This fictional story (novel) was sent to me by a follower, the longest trampling story I have ever read. There are some hot scenes and ideas I know a few of you will enjoy reading.
A B&B Weekend
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Chapters
1 Invitation
2 Friday Evening Meeting at the School Parking Lot
3 We Stop for Food
4 We Arrive at the Cottage
5 A Nightcap
6 Saturday Morning
7 Boris Before Breakfast
8 Breakfast
9 Water War
10 Reprieve
11 Driving Practice
12 Katashi in Convo
13 The Runt Night
14 Forest Trample
15 Debrief and Future Plans
1. Invitation
One otherwise unremarkable afternoon while studying, I got a text from a guy I had not heard from for a while, Katashi Kuragari. A year ahead of me in high school, Katashi and I had intermittently kept in touch as we attended different universities. Somehow, Katashi felt towards the end of high school that I was a repressed trampler. His love of trampling was something he was open about with me. Every time we were in touch, the conversation often led there with an encouragement to me to “break out of my shell” and “find someone to trample”. Katashi was right, I should stop just crushing food and toys in secret, stop using sneakers and boots secretly to get aroused, and find someone to enjoy this with together. But, but, if someone finds out, what would people think?
Katashi was organising a trampling weekend at his cottage. He was calling it a B&B weekend; I wondered what it had to do with a bed & breakfast, since it was clearly his family’s cottage, and I presumed that any breakfast we would have to make ourselves anyway. We met at a café to discuss it. If I came, he and his friends would show me “the ropes” when it came to trampling, un-repress me, set my inner trampler free! What’s more, I knew his friends, since we had all gone to high school together. Katashi, Boris, and Srin were in the class above me. And the intended tramplee, Zach, was in my class. Katashi, Boris, Srin and Zach had already done a trampling weekend at Katashi’s family cottage the previous year and Zach was bringing a friend who apparently wanted to get trampled. Zach wanted to get the guys to spread out the trampling, since he felt he had got flattened a bit too much.
“But how will it help Zach diffuse the trauma to him, if you also increase the number of tramplers by bringing me?” I asked. Katashi sighed.
“The number of tramplees will double, but the number of tramplers will only increase by 33%. They’ll still get flattened way too much, and they’ll still complain that everything hurts on the way home. It will just confirm that we were effective,” smiled Katashi. (I learned later that “being effective” as a trampler was almost quantifiable. One counted the blood stains on the clothing of the tramplee, and the bruises on his body, and that number gave you a rough estimate of your effectiveness.)
Katashi Kuragari's high school reputation depended on who you asked. If you were smart, efficient, and disciplined, Katashi was kind, helpful, and relaxed. Otherwise, you would get dumped in Katashi’s garbage bucket, with little opportunity for redemption. Not showing up for a meeting, not understanding logic, asking him the same question twice: these are some of the things that could land one in Katashi’s “garbage” bucket. Showing kindness to a person who was fit for the garbage bucket landed you in his garbage bucket also. Katashi had no time fools, and showed them no mercy.
I became aware of my own footwear fetish early and noticed Katashi’s footwear collection long before I dared talk to Katashi himself. Katashi’s family had money and Katashi clearly got to spend it on sneakers and boots. And then there were a few times I noticed Katashi using his footwear in ways that turned me on. When a soccer player who fell right in front of him on the field, whom he might have avoided, Katashi instead “accidentally” stepped on his face and jumped off the other side. Another student, walking in front of him in the school hallway, dropped his bagged lunch right in front of Katashi. Katashi might have avoided stepping on the lunch, but sunk his red Jordans into it instead. Through the plastic bag holding the lunch, one could see the apple crunch and the juice spill out; and one could see the sandwich being splayed out on both sides of Katashi’s shoe. Each time—for crushing the face and the lunch, and in other instances, he apologised, a bit unconvincingly. Secretly I wished it could have been me, crushing the face and squishing the lunch, without breaking my stride, then, as Katashi did, wiping the remnants of the guy’s lunch from the sole of my Jordans onto the hallway floor as if I had stepped on dog poo. Each episode was as if to say “I’m Katashi Kuragari, and if you give me the opportunity to bring my athletic 105 kg down on your face, or your lunch, or anything else you value, it will be my pleasure to flatten it with no regrets”.
Before graduation, Katashi was called to the principal’s office for the first time. The problem was that, using the criteria of the prizes to be awarded at graduation, he was the winner of all of them. Every single prize to go to the graduates was Katashi’s. The principal did not want to discourage others, and also pointed out to Katashi that envy can lead to revenge if he were to take every prize. Katashi at first wasn’t letting go of any of the prizes. “I deserve them all—that’s why there are criteria.” Ultimately the principal had to get Katashi’s parents to persuade him to let his classmates have half his prizes, and Katashi insisted that this be done only after, at the graduating assembly, it was made clear that they rightfully should be his. Katashi was 193cm, a black belt in a number of martial arts, a winner of numerous fencing competitions. Let someone attack him if they wanted, he thought—“they’ll rue the day” said Katashi. Katashi did undergrad in software engineering at Cal Tech.
Katashi’s good friend, and one of the few who was physically more intimidating than Katashi, was Boris Zdrobitelyev, this kid who grew out of nothing in grade 9 to this massive beast in grade 12. He just grew and grew and by graduation was 205 cm and 120 kg. Katashi and he competed for marks but ultimately Boris “only” got high 90s. Certain members of the student body referred to Boris as “the Nordic god” and were sometimes corrected to “the Russian god” or “the Tsarevitch”.
Katashi and Boris were different in how aggressive they were. Katashi would stay in his lane, but run down anything that was unlucky to find itself there. Boris would try to take over everything he could. Katashi was clean, elegant, and rarely had his feet on furniture. Boris would never sit with his (usually dirty) boots on the floor if he could put them on any furniture, even if that prevented others from sitting and spread mud on the tables, chairs, or the clothing of people who had put their stuff on a chair. People’s backpacks, placed on the floor beside their carrels in the library, routinely got crushed under Boris’ sneakers or boots. “Watch where you put your stuff—I coulda tripped and injured myself.”
At a fast food joint, