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Train Trample

I have received another great trampling story from Anton, the author of 'A B&B Weekend'. Enjoy!

Cover art by crewsockslover1 (X)


As the train hurtled eastwards from Moscow, I found myself in a two-bunk compartment. Not in a bunk, but on the floor. Exactly where I had wanted to be—under the big army boots of a tall, fit young Russian soldier in his 20s who was standing on my chest, supposedly in order to reach the overhead light, which supposedly needed some attention. It had taken me only about 3 hours after the train started to get myself into that position. Because the light wasn’t working, I was hoping he couldn’t see my boner; but since he had smashed the heel of his boot directly onto it a few times, I worried that he could. Not only on my dick but also on my mouth. He had asked me a question, then stepped on my mouth so I couldn’t answer—a dominance trick I was used to from previous tramplers. The light repair was not going at all quickly, and I suspected it was because he was enjoying crushing me as much as I was enjoying getting crushed. How did I get myself into this position? And how will I safely get back out?

It was 2018, when Austrian research institutions still collaborated with Russian ones, and I was being sent from our University in Vienna to Novosibirsk to contribute to some particle physics research. The university had reserved my train tickets from Moscow which I was to pick up at the Yaroslavsky station in Moscow for a train leaving at 13:50, due to arrive in Novosibirsk at dinnertime two days later. But when I tried to pick the tickets up at the station wicket, the train was supposedly full. I showed my very official looking “Diplomatischreiseberechtigungsausweis” and was led to a back office that looked like out of some Soviet movie, complete with 3-day shadowed chain-smoking official with feet on desk. He looked at my confirmation voucher and my diplomatic travel certificate, smiled a crooked smile and instructed the clerk from the ticket wicket about how to issue the ticket, for car #3 of that train.

On the platform, as I walked towards my car, I noticed some soldiers walking in the same direction. I noticed this tall, athletic dude in army uniform in front of me. I started to fantasize about how awesome it would be if he shared my compartment, and ultimately, if he trampled me. As the regular passengers gradually entered the other cars, I was the only civilian walking towards the entrance of car 3. Only soldiers were getting into cars 1-3, and no one was getting into #4 because it was a dining car. I lined up to get into car #3. My heart beat faster when I saw that the tall soldier that I had the hots for got into Car 3 a few guys ahead of me! This was already a good start. As the soldiers in front of me entered, the provodnica checked their tickets, but when I tried to show her mine, she said, without looking at it, in the very shrill Russian that’s the trademark of the whole provodnica profession— “you’re in the wrong car, malchik!” and pointed me to the back of the train.

In my politest Russian, I asked her to look at my ticket. She did. The ticket said, “Car 3, Compartment 1”.

“But this is an army car,” she objected in shrill provincial Russian. “You should go back to the station and get them to fix the ticket.”

“It was issued by the station director himself, look at the signature.”

She looked and shrugged. “OK, you can be here, but you won’t like it.” And then, leaning into my ear, she said sotto voce in heavily accented German, “Einige dieser Typen sind nicht sehr nett zu Ausländern, insbesondere nicht zu Deutschen. Passen Sie auf!“

I was amazed that she knew enough German but shrugged my shoulders. She had warned me that some of these guys not being nice to foreigners—but that’s what I was hoping for anyway.

Back to her shrill Russian, she yelled after me, “Compartment 1 is at the other end of the car!”

Russian long-distance trains have a provodnica in each car. These are (usually) women who keep the car (relatively) clean, including toilets, they have a role in restraining partying that could damage railway assets, they look after the bed linen, and they maintain the samovar. My 2-bunk compartment was at the opposite end of the car from the provodnica’s “office” and samovar, and I guessed that this compartment was likely kept empty except for emergencies—like Austrian researchers who needed to travel on an otherwise full train.

I got into my compartment, laid down my luggage, started exploring the switches for the lights and the fan. And then who should show up at the door but the tall soldier I had spotted. There was an instant bulge in my groin.

“Ya zdes” he said. “I’m here”.

“Dobro pozhalovat,” I welcomed him, trying to conceal my excitement and my boner, and to sound polite.

He switched to broken English:

“You American?”

“Austrian,” I said.

“I like kangaroos.”


“I know. You Austrians get pissed off when people talk about kangaroos. No sense of humour.” He looked stern, angry, not exactly full of humour himself.

He pushed aggressively into my personal space, I moved back, and he entered the cabin. He was in his early 20s, very tall, strong looking, aggressive, and mean. The army fatigues and boots completed the look. So hot! The appearance sent the message, “I’m taking over here; get in my way and you’ll be history.” He swung his backpack onto the high ledge over the door, narrowly missing my head. I admired how that very high ledge, too high for me to see or put my luggage on, is so easy for him to reach.

I thought I would get out of his way by getting onto the lower bunk—the one my ticket assigned me--sitting with my back against the wall that was next to the compartment door. (Although I’d much rather have been IN his way and gotten trampled already; but I figured it was too early.) I pulled out my briefing book and started to pretend to read, as if I wasn’t

excited by every move this hot dude was making. Sitting on my lower bunk, I could see him up to chest level, see the strong legs, the boots, and the linoleum floor of the compartment the boots were standing on. I imagined the pressure those hard soles put on the floor. How any speck of dust on the floor would feel, getting crushed between the sole of the boot and the floor. How I would feel if I were that speck of dust—how great and how hot that would be.

Back in reality, I assumed that, as my ticket designated the lower bunk to me, he must be in the upper bunk; I expected him to climb up there, but instead, he sat on my bunk near the window, then swung his massive legs around and crashed his boots into my bunk, one boot on either side of my knees. “You’re in my way”, he said. I bent my knees more so he could have more room.

He pulled a bottle of vodka and a book out of his bag. “Want some?” he asked me. I demurred. He said, “ya, you kangaroos drink Schnapps. I didn’t bring Schnapps. Vodka is better.” He took a swig and put it in his bag.

The train started to move.

I was beyond excited. I looked at the words on the pages of my briefing book, but with my boner and my heart rate about this guy, they were just words on the page. I looked past the book at the soles of his hard black boots. They reminded me of my own army service, where we were issued such boots for muddy terrain. Boots with regular Vibram-type soles trapped dirt and soon got heavy. The treads for muddy terrain need to be wider spaced, and these boots had a few wide-spaced hard rubber boomerangs on the bottom that were far enough from each other to not trap mud. They’d also probably rip flesh if he wanted them to.

I thought of how these would feel on my body. This dude was tall, muscular, and clearly over 100 kg. All of that weight would be transmitted by the small surface are of these hard rubber boomerangs. It would be almost as bad as getting trampled in football cleats. The question was, how to get him to step on me. What ruse would I need?

As the train moved on, the light coming through the window faded. I turned on my reading light. The other end of the bunk where he was sitting had no reading light. He got out of the bunk, checked out the light situation and saw that the upper bunk had a reading light also. I could see he was about to climb the ladder to the upper bunk It was my moment. I casually placed my hand on a rung of the ladder as if to push myself back in my bunk, intending to leave my hand on the rung so he’d step on it.

And…it worked. I thought that had taken enough swigs of vodka or it was dark enough in the compartment that maybe he didn’t see or didn’t care about my hand on the rung. The full pain of his boots, those hard boomerang treads on the sole, crushed my hand as he climbed the ladder. It was more painful than I had anticipated, and I couldn’t withhold a quiet yelp. My hand was still on the rung and his boot had just got off my hand to climb further. All I could see was the part of his leg that was below the upper bunk. I could not see his face. But as soon as I let out the yelp, the foot that he had just lifted off my hand reversed and landed on my hand again. It was super painful: one or two bits of his tread

were crushing the back of my hand and there was no way I could move it now. The boot stayed on my hand. Pain seeped up my arm. Every jiggle of the train bounced him up and down on my hand. Seconds passed. I could see him reach for his backpack. He pulled it onto the upper bunk. His boot was still crushing my hand. Was he doing this on purpose, or was he unaware, and just getting stuff he needed out of his backpack? I couldn’t tell because I could not see his face and he was not saying anything. It was painful. It was hot.

After what seemed like forever, his boot moved up and I quickly withdrew my hand from the rung. A deep imprint of his tread was on it. I painfully flexed and unflexed my fingers, to see if he’d broken anything in my hand. The hand was painful, but it seemed to work.

