely manage his trampling every couple of weeks.  I wasn’t sure if I could last through such an assault multiple times a day.  I guess that sounded whiny. He said:

“You’re so weak that every time I trample you, it takes you a couple of weeks to recover.”  The word “recover” was said with a supercilious tone, eyeroll, and a circling of his right index finger in the air as if there were no validity at all to my claim that I needed recovery time.  Yet the fact remains that given his aggressive attitude, his massive body, and his preference for all kinds of boots over sneakers, it takes a week or two not be in agony every time I move. 

He could tell what I was thinking.  Staring me straight in the face with his steely grey eyes, he said,

“Your concept of your life is all wrong.  You imagine your life as if its purpose is your research, your conferences, your pathetic dating scene.  And you think your body should normally be unhurt, unbruised.  So coming here and leaving in pain and with bruises is the unusual thing in your life.  This thinking is completely backwards. The purpose of your life is to get crushed by my boots.  Your normal state is to be in pain with marks on your body.  If you’re not in pain and have no marks, that’s abnormal.”  

He lowered his voice and focused his eyes.  “I own you.  The marks on your body and your pain are the signs of my ownership. That’s what it means to be my slave.  You should celebrate the fact that you finally found a Master to punish you properly.  My magnificent body and my boots will make sure the pain and the marks will always be present on your body, to remind you every minute, every time you move, every time you take a breath who your Master is, who your body belongs to.  Do you understand me?” He crashed his right boot on my back to emphasise the importance of what he had just said.  “Yes sir”, I agreed meekly.

 “When you’re come on the ship with me, you will for sure get trampled multiple times a day, as you should be.  You might not be in any shape to attend your “conference” (more eye rolling, as if slaves are just puffing themselves up to think they should be going to a conference).  In fact, you might be lucky just to survive, you worthless piece of soft flooring material.”

I took a bit of time to think about this.  Was it hot?  Yes.  Was it ever!  And I did not actually believe Tank was as unhinged as he made himself sound.  But what if I got injured on the boat?  At least on land there’s an emergency department.  And what do I know about Tank, other than that he’s a great-looking, very mean Master who’s sufficiently bigger and more athletic than me to completely overwhelm me physically?  What if he goes too far with the trampling but then chooses to destroy the evidence by throwing me overboard as we stand by the railing one night with our after-dinner drinks?  No one would ever find me after a nearby shark ate my bruised body, or whatever. I’d only known him a couple of months.  Do I dare do this?

These thoughts went around and around in my head, but ultimately it was an offer too good to refuse.  I accepted the invitation.  Or was it really just a command?  Was there ever a chance that I would decline?

2. Embarkation

I showed up at his penthouse on the day of embarkation.  He ordered a limo to take us to the Pier 92 on the East River, where the QM2 was docked.  He muttered something about how in the future they would move the ship’s dock to Brooklyn (more eye rolling).  Of course he was booked into the first class, so-called “Queen’s Grill”, so our luggage had the appropriate tags on it.  When the limo let us off, the driver put our bags on the curb and drove away.  I picked up my bag, a medium-sized duffel, and thought Tank would pick his up, but he just looked at me.  

He looked at the bag, a full-size aluminium Rimowa.  And he looked at me.  I got the message—the slave carries the luggage.  Even though the Master is massive tall tower of muscle, and the slave is way smaller and weaker, I had to pick up the Rimowa to take it to check in.  It was heavy, but it had good wheels, so I started pulling it.

“Don’t roll it.  Pick it up,” Tank ordered.

I already knew that asking “why” would get me no answer, just a lot of pain. Tank could probably lift it with two fingers. I was barely able to pick the damn thing up—it was as if filled with rocks—and struggled with in for about 100 meters, sweating and putting it down a few times, until we got to the point where the QM2 personnel took all our luggage off our hands. Two hefty guys struggled to put it on a cart.  Tank had enjoyed watching me struggle. He would later punish me for being weak. My luggage was much more modest.  Tank had told me that from his POV, I needed a jacket and tie to sit in the restaurant, a few pairs of shorts “because some might get ripped” and at least 30 white T-shirts for the week.  I already knew those would not survive.  And I knew why they had to be white:  Tank doesn’t even consider something to be a proper trample if there’s no blood on the shirt, and blood is easiest to see on white ones.

Because the luggage tag showed the class of travel, we were shepherded past the waiting multitudes through the boarding process and onto the ship.  Before long we were in our suite.  Amazingly, the luggage was already there:  Tank’s awesome, huge metal Rimowa and my little duffel bag.  We were in the most luxurious class of suites on board, allowing for lots of floor space and a big balcony.  A bowl of fruit on the coffee table stood next to a bucket of ice in which a bottle of champagne was chilling.

3. Unpacking in our suite

Tank took the bed nearer the window and opened his huge Rimowa on the other bed.

The big metal suitcase was filled among other things with shoes, boots, some clothes and what looked like a padded black vest.  “Unpack my suitcase into the closet!” he commanded.

I went into the closet to check it out.   He showed up with a pair of sneakers in each hand, wearing his padded black vest, his Timberlands on his feet.  He pointed me to the floor.  He was standing in the doorway.  I lay down face up, head at the far end of the closet.  He made a turning motion with his hand, grim-faced and silent.  This was not looking good.  I turned my body around, with my face also in the doorway, right next to his right boot.  He stepped over my head onto my sternum with those Timbs—actually, just the right one.  He’s stood on my chest before—it’s the easiest place to tolerate his massive weight—but now it felt a lot heavier.  I grunted.  He placed his 2 pairs of sneakers on the shelf in the closet.  Then, still with his heel on my sternum, he lifted up his toes, leaving just the back of his heel pressing against my chest, and pivoted 180º.  I winced.  I saw the fleeting smile of pleasure on his face as he saw me wincing.  

From his full height, his grey eyes and chiselled face looked down on me.  He pointed to his vest: “20 extra kg.  Every time you misbehave”. (Oh, I realised, a weighted vest for workouts).  He stepped off me, went to the bed, got more shoes from his case and returned, stepped over my head onto my chest.  He had trampled me before, in NYC, with his full weight—I knew what it felt like to have him suddenly step on you.  But 20 kg more that he got by putting the vest on added much more of a crush feeling than I would have thought.  Also when the trampler is super heavy and wearing highly abrasive soles like the Timbs, pivots on his heel, as Tank kept doing, rips far more skin off than either less weight or less abrasive sneaker soles, like say basketball shoes.  He had chosen the perfect ruse to rip my skin off my chest.  Each time he returned with two more pairs of footwear, he had to crush me, stash the shoes, pivot on my chest to rip my skin off, and then return with more.  This continued over and over, until my skin was rubbed raw and I was oozing a bit of blood and fluid into my shirt.  He could see the stain. “I shouldn’t have had to unpack myself,” he commented.  “And you need to grow tougher skin.  Maybe the layer that grows now will be a bit more resilient.” 

He took a cushion, came back to the closet, did another painful 180 on my raw sternum to face me, then stood on me with his left foot, towered over me with his eyes looking at mine and shoved his right foot between the door jamb and my face. I tried to get my left face out of the way of his descending boot but given that he was crushing me with his left foot full weight on my sternum, I could not budge my body, only move my head.  So his boot still forcefully scraped my face as it forced its way between my head and the door jamb.

He then pulled his foot back out and jammed the cushion between my face and the door jamb.  With his right foot now on my sternum, he put his left boot on the floor next to the right side of my face and jammed my head towards the cushion, putting a ton of pressure on my head with the side of his boot, shoving my head into the cushion.  With my right face I could feel the warm leather of the boot and could smell the tanned leather.  He now had my head wedged firmly between his boot and the door:  I could not budge my head at all.  And then, he put his right foot straight on my face and pressed down.  His heel was on my mouth, his front wide part of the tread was over my eyes, and my nose was in the little space between his heel and the forefoot.  With his boot over my eyes, I couldn’t see him, and with my left ear in the cushion and the right ear crushed by the side of his boot, hearing was harder.  However, this is the moment he chose to give the general instructions for the trip:

4. The briefing

“OK, you low-level humanoid, listen up. This ship takes six full days and seven nights to get to Southampton.  This is not going to be like back home, when your weak little body can only tolerate a mild trampling every couple of weeks or so.” (The idea that having this mountain of muscle in tough boots destroy your body constitutes a “mild” trampling almost made me snort, but his heel was crushing my mouth so I couldn’t.)  

He continued, “There are 1360 rooms on the ship and not every last one is full, so if you decide you’re in “too much pain” (here he used a tone of voice that suggested that I was totally making the pain up in my imagination), you can change rooms. If you do, you’ll never be allowed back in here on this trip to the joys of getting crushed and kicked and beaten by my magnificence. This is not a trample cafeteria:  you don’t get to pick and choose how and when you get trampled. I hope you beg for mercy as I get more enthusiastic in treating you to the best my boots and sneakers have to offer; as you know, that just turns me on and energises me to mete out more punishment.  Is this understood?!”

His heel continued to crush my mouth so all I could muster was a “um-hmm” to indicate consent.  I had never seen him quite this aggressive.

“We’re in Queen’s Grill, the top class on this ship with its own exclusive restaurant.  We have a table there and we need to look normal, but in fact you need my permission for everything you order and everything you eat.  The tablecloth goes to the floor, so no one can see when I punish you under it.  If you disobey me, I will make you suffer both on the spot and also afterwards in the room.”  As he said this, he greatly increased the weight he was putting on my face.  He hadn’t shifted his Timbs so far; my face was going to look like a Timbs footprint.

“One of the problems I have with you is that although you’re not fat, you don’t work out enough, you’re not cut enough, you don’t have enough muscles for me to destroy.  An ocean crossing is a perfect time to improve your fitness. Deck 7 is where the running track is.  Each lap is 550 m, and you will complete it in whatever time I say, as many laps as I say, while I sit in a lounge chair aft, sip my drink and time your laps as you pass.  If you fall behind, we will go back to the room and you will be very, very sorry you didn’t try harder.”  He twisted his foot on my face to emphasise this point.

“Now get up, you miserable piece of shit” he said, momentarily putting all of his massive weight on my face, and then finally stepping off me into the room.  Take off that blood-stained T-shirt and put it in the laundry bag in the closet.  Put on a clean shirt, make yourself decent.  We hafta go to the muster drill.”

“I just have one quick question, sir” I said, after the removal of his heel from my mouth made it operable again. My little duffle bag, which constituted all of my luggage, was still standing in the middle of the room.  “May I put my bag in the closet?”

“You mean this miserable excuse for luggage?” he asked, stomping on it a few times and then kicking it hard into the corner of the room.  “Of course not. Slaves don’t get closets.  You will keep it right here, in the middle of the room, so that every time I see it I can stomp on it and kick it into the corner.  And every time I do that, you will bring it back and put it in the same place in the middle of the room.  We’ll see what a flimsy piece of shit you brought on the trip and how many tramples and kicks it takes for me to rip it to shreds.”

He took off the punishment vest; I put on a dark-coloured shirt to avoid oozing blood into a light-coloured one, and we went to muster drill.

5. The Boys visit us for the sail-out

On the way to the muster drill, we bumped into four young dudes he knew who were also travelling on the ship.  I wasn’t sure what their relationship to Tank was. I immediately noticed their sneakers—new, cool, and the kind I like for getting trampled by.  Tank invited them to our room to join us—him—for the “sail-out”.  Since this is the last time for a week that people would be able to see land from the ship, so there’s a tradition of standing around, drinking, and admiring the land as it disappears into the distance.

Once we returned to our suite, Tank ordered me to put on another white T-shirt “so I can enjoy the mess they make of it”.  Tank set out five champagne flutes.  The four dudes rang the doorbell, Tank made me get up and open it.

In front of me were the four tall, early 20s, buff guys, enthusiastically and loudly talking to one another.  They were not quite as big as Tank, but all of them were way taller than me.  I immediately noticed the cool yellow Jordans on the first guy and red Jordans on the guy right behind him. They looked over my head, yelled, “hi Greg” to Tank and surged into the room.  

Tank must have briefed them about my role as slave:  I had just opened the door for them and was standing right in front of them, but I was clearly to be treated, not as a human being, but more as a random impediment to their entrance.  The tall guy in front with the yellow Jordans not only didn’t greet me but immediately raised his foot to my sternum and rammed me backwards onto the floor.  All four of them then bounced over me into the room, eight heavy feet landing in my crotch, my abs, on my chest, my face, my head, anywhere.  In a flash, I had been thoroughly pounded and they were shaking hands with Tank and having friendly, enthusiastic conversation with him.  The fact that this human was now lying, trampled, in the entry hallway was ignored.  It was as if the normal thing to do, when someone opens the door for you, is to knock that person down with your foot and then trample him as you surge inside.  

As they shook hands and I still lay on the floor in pain and surprise, one of them pointed at my little duffel bag that was sitting in the middle of the room.  “Slave’s” said Tank.  “Oh!” the dude said with delight, and kicked it, like a soccer ball, to one of the other guys, after which they kicked it back and forth amongst themselves until the dude with the Timbs jumped on it a few times and then kicked it derisively into the corner, where it hit the wall and then dropped onto the floor.  Knowing that I would get trampled, I had taken my phone out of my pocket and left it in the duffel bag; I wondered if it was still alive.  Or what my bathroom kit was like, whether the toothpaste had exploded from the stomping.  

I was still lying on the floor of the entranceway. Tank whistled at me and pointed to the floor next to the coffee table. I crawled over on all fours, and as soon as I got in front of Tank, I could feel his heavy Timb pounding my back between my shoulder blades, so I lay on the floor on my front.  Tank kicked me in the ribs, which meant “turn over”, so I did and all 8 heavy feet from those “boys” landed on me, but since only 3 could really stand on me at a time, there was jostling about which 3 it would be.

One of the guys, with high-cut AF1s, pushed the other two off me and said to Tank:

 “You’ve probably already got started on him, right?”  

Tank shrugged, as if he didn’t know.  The dude said, “I’m going to have a look”.  With this, he stepped on my crotch and then started kicking my T-shirt up to reveal my abs and my chest.  The kicks were not very effective in lifting the shirt, but they were painful and I could feel another layer of skin getting kicked off.  The dude smiled at my grimaces in response to his kicks.  Still, little by little the lower hem of the shirt lifted, revealing the bruising and abrasions Tank had caused before the muster drill.  I must have started squirming and trying to fend him off with my hands, the two guys wearing red and yellow Jordans kicked my arms into the “crucified” position and stepped on full weight on my hands.  Just for good measure, they ground them into the floor a bit with some twisting.

Now that I was restrained by the guys with the Jordans, the AF1 guy gave another kick to my crotch and then continued trying to kick my shirt up from the bottom.  The fourth guy, wearing yellow Timbs let out something like “nah, this is how you do it” and started kicking me in the head.  As I turned my head he immediately stepped on the side of it with his left foot and started kicking my shirt collar with the right.  Every kick bruised my sternum and ripped off more skin. Pretty soon the collar ripped from one of the kicks.  Then in one quick thrust with his right foot, ripped my shirt down the middle. “See?” he said, having revealed my naked chest by ripping off my shirt.   “He really hasn’t done that much to him yet,” he exclaimed, suggesting Tank was being too easy on me.

The brutality from someone who hadn’t even met me before was startling.  Normally, tramplers stepping on a slave’s head for the first time did so with a bit of care, applying their weight gradually.  This guy first started kicking me in the head to get me to turn it.  I had no choice but to turn my head to avoid the kicks, and as soon as I did, he stepped on the side of it the way he’d step on a step stool to get something off a high shelf:  no care at all:  it wasn’t a deliberate sadistic stomp, and it wasn’t a careful step. The only reason he stepped on my head at all was because it was in the way of his kicking off my shirt collar.  Of these four guys, it turned out in subsequent days, he was the guy who paid least heed to the damage he would cause my body—although for the four of them, that was already a low bar.  There was a difference between the way Tank and these guys treated me:  Tank wanted to continue trampling me after this trip.  These guys treated me as completely disposable.  To be sure, Tank enjoyed watching them do it and rarely intervened.  

Tank poured the champagne, handed out the four flutes to the four guys and himself.  This is when I learned their names, as Tank handed each of them a flute and said “Hal” (Timbs) as he handed a flute to one of them; “Igor” (yellow Jordans) to the next, “Jonathan” (AF1s) to the next and “Kurt” (red Jordans) to the last one.  As they stood around with their champagne flutes in hand, the four boys each tried to stand on me instead of standing on the floor, and their favourite places were of course my dick and my head. Their attitude seemed to be,“if he’s stupid enough to lie on the ground where my feet are going, he’s going to suffer under them.”  Or, “if he’s stupid enough to be in the way of my kicks, he’s going to get bruised—that’s just a law of physics”.  Or, “if he’s dumb enough to let me rip his skin with my treads, it will be my pleasure to see how much I can rip.”  At one point as they discussed some detail like how one of them used his pickup to terrorise some prick in a Porsche on the highway, a 100 kg yellow Jordan was slowly sliding down my face, taking the top layer of epidermis with it.