As the pain in my hand slowly got better and my hard-on softened only slightly, I tried to plan the next ruse to get trampled. Was he even aware he had crushed me? Did he deliberately do the second, longer crush? Or was he unaware of any of this? And depending on which it is, how to proceed?

As the train rumbled on it got darker outside. He leaned over the edge of his bunk and said,

“Turn the cabin light on.”

“I can’t find the switch.”

He pointed to it. I flipped it. The light stayed off.

He slid off the bunk, the two big boots landing with a thud on the floor. He stood in the middle of the floor and pulled out a Swiss Army knife, using the screwdriver end to try to unscrew the shade of the light from the ceiling to check the lightbulb. Despite being super tall, he was just a few centimetres too short to be able to unscrew it comfortably.

This was my moment. Dare I? What do I say? I would love to get under your boots to give you a few extra centimetres so you can reach the light?

Before I could figure out what to say, and while I was still on the lower bunk, he pulled my little suitcase from under my bunk and stepped on it to get the extra height. It wasn’t sturdy enough to hold him, so it caved rapidly. He looked down at the case he’d just destroyed and gave it a few kicks to punish it for being flimsy and kicked it back under the bunk. Then he said,

“Get down here”.

I tried not to seem too eager. I assumed that someone who didn’t want to get trampled would get on his hands and knees and Dude would step on his back, so I got on my hands and knees. Instead of getting on my back, he kicked me in the thigh, and then kicked an arm out from under me. “Lie flat, yu stupid Austrian piece of shit. Yu too high this way.”

I got on the floor, on my front.

“Vay yu country make shit luggage?”

He stepped on my back and tried to unscrew the shade again. I could not see what he was doing, but I could feel his boomerang treads sink into my back. But I also knew the Rubicon had been crossed. This behaviour was not explainable in any normal way. He was trampling me deliberately, and he must be sensing that no consequences were coming to him from doing so. Was he doing it the way trampling normally works—where the slave is meant to survive with few if any permanent injuries—or was he a psychotic sadist and I would end up in a snowbank in the taiga? Given my total lack of options at this point, I certainly hoped it was the former.

I asked if he wanted me to shine a light where he was working.

“No, but why don’t you flip the fuck over and shut the fuck up?” He seemed to be able to use that word idiomatically, I noted.

He got off me, I turned over, he stepped on my chest with one foot, and on my mouth with the heel of his other boot. With at least half his weight crushing my mouth through his heel, he asked,

“Vat you say about light?”

With his heel on my mouth, no response was possible. He smirked at me, satisfied that he had muzzled me.

The foot-on-the- face is not a stable situation. His heel pushed my mouth sideways and he ended up stepping onto the side of my head. But at the same time, he unscrewed the shade, then the lightbulb. “Don’t move!” he commanded when he stepped off me and took the lightbulb to the provodnica. Much as I had enjoyed his boots mauling my body, I was super relieved to be able to just lie there for a minute without getting crushed. He came back with a fresh one. I was still on my back, head towards the door. He stepped on my head, then on my chest, but the motion of the train made this unstable. So he moved one boot back onto my head, and the other boot onto my pelvis, crushing my bulging dick. I don’t think he could even see it, or cared, but it was a more stable position than both feet on my chest. Then he screwed in the bulb and the shade.

Now that the light was fixed, he moved both boots onto my abdomen and then crouched down, sticking the toes of his boots into my abdomen. With an outstretched arm, he swept all my stuff from the lower bunk onto the floor. This motion required him to pivot, using the toes of his boots as the pivot, reaming out my abdomen as he turned. Each of those hard boot toes turned full weight on my abdomen until he was facing me.

He horked up some spit and spat in my face, then said:

“You’re not in a good position here. You forced yourself into our car. And your class of people can force soldiers to fight and risk their lives to keep your type safe. But right now you’re with a bunch of people who have no respect for you, and you have no way out, so we make the rules. And the rules are that you will stay here, on the floor, under our boots, for your whole trip. You will likely survive, but if you provoke one of us and he’s drunk, he might

bash your head in. It’s easy to dispose of a body in the Siberian taiga.” His eyes narrowed to emphasise the next point. “So my advice to you is this: behave.”