It was getting close to departure time.  Tank moved them off me and ordered me to go lie face up along the balcony railing. I crawled out there on all fours—didn’t want to stand up and give them a chance to knock me down again.  As I crawled, they walked behind me, champagne flutes in hand, taking turns kicking my ass.  I know Tank had a go at it too—his massive high-velocity Timbs hurt a lot more than sneakers.  As soon as I got out there, they couldn’t wait to knock me down from my crawling hands-and-knees position, shove me against the railing face up, and jump on me.  

The first impact was from Igor’s yellow Jordans, right on my face.  This pushed my face into the railing, which was then all I could then see.  I could feel his Jordans crush my left ear against the side of my head while my right ear was getting crushed between my skull and the boards of the deck of the balcony.

My upper chest was getting crushed—and my throat also, a bit, by Kurt with the red Jordans. Jonathan on my abs with his AF1s and Hal was mauling my crotch and thighs with his Airmaxes. 

 It was a tight squeeze so every so often there was jostling, but since they could all hold onto the balcony railing, all of them could keep their balance and none of them needed to step off until Tank decided to get on my head with his horrendous Timbs.  Then everyone had to push down one position, Hal got pushed onto my knees and shins but eventually got off and tried to push Tank off my head so he could stand on it.  When he did, everyone again had to move one step down.  The difference in the pain in my head when Igor moved down with his yellow Jordans from my head to my chest and Tank got on my head with the Timbs was substantial.  I could feel the points at the front of Tank’s heels digging into my face, and every lug of the lug sole ripping at me.  

The ship was shuddering as it pulled away from the dock I couldn’t see, and then it started to move as they leaned out and looked at the stuff passing by.  They made a point of moving back and forth, pointing things out, crushing different parts of me as they did so, as if I didn’t exist.  No one looked to see what was going to get crushed, they just made sure to keep moving relentlessly and crushing everywhere.  

“Check it out, the Statue of Liberty!” one of them said, and they all rose onto their toes as if that would help them get a look at it.  I had hoped to look at it, too, but at this point having my head crushed by Tank’s Timbs and everyone else’s toes digging into my body was far hotter than the 19^th century French statue.  

Igor got off my upper chest and started kicking my left shoulder with his yellow Jordans.  “Move closer to the railing, fag!” he commanded.  I was already as close to the railing as possible and had four guys standing on me, so no movement was possible.  “Fag, I told you to get closer to the railing!” commanded Igor and started kicking my shoulder, each kick harder than the last.  Hal, who was on my thighs now also got off and started kicking me with his Airmaxes, although they don’t have the impact of kicks with Jordans.  Then Kurt got off in his red Jordans and started kicking, while Jonathan stayed on my crotch in his AF1s and Tank continued crushing my head with his Timbs.  With the other guys off, Jonathan moved up onto my abs and Tank down onto my chest.  The others kept kicking.

Tank said, “I know you guys are busy kicking the slave and that’s fine, but we’re about to pass under the Verrazzano Narrows Bridge.”  The three of them jumped on me immediately and looked forward and up—and there it was, and we were passing under it.  To catch a better glimpse of the underside of the bridge—to look straight up—each of them pivoted on one heel, on me, to put their back to the railing and then look up.  Luckily Tank, who was on my head in his Timbs, was the only exception; he got off my head and then stomped back on it the other way, rather than rip my face of with his heel.  How considerate!

After the Bridge, there was only open ocean to see for the next six days.  So, once we were past the interesting part of the sail-out, they all got off me.  As they got off, each of the guys fired off a nice hard kick at me and said “see ya later” to Tank—I guessed that when you’re leaving a slave, a kick from a Master is like love-tap; it acknowledges the slave’s existence without giving him more dignity than he deserves. But it turns out I was wrong, since after these guys each gave me a kick, Tank started kicking me with his Timbs—first a medium intensity kick in the deltoid and then the quads, and then more intense kicks until I turned to face him and saw he was pointing at the door.  I was as if glued to the floor of the balcony, but I peeled myself off and limped to the entrance hallway of our suite.  As I walked past them, the four guys each took advantage of my proximity to kick me hard in the ass, the thigh, or wherever random part of me their feet collided with.  I then lay down in the entrance way, and they bounced over me—literally walked over me with as much of a spring in their step as possible, to cause as much impact as possible—before heading out the door.  They even turned around—pivoted, one on my head—to say good-bye to Tank.  No one said anything to me.  In fact, during the whole visit, none of them even acknowledged my presence except by crushing, kicking and just standing on me.

6. Dinner

Then Tank said he was hungry.

I was too exhausted and in pain to feel hungry, but I casually remarked that I was hungry, too.  Tank scoffed.  He was going to dinner in his black Timbs, and he made me wear shoes that went on and off easily.  I picked up the pieces of my white shirt from the floor and threw them out, then put on a black shirt to keep out of sight any continued oozing from the abrasions his boys had inflicted.  (But they were such hot boys; they were entitled to inflict abrasions!  And I was very pleased with how much I had withstood.)

We went to the Queen’s Grill.   The ship is organised into two basic classes—“Grills” and “Britannia”.  Within those classes, you pay more, and get better food and bigger rooms, in the “Grills”.  If you travel “Britannia class” and want better food, there are a couple of restos where you can pay extra to get it.  In any case, it didn’t seem that Tank was constrained financially, given his fancy condo in New York or his decision to travel in Queen’s Grill on this ship.  Our table for two was by a window at the far end from the entrance door.  That, and the low tablecloth, would allow Tank to crush my feet under the table without attracting attention.  

That evening was my first experience of how Tank planned to use his dominance to—essentially—starve me on this trip.  Tank ordered a caviar appetizer and a Wagyu steak, so I did the same.  We were having a Moselle Riesling with the first and a Napa Cab Sauv with the latter.  The Riesling was poured.  It was a bit strange for me to be sitting together at the table with him; in his presence at his penthouse, I was treated like a dog that had behaved badly:  I would need to be on the floor within the range of his boots to get stomped and kicked at his whim; and the occasional scrap of food may have been thrown on the floor, usually stomped on and then licked off either the floor or his boot depending on where it ended up sticking.  I don’t think I was ever allowed to sit on furniture at his condo.  So actually sitting at a table with him was a new experience.  

This would not be evident to a waiter:  he would see an impressively massive, handsome 28 y.o. sitting with a reasonably good looking late 30s guy at a table:  not unusual unless the waiter discerned, despite the soft light, the Timberlands footprint on his face.  I hadn’t looked lately to see how much bruising had shown up on my face, following either the trampling Tank did in the closet as we unpacked; or when his “boys” crushed me in the room, or on the balcony as they crushed me while looking at the passing scenery.    

Tank took my wine glass and poured half my wine into his glass. Then he leaned into me and said, “Make sure you don’t let the waiter refill your glass. You’re allowed half a glass; anything more would be painful to you.  Also, lose your shoes and extend your feet under my chair so I can trash them when I feel like it.”

I did as ordered.  Two heavy heels landed on my insteps and ground my feet a bit, then stayed there.  He raised his glass and said, “To an unforgettable crossing!”  We clinked and sipped.

The caviar came as a ball of the greyish eggs in the middle of a plate with the traditional sour cream, chopped egg white and egg yolk mounds on the side, and a mother-of-pearl spoon to eat it with.  As soon as the waiter had left, Tank crushed my feet again and murmured:  “you’re not touching that.  I’ll give you my plate after I enjoy mine.”  

I watched him spoon his caviar onto little toasts and savour it with the Riesling.  I tried to see if he was serious about denying me the caviar, but as soon as I looked at my spoon, he slammed my foot, smiled at my grimace and said “don’t even think about it!”  When he was done with the caviar, some of his (chicken) eggs and sour cream were left over.  He exchanged my plate with his and told me I could eat what was left on his plate.  He then finished off my caviar.  (To be sure, I knew he could order as much caviar as he wanted.  His pleasure lay not so much in eating twice as much caviar, but in watching me watch him eat mine, and not get any myself.  To me, that was hotter than eating my own.)

The process was similar with the Wagyu steak, but not as bad.  He cut off a third of his steak, put it on my plate, and took my whole steak onto his plate.  I wasn’t to touch the frites or the vegetables, but I could eat a third of the steak, and drink half the glass of cab sauv he’d ordered.  

That was my entire dinner!  I was hungrier leaving than coming.  

7. Ass vs. Face; Ass wins of course.

Back in the room, he wanted to do some work on his laptop.  He changed into jeans, told me to lie face up on the sofa, poured himself a drink and lowered the full weight of his ass onto my face, leaning against the arm of the sofa, with  the heels of his Timbs digging into my thighs. To get comfortable he moved his full-weight ass around on my face trying to accommodate himself.  The ass of a pair of jeans can be very abrasive on a face, I found.  His butt crushed my nose and almost completely blocked my ability to breathe through my mouth.  I tried turning my head so I could breathe more easily, but he was too heavy, so I stayed facing up and the breathing continued to be a problem.  After a few minutes of this I was really air-hungry, so I started trying to squirm around, trying to push his ass off my face with my hands, and wham, he slammed the heel of a boot into my balls.  I waited a few minutes and then started to wriggle again, which got me another Timb heel in the balls.  But eventually I was desperate for air and made desperate motions with my hands.

He got up off the sofa and glared at me.  

“How am I supposed to get any work done?”

He told me to move to a different part of the sofa, still lying on my back the same way, and planted his heavy ass on my face again.  This was no better.  Once again I couldn’t breathe, and once again he pounded me with the heel of a boot in my balls.

“Do you think that was my right or left heel?” he asked.  My mouth was immobilised.  “Raise the correct hand!” he commanded.  I raised one.  Another heel slammed into my crotch.  “Which one now?”  I raised the same hand.  Wham!  So much nausea from having my balls repeatedly slammed.  I had no way of knowing which one but assumed he would stop pounding me when I got the right one and that’s what happened.  Or maybe he just didn’t feel like slamming my balls with his heel for the moment.

Finally, he twisted his ass full-weight on my face and put his boots on the ottoman.  This somehow made it slightly easier to breathe, plus he was able to slam me in the gut with his fist if I wriggled.  Not sure if it was better than a boot to the balls, but it was different.  He did have a powerful fist.  I still wasn’t able to lie still under him.

“OK, I’ll try something different!” he exclaimed in mock desperation, seeing that none of the stuff he had done so far was really any different.  He was enjoying my suffering (as was I) and his total control over me.  Saying that he was trying to accommodate me when he was really meting out the same punishment over and over was part of the fun for him.

He walked into the closet and brought out his marina-blue/black Jordans with navy blue soles.  I was still lying on the sofa with my head at one end and my feet at the other. He planted his heavy ass on my abdomen, took off his Timbs and tossed them at my head.  I already knew this meant I had to stuff my nose in them for a couple of minutes while the smell of his feet was the strongest. Obediently, I grabbed each of his boots in turn and rammed my nose deep inside.  He put on his Jordans, took his Timbs away, and planted his ass right back on my face.  My face was super sore from getting crushed by his weight, by now my skin was abraded from his jeans from each time he turned his ass full-weight on my face.   After a time, I started squirming again.  

He twisted his ass on my face, moving his feet off the ottoman and onto my thighs. Then he pushed himself back up on me by planting his Jordans on my thigh and pushing his body up.  The Jordans were less painful than the Timbs because the treads were not as pronounced, but they had a better grip on my thighs.  He slammed a heel into my balls again.  I kept still for a minute to try to avoid a repeat.  Jordan heels slamming into your balls are just as bad as Timb heels. He continued to work.  But my breathing was still difficult, and repeatedly crushing my balls wasn’t helping any.  Also the pain in my face from the weight of his whole upper body was getting to me.  He had a muscular hard ass that was good to look at but not good to be crushed by.  I started gently knocking against his thigh to indicate my distress.  He ignored me for a while as I got more desperate with the pain and the breathing.  I was probably giving him a lot of pleasure with my signs of desperation. Then, wham!, another slam to my balls, but then he got up.

“Well good,” he said.  Now I know what to do when you need some discipline.  I didn’t know you were such a wuss when it comes to face sitting.”

Then he sat down again, this time on my chest, his feet on the floor.  This was more tolerable than having my airway blocked, but with that much weight on my chest it was still a lot of work to breathe since with every breath I had to lift his upper body up using my breathing muscles.  So after maybe 20-30 min, this too wasn’t sustainable and I complained.

Surprisingly, rather than punching me some more, he got up, said it wasn’t comfortable for him either; instead I’d probably be more useful to him as an ottoman.  He pushed the coffee table away and made go on my hands and knees, head towards him, took off his blue Jordans and put his Timbs back on.  I had to smell the Jordans. 

This way, every time “the ottoman” moved even a little bit, he slammed the edge of the heel of one of the Timbs on my back or delivered a swift kick with the hard toe of the Timbs to remind me not to move.  On one occasion when I moved a bit, he got up and quickly trampled me, just in the crotch, abs and chest, then sat down again, with his boots on my back again.

8. Bedtime

It was getting late—time for bed for him (or floor for me).  He sent me into the bathroom to lie on the floor in front of one of the washbasins so he could do his ablutions.  Still wearing his Timbs, he stepped on me, moved around on me, looked at himself in the mirror and paid no attention to what part of me he was crushing.  

Then he told me to get a pillow and lie on the floor beside his bed, and when he was in his shorts and T-shirt and bare feet, he walked up beside the bed being sure to crush my crotch, my abdomen, my chest and my face.  He applied his full weight with his heel which was like a blunt bludgeon.  It hurt in a different way from the soles of shoes, but it hurt—plus I was already sensitive from all the trampling so far today.  He went back and forth on me a couple of times.  Being barefoot allowed him the flexibility to step on my neck and make me panic and, on the other side, to use his heel to bludgeon my balls, where he could feel them getting crushed.  I groaned, yelped and complained, which obviously pleased him.  Finally, he got into bed and turned out the light. 

The ship was purring along at around 23 knots—fast for a massive ship--steaming away from New York towards the northeast.  By the morning, we’d be just east of the east end of Long Island.  I was hurting all over and having to sleep on the floor was not comfortable, but it was so far, the hottest day of my life so far. I remembered that this was day 0 of the Crossing.  There were six full days coming up:   worse, or hotter, was yet to come.  

9. Morning of our first day at sea

When I woke up again, sunlight streamed through the windows.  As we moved east, sunlight would get earlier by almost an hour each day:  the ship took 6 days to reach England, which was 5 hours ahead of New York.  The ship’s clock would move ahead by an hour at noon on five of the six days of the voyage.

I was still happily lying there with my eyes shut when I was suddenly startled by the sensation of heavy feet crushing me on the floor.  At first I thought I was dreaming, but then it was obvious that it was Tank.  After his massive heel pounded into my chest, my abdomen, and my crotch, I was very awake.  He stood in his shorts on the floor next to me.  He started kicking me in the chest and made a rising motion with his hand.  I got up on my hands and knees thinking he wanted a “ride” to the bathroom, but he just wanted me to crawl to the bathroom so he could crush me there while he peed.  He followed my crawl to the bathroom with a few kicks to the ass.

When I got there, lay in front of the toilet, on my front, positioned in such a way that he could have stepped on my shoulder blades and lower back, to pee.  Not what he wanted, though.  He came to my head end and started kicking me with his heel in the top of my head to “suggest” that I shift down so he can stand on my head instead.  So I shifted down and turned my head to the side.  I wasn’t sure how he could balance with both feet on my head and pee at the same time, but I guess he was bracing himself with one arm against the wall.  One of those massive heels was right on the angle of my jaw, with the ball of his foot on my temple.  I had forgotten overnight how crushingly heavy he was.  There wasn’t enough room on my head for both of his massive feet, so he used the other one just to deform my face, but there was less weight on it than on the one that was crushing my head.

After I heard the river of pee go in the toilet, he made me lie down in front of the sink while he washed his hands.  I tried lying on my front, but he wouldn’t have it.  I turned on my back and he crushed my stomach with one foot and my face with the other.  With most of his weight on the foot on the stomach my face stayed intact but I couldn’t breathe.

Then, a knock on the door. He got off me and kicked me to go open it. I sprang from the floor, grabbed my bathrobe and opened the door.  I was already prepared for his four friends to burst in, knock me down and flatten me, but it was the rather more sedate butler.  He pushed in a cart with a silver coffee pot, a platter of cut-up fruit, a basket of croissants, and the obligatory baked beans, bangers and black pudding. Sigh! It was a British ship, after all.  One hasta endure British food on it occasionally.  He started setting it all up beautifully on the table, on a crisp linen tablecloth, but then Tank said:  

“Can you please set it up on the balcony?”