With that, he stood up, stepped on my face and with the other foot onto the floor beyond, and stepped out of the compartment.

In no time, he returned with five other dudes. I was still lying on my back with my head near the door and my feet near the window, so each of them stepped on my head, pounded their way down my body and then sat on the lower bunk. And when they stepped on my head, it wasn’t with care—as if this was someone’s head. It was in the same way you’d walk over an uneven pile of garbage. My head was on its side, and their heels pounded on my ears, my temples, my jaw; their boots twisted on my face and I could feel the hard treads sinking into my skin and ripping.

The bunk held four of them sitting on the edge of it with their eight boots on different parts of me, one guy crushing my face, the next on my chest and the other two on my abs and legs. These last two occasionally had little skirmishes about which one would get to pound my dick—they took turns. If that provoked me to cry out—there was nothing else I could do, it’s not as if I could sit up—the guy at the face would bring his boot down hard on my mouth. His other boot was over my eyes so I couldn’t see anything. He used either boot to crush my nose when he needed to have some fun. Then he thought he should get his boots licked. He lifted his right boot off my eyes so I could see, and wiggled his tongue around to show me how I should be cleaning out the treads of his boots with my tongue. He lifted the boot off my mouth, looked at the treads and said, “dirty—lick, make clean”. Every so often, he’d lift his boots off my face again to “inspect”; decide my work had been inadequate and punish me by pounding my face a bit and then putting his boots back so I could lick some more. I could taste salt, soil, and things I didn’t want to analyse.

These four dudes were seated, but there were other guys in the compartment, and they stood on me with their whole weight wherever there was any space left on my body surface. One pushed the boots of the third and fourth guys off my dick and stood on it. He may have seen that it was bulging because he stomped on it, hard, a few times before just standing on it.

I had shoved my hands under my ass to avoid getting them broken, but at one point, when one of the dudes stood on my neck and I was choking, I instinctively pulled them out to try to get his boot off my neck. The boot on my neck did lift off, but I heard a guy say, “stand on his hand so he can’t touch my boots.” My arm was forced onto the free floor beside me and some dude’s heel duly crushed my hand my hand against the floor. There was no way I could move it after that. I had one hand left—under the bunk—and I was keeping it there. Just at that time, the boot that was covering my eyes came off; I could see the guy who had been standing on my neck look very satisfied that my hand had been “neutralized” by whoever was standing on my hand. He lowered his boot back onto my neck; the boot over my eyes also went there. I wasn’t able to breathe with my neck being crushed, but very soon that boot came off—god knows why—and I could breathe—sort of—I still had a whole bunch of guys standing on my chest and abdomen.

Six to eight soldiers filled the compartment. My things, the ones that had been on the lower bunk that Dude had swept onto the floor—my backpack, my cellphone, my book—lay around me on the small area of free floor not covered by my body. My things were also getting destroyed under their boots. I distinctly heard my cellphone screen crack. My backpack contained a bathroom kit with a tube of toothpaste and some shampoo; I could only imagine what a mess that was now.

I imagined similar drinking and smoking going on in other compartments in cars 1, 2 and 3, but it was more of a party in our compartment because there was no one to torture in the other ones. With time, some of the dudes left, crushing me as they did, and other dudes came. Sometimes their faces lit up when they saw me on the floor and other guys standing on me, showing that they could walk on me too and listen to me moan. Other times they were too drunk to notice they were crushing a human body underfoot. Every time someone entered, I tried to guess their level of sadism from their appearance, if I could see them—if no boot was covering my eyes. The number of guys in our compartment went up and down with more or fewer boots on me, but gradually there were so many guys in the compartment, smoking, drinking and telling stories that it was impossible for any new guy to even notice that the pile of stuff they were standing on was actually a human body.

At some point in the evening, the provodnica yelled that dinner was ready. The tall dude said to me that as soon as the guys got off me, I had to go lie in the hall. In case I wasn’t sure about him being sadistic, this left no doubt.