“Aye, sir”, replied the butler.

After confirming nothing else was needed, the butler turned and left with the cart.  The door closed behind him.

Tank was still in just his shorts. He made me lie on my back in the narrow corridor between the entrance door and the room, where the four boys had flattened me the previous night.  It was an ideal place for a trample, since the trampler can brace himself on two opposing walls, the front door which is at 90 degrees to the walls, and also the ceiling.  The slave has no hope of opposing anything the trampler chooses to do.

My head was close to the front door. With those hard, massive bare feet, he kicked open my legs, stepped on my balls, my dick, my stomach and chest and came to rest with one foot on my head and the other on top of it, applying all of his weight to my head.

“Yesterday was easy for you, just an introduction.  Today I plan to make you suffer.”  With that, he moved one foot onto my neck, continuing to crush my head and compressing my neck.  He started stretching.  He pushed against the ceiling, adding further to his weight.  He stayed there until I tried with both hands to dislodge his foot from my neck, just because I valued being able to continue to breathe.  I wasn’t actually scared at this point that he was trying to suffocate me; I knew he was just trying to make me panic.  He released my neck and then step by step walked down my body with a heavy heel sliding down my dick and balls, painfully.  He then ordered me out on the balcony so he could have his breakfast.  He put on his black Nike tank top and his blue Jordans.  I was barefoot and in my underwear in my bathrobe.  He ordered me to lose my bathrobe before going outside.  “It’s white.  It would be hard to explain how blood got on it.”

He was sitting on the chair.  I lay on the balcony floor in front of him.  It was breezy but reasonably warm.  He poured himself a coffee that I looked enviously at; then he took some berries from the fruit bowl and picked off a few as I looked hungrily.  The butler had set out breakfast for two, but I was sure I was not going to get much if any of mine.

“You look hungry,” he said, threw a blueberry on the floor and crushed it under his foot.  “Help yourself”.  I had to lick the floor and his shoe.  Even crushed and mixed with the dried salt spray on the balcony, the blueberry was tasty, since I was super hungry.  He broke off a piece of a croissant and got up to step on it to make it completely flat, then sat down again. It was stuck to the bottom of his shoe.  I was able to peel it off with my teeth and tongue so it fell to the deck.  While still sitting, he stepped on most of it, leaving just a little bit showing in front of his shoe which I was allowed to eat off the deck; then he moved his shoe back a little bit so I could repeat the process.  Once in a while he’d kick me gently in the face with the other shoe, just for fun.  It wasn’t a lot of food for me, but it was better than nothing.  He then crushed my head against the deck with his foot a few times and commanded me to lick his Jordans to an immaculate cleanliness.

10. The Shower

Then he wanted a shower.  I had to give him a “pony ride” from the balcony to the bathroom.  By itself this was an ordeal for me because of how small I am and how enormous he is. He just could not sit on me and have his massive legs and feet clear the floor, so he tried standing on me with his feet, crouched over, and holding on to furniture and walls as I moved.  Moving with what seemed like 2-3 times my own weight on my back was next to impossible.  This was too awkward and he never tried this again.

When we got into the bathroom, he got off and I had to lie down on the shower floor before he turned the water on.  With a big smile on his face, he turned the water on to run cold on me for a while, then only gradually raised the temperature to his comfort level, then bounced onto me in the shower enclosure. Since the shower enclosure was not that big, my back was on the floor and my legs went up the side. He noticed how easy it was to crush my dick and balls in this position, so he rammed me with his heel a few times until I made a lot of noise, which made him smile.  He shampooed, shaved, conditioned, washed his body, with all that “grey water” pouring off him onto me.  Then, looking down from his height into my face and seeing his total mastery of me and my total humiliation, he couldn’t help jerking off.  That, too, got onto me and washed off.  I tried jerking off too, but he quickly got wise to that, stepped on my face and told me he’d crush my head if I continued.  After he got off, he decided to pound me in the crotch a few more times with his heel, and that made me cum.  It may not have been his intention, but it was just too hot an experience with too much sensitive touching to resist.

11. The timed speedwalk

He dried off with one of those amazing fluffy towels, big enough to cover a house with, that come with this class of travel.  There were two in the bathroom, of course, but he kicked me out onto the balcony where I was allowed to air dry in my birthday suit in the breeze. Big fluffy towels were too good for slaves, he said.  He then ordered me to put my running gear on and we took off to the “promenade deck”—the 550 m walking/running track on deck 7.  In a comfortable spot in the back that is shielded from the wind, he took a position on a lounge chair with his laptop and a mimosa and said he’d go easy on me the first day. 

All he was asking was for me to complete a mere 18 laps—9.9 km—in at most 90 minutes but also that none of the laps may last longer than 5 min.  Any failure of either of these conditions would result in consequences to make it less likely that I’d fail tomorrow, he warned me with a sinister smile.  (Visions of the 20 kg vest and the football cleats came to mind).  

He set his stopwatch up, told me when to start, and I was on my way.  Each time I came around the aft deck, he checked his stopwatch, sometimes indicating with his fingers that I had cut it really close on a particular lap.   He made a point of taking little sips of his mimosa as I lumbered, huffing, by. But then in the end I was successful in complying with his expectations and he said he’d reward me with a pre-lunch shower trample.

12. Post speedwalk cleanup

We went back to the room—he all fresh from doing his work on his laptop in a refreshing breeze, and me a bit tired and sweaty from my almost 10 km speedwalk.  So he offered to give me a body scrub, with a big smile.  It was, as they say, not an offer I could refuse, as I was ordered into the shower with my T-shirt and shorts on and he put on his Vapormax.  The Vapormax were almost new and the little plastic studs on the rolls on the bottom were not yet worn off.  With the water running, and Tank wearing nothing but the Vapormax, he stepped into the shower, on me, poured some body wash soap on me, and started scrubbing me with the Vapormax. The Vapormax were the perfect shoes: they prevented any slipping off my wet body.  The scrubbing was vigorous, so it quickly ripped my shirt.  As soon as it had one rip he was able to extend it and pretty soon the whole shirt was just a bunch of rags over the floor of the shower.  

He then stuck one foot under my shorts and I knew that pretty soon the shorts would be history also, but I wanted to keep them, so I quickly slipped them off.  This saved the shorts but exposed my most vulnerable area.  Tank put his foot on the base of my dick and slid it, painfully, downwards, over my balls, and then, as if to scrub the area, moved his shoe painfully up and down, pouring some more liquid soap on it and scrubbing harder.  Then he made me turn over and scrubbed my back, butt, and back of my legs.  In the end, he poured shampoo on my head and used his shoes to scrub my head.  I will never think about “exfoliating treatment” the same way.

13. Lunch

Following this scrub-down, we went for lunch, another exercise in hungrily watching him eat both his food and mine, leaving me only undesirable scraps from both orders, if that.  We went to the buffet in order to be in and out as fast as possible.  There are no tablecloths there so there was not going to be any torture under the table.  However, I knew that if I ate any part of my lunch without his specific permission (e.g., yes, you can eat that cherry tomato) I’d be in more pain that I could stand.  So I watched his lunch disappear into him, and then we exchanged plates and I watched my own lunch disappear into him except for a few tiny bits.  He handed me my plate back with these few crumbs—a couple of leaves of lettuce, a sprig of parsley, a microscopic piece of bacon and one sesame seed that fell off some bread somewhere—and that was my lunch.

14. Trying to get comfortable for work on the balcony

That afternoon it was warm enough to sit on the balcony.  Although the balcony was provided with weather-proof furniture, “it was not very comfortable”.  So we spent the afternoon trying out different combinations that would increase his comfort.  

One position was me on hands and knees on the balcony next to the partition.  He would sit on my back, lean against the partition, and put his feet up on the table.  He could work on his laptop in that position for an hour, but I was groaning under his weight within 5 minutes.  After a few more minutes, my arms would start to shake from the weight they had to bear.  When he got annoyed by this, he’d stand up, step on my hands and grind them, kick me in the ribs and tell me not to shake, and then put his whole massive weight on my back again.

Another position was him sitting on a chair and me on hands and knees serving as his ottoman.  This was easier, since I only had to bear the weight of his legs, but it’s still hard to stay on hands and knees for extended periods, so when I started to squirm, he’d start kicking me, and I was in an ideal position for him to deliver some enthusiastically delivered blows.

A third try was for us to dispense with the balcony furniture altogether.  I would lie lengthwise against the wall, facing up, and he would face the sea, sit on my chest and stretch his legs out towards the railing.  He even propped his calves up with a sofa cushion from inside.  In this position, I once again (like yesterday) had to breathe against his weight, which got tiring.  He paid no heed, and instead threatened to sit on my face, or on my stomach, gag me, or just punch me in the mouth if I continued to complain.

As the sun got low on the horizon, it got cooler, so he decided he’d work out in the gym for a couple of hours.  He allowed me to come to the gym to spot for him, as well as to stand around with water, a towel, an apple, or whatever, so that it would be close at hand when his whim should require it.

15. Drinks after dinner with the Boys

After dinner, where I once again had the privilege of watching him eat and got very little food myself while he stomped my feet under the table, we came back to the room as he invited his four “boys” over for drinks.  I knew I wasn’t getting any drinks, just stomps and kicks by five of them rather than just one.  When they rang, Tank ordered me to open the door.  I already had PTSD from yesterday.  I braced myself for a violent entrance. As the door opened and I stepped back, Jonathan, the guy who kicked me in the head the day before with his AF1s, towered over me.  He was way taller than me.  Of course I immediately looked at his feet to see what he would use to trample me. He wore black Vapormax.  With a big smile as if to say ”you’re finished, buddy!”—he lifted his foot up to my chest, shoved the sole of the right Vapormax into my sternum and rammed me backwards while the other three guys supported him from behind.  As soon as I was down the four of them jumped on me.  It was similar to their first entrance except that this time, instead of just bouncing over me to go into the room, they stayed on top of me to destroy my body. The entrance hall of our suite is about a meter wide and about 3 meters long.  These dimensions definitely favour the Master over the slave:  once the slave is on the floor and one or more Masters are standing on him, the Masters can easily keep their balance using the walls and no amount of wriggling or struggle by the slave could possibly dislodge the Master(s).  They can keep mashing the slave’s body on the floor till they get bored.

The four of them, all wearing Vapormaxes of different colours, did just that.  Their hands on the walls, they marched, bounced, and pivoted on different parts of my body.  Jonathan was first, stomped on my crotch, my chest, my head and stepped off my head into the room.  He made sure the forefoot part of his Vapormax twisted over my ear until it felt as if my earlobe was ripping. The other two followed suit immediately—crotch, upper chest, and head.  These guys were hot, they had obviously trampled before, and they really didn’t give a shit what happens to the slave—slaves were disposable and replaceable.

The room was set up with a coffee table in the seating area, two chairs on one side of it and a two-seater sofa on the other side.  Tank first ordered me to “replace” the coffee table—i.e. to move it and put myself in its place.  That worked for a few minutes, but it was hard to balance the drinks on my back, and they would fall over when these guys would stomp my hands or kick me.  

So then I was ordered to just lie on my back between the chairs and the sofa.  They put their drinks on the side tables and sank their heels into my body.  Every so often, one or two of them might get up to crush me just to emphasise a conversational point.

It occurred to one of them that I could lie under the sofa, perpendicular to it, on my back, face up.  Two of them picked up the sofa on either end, I lay perpendicular to it, then they lowered it so that the middle of the front edge of the sofa sat on the middle of my chest, with my head and shoulders showing in front of the sofa.  To be “kind”, they gave me a cushion for my chest so the sofa wouldn’t break my ribs when they sat on it.

Tank then stepped, with his skin-ripping Timbs, just below my neck and pivoted to seat himself right in the middle of the sofa.  Now the front of my chest was carrying most of his weight and the weight of the sofa. He lifted his boots and placed one on either side of my face, covering most of my mouth with his heels, and my eyes with the forefoot of his boots.  To show his affection, he briefly lifted up his right boot and rubbed my nose up and down with its abrasive tread, then let its weight drop back on my face.  I couldn’t see them, but I could feel two more dudes take their seats, one on either side of Tank on the sofa:  now I was breathing against the weight of 3 of them Finally, I could feel the other two dudes sit on the arms of the sofa.  This was suffocating!  I was starting to get worried:  if some of them don’t get off, I’ll die.  Do they know that?  Is it even important to them?  I was sure Tank wouldn’t like it if I died, but I didn’t the others particularly cared.  My body could easily be pitched over the balcony railing as soon as it was fully dark.  People get drunk and fall over the railing on ships all the time.  I started to cry out with the little air I still had, and I reached up and pinched the part of Tank’s leg above his boot that I could reach.  He took his foot off my face to try to kick me in the side of the head, but he saw how blue/red in the face I looked and told just the two the guys on the arms of the sofa to get off.

Once they did, I could breathe again.  I was still using my breathing muscles to lift Tank, two boys, and the sofa. It wasn’t easy, but I wasn’t going to die.  The guys who had been sitting on the arms brought some chairs closer so they could put their Vapormaxes on the top of my head, a bit to compete for space on my head with Tank’s Timbs.    

Once they were comfortable and not literally killing me, they could pour their drinks, have their conversation, occasionally kicking my head or rubbing it with their soles while I spent the evening on the floor under the sofa and the weight of “only” three big guys.  They did change places since the preferred spot was the middle of the sofa where the guy sitting there could rest his shoes on my face.

This drinks party happened multiple times during the crossing.  If the conversation ever flagged, they might restore mirth by dragging me out and trampling me, usually in the entrance corridor where they had support on both sides from the walls.  Then they shoved me back under the sofa and poured themselves another one.

16. Days 2-6

As the ship continued to steam eastwards to Southampton, the days acquired a satisfying routine for most passengers, including Tank.  He would wake up, swing his legs over the side of the bed and drop his heels into whatever part of me happened to be there.  I might have a split second to adjust the position of his heel if it, for example, landed in my eye socket or on my nose.  I knew that in the next second, his whole weight could come bearing down on that heel and if it were on a delicate part of me, it would get destroyed.  

He would stand on me for a minute or two, crushing two random parts of me, rub his balls and dick, and stretch.  Stretching would involve pushing up on the ceiling, which would add to the crush. If one of his great feet were on my neck, it would be intolerable, but it would never last very long. 

The next order of the day was for Tank to pee.  Near the bathroom entrance was another narrow passage where he could trample me with support from walls from three sides, like the suite entrance.  So I had to crawl over there next so he could do a quick (or slow, as the spirit moved him) crush on his way to the toilet.

Then he’d pee, standing on my head and some other part of me, for balance.

And then I would need to lie face up in the shower on the floor, my legs sticking up along the wall, so he could, after peeing, take a shower while standing on me.  He reminded me once that It was my shower too, since I was privileged, to wash in the dirty water that came off his magnificent body.  It was magnificent, to be sure.  

The butler would bring in breakfast on a cart with a lot of silver and porcelain and foo-fah.  In good weather, Tank would have it set up on the balcony.  Other times, he would take it at the desk, while working on his laptop.  When he did, there’d be a towel under the desk, and I’d be in the footwell.  He’d like to wear his Two-treys at these times.  He’d pick at the breakfast on the desk and occasionally, he’d throw some under the desk onto the towel, whose purpose was not to mess up the floor.  If I tried to get it before he’d destroyed it, a lot of kicking would follow so I learned not to grab.  Sometimes he'd kick me in the hands, which hurt if my fingers got bent the wrong way.  Otherwise the kicks would land anywhere on my face—my forehead, my cheek, my mouth, my nose. The Two-Treys are solid, heavy footwear.  A kick from Tank’s Two-Treys is no love tap.  They have a relatively flat, hard sole, so they flatten any food evenly, and it also very often sticks to the sole instead of staying on the towel.  Either way, I was allowed to lick it off the towel and I was forced to lick it off the sole.  The reason the shoes were white was to make it easy for him to see if they were clean, and if he found dirt, he would kick me repeatedly, wherever was convenient for him.  I was forced to stay in the footwell of the desk—there was no physical way of escaping—and he would not be looking when he kicked.  There was no way of avoiding his kicks. He wouldn’t bend down after a series of kicks to see where the kicks had landed.  He’d only look at his shoe if he felt I had stopped licking, to make sure it was spotless.  Then he threw down a little more food and made it dirty again.

If he felt like taking his breakfast on the balcony, the pain would be worse.  He’d pull his chair up to the table and I would have to lie on my back under the chair so that he could rest his shoes on my face.  If he chose to share his breakfast, he’d throw it on the deck, step on it so it would stick to his sole, and then step on my face, covering my mouth, so I could lick it off his sole.  The deck being covered with dried sea-spray, whatever he was making me lick would be salty.  