The tall dude told the guys to leave the compartment and turn uptrain for a moment—i.e. block the corridor. He then dragged me out into the hall and as I lay there and let me lie on my front in the corridor. He covered me with one of the decrepit grey blankets, so it was no longer obvious that a human was lying on the floor—it could have just been a pile of garbage. As mentioned, we were at the back of car 3. Cars 1 and 2 also were filled with soldiers on furlough, and car 4 was where they were getting fed three times a day. Obviously, to get to car 4, all the soldiers in cars 1, 2 and 3 had to walk over the corridor where the Dude had placed me. Possibly 100 of them. Maybe 200 heavy boots in quick succession.

The light in the hall was dim; outside was dark; I was covered with a grey blanket, and the guys had been drinking all afternoon. All of them wore the same heavy, tough boots. When the dude was done dragging me into the hallway, he cleared the way and the pounding started as 100 guys from cars 1-3 went to car 4 to get their grub. I held my hands under my thighs to keep them from injury. I had taken off my shoes when I first got on the train, and never had a chance to put them back on, so even my toes got crushed by the soldiers’ hard boots. The worst was my head. Sometimes there was a direct hit on my ear. Other times someone stepped on the edge of my head and slid down my face, full weight. Those boots were brutal.

After a lot of soldiers had walked over me, they had displaced the blanket partially, and eventually one of them said in a drunk voice, “hey bro, there’s a dead dude on the floor!” “He’s not dead, bro” said the other, slurring his speech. “Here, watch!” One foot on the back of my knee, he slid his other boot into my crotch and stepped on my balls, crushing

them against the floor. I jerked from the pain. “See, not dead,” he said, walked up over me, stepped on the side of my face, with the other one following him on the way to dinner.

When I thought they had all gone to dinner, I breathed a sigh of relief. Getting trampled by 100 soldiers was like a dream come true, but I was in pain. I peeled myself off the floor and was about to go back into the compartment when I saw the Tall Dude still in there.

“Vat you do now? Hu said you get up?”

He walked out of the compartment. I had turned over and was sitting up on the floor. With one boot he stepped in my crotch. The toes of his boot stuck into my pelvis and slid down, catching my boner, and my balls, and crushing all three of them against the floor as the boot came down. With the other boot he pushed my sternum violently, so I ended up lying down again, only face up.

“Yu stay dere until dey all come back after dinner and trample you in da udder direction.” Oh. Hot as it had been, I thought I had had enough. His face looked down at me from way up high as his boot held my body to the floor. “Yu move, yu die. I need some dinner.” The foot that was crushing my crotch lifted up and stepped on the side of my face, and then he proceeded to the diner.

Facing the prospect of 100 guys in boots trampling me in the other direction, while it was still hot, it was also a bit much and I tried to think about how to minimise the pain. This time I grabbed a small pillow from the compartment to cushion my head from the hard floor. I wasn’t sure if the blanket made the trauma worse—because they couldn’t aim their boots—or better—also because they couldn’t aim their boots. In the end I lay on my stomach with the pillow under my head and the blanket over me, waiting for 200 boots coming the other way.

When the horde emerged from the dining car into car 3, they were even drunker than before. Most of them were not even aware that they were trampling a human—they just walked over the unevenness on the floor as if they were tree roots on a path. Because one closely followed another, most of them didn’t even see the uneven ground coming. Occasionally I would hear “hey, there’s a dude on the floor” “you had enough to drink” “step on him then if you think so” and so on. Wave after wave of treads on my head, my back, my ass, my legs, my toes. When one of them stopped—in this case to shove the toe of his boot in my face—others pushed and yelled from behind for him to move on.

Once everyone had gone back to their cars, the Tall Dude allowed me back onto the floor of the compartment. Interestingly, one of the other soldiers was already in the compartment, sitting on the bottom bunk; I hadn’t seen him (or felt the pain of his boots) going in there, yet I was lying in front of the compartment door the whole time.

I was hungry. I remembered my sandwiches, apples and oranges in my little suitcase that Dude had destroyed trying to stand on it to fix the light. As if reading my mind, Dude said,

“Yu hungry?”

“Yes.” I replied.

“Yu brot food?”


“You eat it now?”

I reached under the bunk for the partially destroyed suitcase. I struggled to open it: Dude had twisted the locks out of shape when he stood on, so they were jammed. Dude watched my struggle with obvious pleasure, then said:

“Let me help!”