Once he was done with breakfast, I had to put on my running gear and each day was given more challenging parameters for how many laps and how fast.  My muscles ached from all the kicks and stomps from the previous days, not only from him but also from his four destruction-loving young friends.  I hadn’t counted on team trampling when I signed up for this but they were too hot to object to, and I don’t think an objection would have worked anyway.  

Most days I was able to succeed with the parameters (number of laps, speed of each lap, total time for the whole run) that he set.  That was then followed by a shower where he used his Vapormax Plus to destroy my skin under his huge, heavy feet. The soles of those shoes are like an old-fashioned washboard.  They are more effective and abrasive than any other sneakers I’ve had to endure.

Day 3 cleats punishment

However, on Day 3, I failed at his objectives.  It wasn’t his fault for setting impossible objectives, and it wasn’t mine for not meeting them, but the objectives were very tight and applied separately to each lap.  So even one failed lap was enough to create a failure.  And on this one lap, a whole glut of oldsters emerged mid-ship from one of the lounges and somehow couldn’t see that they were blocking the running track.  Apart from pushing a few of the grannies over or throwing them overboard, which would have been deeply satisfying, I just slowly had to push my way through the viscous clot of humanity, and I arrived late to the aft deck where Tank was waiting for me with his stopwatch and a smug frown.  “You’re 5 seconds late.  Come with me.”

We went back to the room.  Having him want to punish me, rather than just play with me, was a combo of hot and scary.  How much worse could it be than what I’ve already been subjected to?  It turned out, that line of thinking was correct.  He’s not going to kill me and he’s not going to intentionally injure me, and everything else was already taken close to the limit, but maybe this time, it would be taken even closer, and it was.

Tank ordered me to lie face up in the bathroom corridor.  As mentioned, it had solid walls on either side when the closet door was closed, and it was about a meter wide just like the entry hallway.  This meant he couldn’t kick me from the side, but when it came to crushing me from above, it was perfect for him.  There was no balance problem for him, and I couldn’t throw him off through squirming.   He put on—for the first time this trip—his football cleats.  He took a necktie and tied both my wrists with it with the necktie behind my back when lying face up.  This was “for my safety” because it would make it impossible for me to try to grab his feet and make him step on my fingers with a cleat, which could break my fingers.  Even my metacarpals would be broken by a cleat, given his weight and strength, he said.  All true, I thought, but it also gave him unfettered access to my body with that weight, strength and cleats.  For the crowning touch, as if his natural weight were not enough, he put on the 20 kg training vest.  And then he was ready.

He stepped with one foot on each forearm, waiting for the cleats to imprint on the forearms.  They were Puma Future 1.4’s MxSGs.  Brutality in the form of a shoe.  They had 11 cleats on each shoe.  The six outer ones—the two rear ones under the heel, and four forward ones under the ball of the foot—are vicious, screw-in metal cleats:  round, and 3-4 mm in diameter.  The other cleats, two forward heel ones and three rear toe ones, were wedge shaped plastic cleats welded to the green sole of the shoe. I could feel each cleat sinking into my skin as he stood there.  After a few seconds, he twisted each foot to rip skin.  Then he repeated the exercise on my upper arm.  His very good-looking face was severe, determined.  On the upper arms, he sank deeper and twisted harder.  Then he stepped on my chest.  As he first it was one foot on each side, toes at my neck, heels at the base of my chest.  I was still wearing the T-shirt I had run in.  He “wiped his feet” on my chest, which not only tore the shirt to shreds but also inflicted painful abrasions to the front of my chest.  Then he lifted his left foot and stood only on his right toes on my chest and pivoted 90 degrees, to stand sideways.  That was devastatingly painful.  He put both feet on my chest sideways, then turned on the sides of his feet to make only the sides of his feet in contact with my body, doubling the weight per cleat.  I was dripping with sweat from pain.

There wasn’t any point in standing on a slave’s abdomen in cleats, unless you want to give the slave a break, which clearly wasn’t his intention.  He stayed on my chest, now marching in place, stomping down with each foot in turn.  I could see when he lifted his right foot, which was closer to my head, that several of the cleats were now bloody—that corresponded to the pain I was feeling.  I also felt a puddle of sweat forming on the floor from the pain.  I was starting to worry that he was going to shred my face with those things.  There was nothing I could do to prevent it if he chose to do it, but I actually preferred my face non-shredded.

Luckily, he chose to move down.  My dick was standing up in my shorts so he crushed it against my pelvis.  I could feel the centre plastic wedge cleat sinking into the middle of it, and the flat sole around it crushing it.  It was sooo painful.  He twisted his foot on it as if snuffing a cigarette, then put his full weight on it.  My heart was pounding, I felt hot and wet.

While he was snuffing out my dick with his right foot, his left foot was on my abdomen for balance.  When he felt my dick had taken enough, he stepped forward onto my left thigh, not onto the centre but more onto the inside of it, so he would slide down it onto the floor, ripping the skin as he went.  Then the right foot got off my dick and stepped onto my right thigh, and also slid down the inside, ripping skin.  Now that he was on the floor with both feet, he took a step away from me and ordered me to turn on my stomach.  He came back towards me, kicked my legs apart, and then shoved his toe onto my scrotum and started putting pressure on my balls, harder and harder.  I started to wail.  My balls stood no chance against his huge mass augmented by his 20kg vest) and his cleats.  But he stopped before he got to the floor with them.  He said,

“From now on, you will do every lap in less than the allowed time?”  and put more pressure on my balls until I answered in the affirmative.  Then he let go of some of the pressure.  “How will you do that?”  he asked and applied more pressure.  “I will find effective ways to obey your orders, sir!”  And with that, he crushed my balls just a bit harder and got off.  

“OK” he said, “get up and get in the shower, you’re a fucking bloody mess.  Good thing the carpet’s red.”   Indeed, there was blood with all that sweat.  He took the bathroom stool, put it in the shower and extended each of his football shoes to me for me to lick them clean of my blood.  A few times they touched my face and scratched it, but this was not the shredding I had feared.  At least he hadn’t stood on my face in cleats.  Eventually I had licked his cleats clean, he came out of the shower, got rid of the stool, and changed into his Vapormax.  Then he turned on the water and used the Vapormax to scrub me down.  That hurt, particularly when he poured shower gel on me to help with the scrubbing.

After the shower, I wore a black T-shirt for a few hours until the oozing of blood stopped.

17. Ever more pain

Having my skin ripped all over by his cleats did not give me a reprieve from the after-dinner drinks trampling by Hal, Igor, Jonathan and Kurt either that night or any other night.  But by the third entrance of those four hot sadists, I at least avoided getting knocked over backwards by them:  I opened the door on all fours.  They just bounced over me stepping on my back, on my calves or feet, which hurt but was less violent than knocking me over backwards.  (I continued to open the suite door in “safe mode” subsequently—i.e. on all fours.  This saved me from violence from his four young sadists but it did lead to embarrassment once when the butler came by instead and wondered why I was on all fours).

Day by day, as we neared our destination, my body was ever more painful but the experience continued to be unbelievably hot.  Tank was very careful with my head and face, but the other four dudes really didn’t care at all, so my face bore TN treads, Vapormax treads, Airmax treads, AF1 treads and all kinds of other marks, almost as bad as the rest of my body.  I needed to figure out whether I would skip my conference (and what would be my excuse when my colleagues didn’t find me there) or attend (and how could I explain the marks on it?

18. The last evening: my birthday is celebrated

The evening before our arrival, the “boys” came for one last drink, and they wanted to make it special for me.  I hurt all over, how there was no part of me that wasn’t bruised, abraded, swollen and sore. They wore their high-tops, but they also brought a bag with their Timbs.  It looked to me like harder trampling lay ahead. As well, they found a plastic garbage cart—four wheels, about 1m square and just over a meter-high sides, that the crew would use for emptying out the garbage cans on deck or in the rooms.  They ordered me to  get in and lie flat in the bottom of it.  Somewhere, they also applied fake tattoos to their bodies.  You could really find anything on this ship.

There was no way of lying flat in the bottom of the cart since it wasn’t long enough.  As soon as I was in there, two of them jumped in and trampled me the way you would crush grapes in a barrel.  

There was no protecting myself, and the relentless crushing of four heavy feet came down on me like an avalanche of sadism from these guys who really didn’t care where they what they were crushing or how badly I’d get hurt because this was their last kick at the can, so to speak.  Once the first two had had their fill, they climbed out and the other two jumped in and crushed me some more.  Tank watched with pleasure, then got in there when the second pair of boys was finished, Timbs on his feet, to do a little damage himself.  This kept repeating until they had all had their fill of their might and my helplessness.

They then kicked the garbage big over so I could crawl out, while they changed their sneakers for their Timbs.  I thought I was sufficiently sore, but clearly that was not a shared opinion.

Then, instead of sticking me under the sofa as usual, they said they brought me a little cake.  Tank had told them it was my birthday, so they brought a single-serving little chocolate cake and little candle and said I could have my treat on the balcony, since they could not light the candle in the room for fear of setting off the fire alarm.

Once we were on the balcony, Tank commanded me to lie on my stomach along the railing.  When I did, all four of them stepped on me, as they had when we were leaving NYC.  They stood at the railing and gazed out at the sea, allowing their weight and some grinding from their Timbs to torture me while they enjoyed the breeze.

Igor took the cake out of the box and placed it about 50 cm in front of me.  My face was forward, facing the cake.  Igor stepped right in front of my face with his yellow Timbs and rubbed his toes on my sore face—as if it were a gesture of affection—then he stepped on my head and on my upper back where Kurt had been; Kurt got off.  Kurt stepped with his blue Timbs in front of my face, facing the cake, then backed up a few centimetres so his heels crushed my face into my body.  He crouched down and lit the candle.  Then he stepped aside and said I could have the cake if I could blow out the candle.

Without 300 kg on my back and 100 kg on my butt, I could easily have blown out the candle, but there’s no way I could do it with that much weight on me; I could barely breathe.  Kurt sympathised with me; told me he understood my difficulty, and how sorry he was about it, with a big smile.  Almost made me laugh.  He brought the cake 10 cm closer to my face and asked me to try harder.  This charade went on until the cake was so close to my face I could smell the chocolate and the candle was almost burned out.  But there was no way I could generate a strong enough stream of air to extinguish the candle.  “That’s really disappointing,” sympathised Kurt.  “OK, boys,” he said.  “I guess he can’t do it.  You can help him.” 

With that, Igor stepped off my upper back and onto the deck of the balcony.  His right, yellow Timb hovered over the candle, now fairly short.  

“OK, I’m not on your back any more—you should be able to breathe well enough to blow it out from this distance” he said, as his boot hovered over the burning candle.  In the meantime, Kurt’s blue Timbs had replaced Igor’s red ones on my back so I still couldn’t breathe, and Igor slowly lowered his yellow boot while continuing to encourage me to blow, knowing I couldn’t do it.  His boot came down slowly over the cake. First it extinguished the candle, then it pushed the stub of the candle deep into the cake and then it slowly crushed the cake, forcing it into the spaces between his treads and making it ooze out from all sides of the boot.

He turned around and walked back beside me as the next guy, Jonathan, stepped onto what was left of the cake, then Hal, and finally Tank.  But by that time, Igor had already started walking up my back and all the other guys after him.  As Hal stepped up onto my legs, he first kicked them apart, so that he could kick up between my ass and the floor where my dick and balls were.  Then each of them wormed the hard toes of their Timbs under my pelvis in the hope of crushing my balls—mostly with success. They did a few circles until the cake was smeared onto the salt on the balcony and absorbed into the gaps between the tread of their Timbs.  The weather was warm, they brought their drinks outside, and the rest of the evening I got to lick all 10 of their soles clean and also the salty floor of the balcony, as they kicked me or stomped me repeatedly for missing little patches of chocolate here or there.

When they were done drinking and I was done licking, I once again had to lie in the entrance way as they carried the garbage cart over me and left.  “Good-bye, Garbage!” they said to me.  “Hope to see you underfoot soon!”  And that was the last time I saw them.

19. Packing up.

On the evening of that day, Tank then ordered me to pack up his stuff into his Rimowa.  I was actually nostalgic about each of his shoes as I packed them, remembering how he had used them, smelling them, touching them, savouring the memories of being totally used for a magic week.  Eventually the Rimowa was fully packed and weighed a ton, as before.  I put it outside the suite door so the porters would have it ready in the arrivals hall the next morning.  I was glad that I would not have to carry it the next day (but was wrong about that).  

Once I had finished packing him up, he felt like doing one more trample. I was wearing one of the last remaining white T shirts of the 30 he told me to bring, and shorts.  He rapidly caught the collar of the T shirt in his boot and ripped it effortlessly down the middle just to check out how destroyed my body was.  Seeing all the bruises and abrasions, he nodded approvingly.  As he trampled, these some of the deeper abrasions started to ooze again.  My dick tented my shorts, which he noticed, so he stomped on it with his heel and put his full weight on it, twisting a bit.  Then he asked me, while twisting his heel on my dick, when I am returning to NYC.  I told him.  He asked the flight details.  He pulled out his phone, looked up the flight, and made a note of it—all while mashing and twisting my dick with the full weight of his boot heel.  He said,

“I will follow that flight.  2 ½ hours after the flight lands, I expect you to show up at my condo.  You’re coming on your way home, not after you get home.  The first thing you need is to understand as you arrive back in the city is that your place is under my boots.  Your natural state is:  bruised, and in pain, with my footprints all over you.  Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir!”  What else could I say?  He was standing on my dick.  He would just twist his massive heel on it until I agreed.

As we parted the following morning, every muscle in my body hurt; every area of skin bore abrasions and bruises.  Tank remarked:  “nice to see we were effective in making a royal mess of you; you took it well.”

We went down the ramp to the arrival hall.  Despite thousands of bags (literally around 10,000 bags from 3200 passengers), Tank’s Rimowa could be seen from a distance, being aluminium and enormous.  “There it is!” said Tank.  “You can carry it through arrivals for me.”  He smiled.  He was carrying my little duffle bag, which was partly ripped from all the trampling it had endured under his feet and that of his four rough friends. He knew what torture it was for me to try to even lift the Rimowa given how sore I was.  I also knew there was no point in arguing.  I struggled mightily with the bag as he watched, amused.  

We got out of the terminal. Right in front, on a road leading into Southampton, a friend of Tank’s waited for him in a Ford pick-up.  I had no idea where Tank was headed, but I knew that the train station—where I was headed—was only about 20 minutes’ walk, so I was happy to think that likely I could bum a lift to the station.

I continued to struggle with Tank’s massive Rimowa as we approached the pick-up.  Tank shoved me aside and pointedly grabbed the handle, just for show, with only three fingers, his pinkie sticking up in the air the way some of the pretentious English ladies on the ship would hold a tea cup.  He was just trying to emphasise how light the suitcase was…for him.  He opened the door and slid the massive luggage onto the back seat.  It took up a major part of it.  Then he got in the front seat (still holding my duffle bag), closed the door, and the truck took off.  I was left with no luggage by the side of the road.

In only a few seconds, the truck screeched to a stop up ahead.  The passenger side door opened, and my duffel bag dropped onto the road.  I started walking towards it.  Up ahead, the truck backed up slightly, then steered to crush the bag first with the front wheel, then the back. Then it drove off, and I ran to try to pick up my bag before any other traffic destroyed it inadvertently, as opposed to deliberately.

Up ahead, though, the truck once again came to a stop, turned around, and now sped up to destroy my bag again.  It was going very fast by the time it hit the bag a second time, ripping it more and scattering my stuff on the road.  It then drove off and that was the last I saw of it.

I picked up my belongings in my arms—my run over duffel bag, my ripped up my clothes, and my destroyed electronics—to be fair, much of the destruction was already done by Hal, Igor, Jonathan and Kurt.  At first, I was unhappy about being in this state—bruised, in pain, my stuff destroyed, and left on the side of the road. 

But then I thought, I am such a lucky slave.  I have this great Master who cares for me so much.  Not only did he trample me every day of this trip and thoroughly destroy my body; not only did he share the trampling with four other hot guys; but even in parting, he also got his friend in the truck go out of his way to crush and rip up my stuff.  I doubt many slaves are so lucky.

What a lucky slave I am!  The AI is not showing all the cuts and bruises on me, so the reader has to imagine them.

And so, with a smile on my face, I picked up my destroyed stuff and set off down the road to Southampton Central (railway station), where I could take the train to Waterloo station in London. 

And came to an end one of the hottest trips in my life.

The End.

**********

If there are elements of this story you found hot, or found boring, please give him feedback in the comments to assist with the imagining of subsequent stories.