He commanded me to hold the case vertically on the floor with the handle and locks facing the floor, and the hinges facing up. He brought his boot down on one hinge, then the other, with huge force so that they ripped themselves out of the case immediately. The case was now ruined, but the contents were all displayed including my clothes, my sandwiches, some oranges and some apples. At this point, a bunch of soldiers started entering the compartment to get some after-dinner vodka. Dude made me lie down on my back, as I was before dinner.

So much for all my stuff: they trampled me, they trampled my sandwiches, they crushed my apples, they flattened my oranges, they destroyed my clothes. There was one dude who had most of a sandwich stuck to the bottom of his boot. The tall Dude told him I was hungry, to let me lick the crushed sandwich off his treads. He was happy with that suggestion. The guy who was seated on the bunk with his boot on my mouth took his boot off, and the other guy with the sandwich on his boot treat stepped on my mouth instead. Thus I got a tiny bit of crushed sandwich into me.

I was so hungry. Meanwhile the soldiers were sitting on the lower bunk, drinking vodka and giving me the occasional kick, making fun of me for being a dog, a slave, a subhuman. Occasionally one of them would stub a cigarette out on my bare skin, for the pleasure of watching me wince.

It was a painful but hot first evening on the train to Novosibirsk. Eventually the guys all went back to their compartments except the Dude and one other guy. The Dude slept on the lower bunk, the other guy on the upper. I was so tired, I slept like log—on the floor of course—waking up only when Dude decided to get out of his bunk to go pee. He never took his boots off, and he’d step on my incredibly bruised body which would have woken me up of course even if I had not been so bruised.

The rest of the trip was much the same—there was a full day that followed, another night, and 2/3 of a day—so there were five more meals and 10 more tramplings by 100 soldiers in the hallway. On the one hand, a few had gotten off, so there were not a full 100 by the time we got to Novosibirsk. OTOH, for the morning trip to the mess car they were not so drunk,

and at one point one of them stopped, made me turn over onto my back, and then everyone that followed walked on my front. My dick suffered direct boot hits multiple times, some intended, others not. My face was bruised and swollen.

An hour or so before we were due in Novosibirsk, the Tall Dude and I were alone in the compartment. The guy who’d slept in the upper bunk was not there at this point.

He asked,

“Yu enjoy?”

I said,

“When did you figure that out?”

“I have friend like yu. He like when I walk over him. And I like it too.”

“But when did you know about me?”

“Yu put hand on ladder. Something he would do. And yu dick big when we do it.”

We smiled. He continued,

“Yu tuf guy. I not think you keep going, every meal getting your body crushed by an army.”

I asked,

“How come the provodnica let it all happen? She must have seen it happening.”

“I tink she has problem with you. She told you to go in another car. Yu stayed here. Yu told her to read your ticket—dat vas rude, she tink. Yu had dis compartment to yuself. I was in a different compartment. She told me to stay in your compartment and give you tuf time. This was supposed to be compartment only for you. Not usually sold, she said. She was very happy with us trampling yu. She liked to see yu bruised and swollen. She not understand yu enjoy, yu wanted it, yu liked.”

“What about when you went for meals and left me in the hall? What about if some psycho soldier had decided it would be fun to kill me?”

He smiled. “Dat would be shame. Yu nice guy. But I told yu it could happen, behave yuself—and yu did.” I could see him considering whether to say something else, and then he did say it:

“Maybe yu not notice, but when I went for meals, my friend in compartment, watching. If someone decided to have fun killing yu, he stop the guy. Yu never without one of us.” Oh—I thought—that’s what that other guy was doing here. How effective that would have been is not that clear to me.

He smiled a lot. The whole mean and tough look had been an act, but I’d been fooled. We exchanged contacts. Unlikely our paths would cross again, but anywhere in the world, if they did, I’d get under this dude’s boots in a heartbeat. Funny how transparent I’d been, I thought, or maybe, instead, how intuitive he’d been. Oh, well, amazing train trip, I thought, getting off with the few of my belongings I could rescue stuffed in my backpack. What was it I had been expected to read in my briefing book? After this awesome experience, this trip had already been a success, and nothing that happened now in Novosibirsk could change that.

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Can't imagine spending about 3 days being trampled...


Another so hot story!!!


That story also hot as the first one. I am really like that author and wait more cool stories!

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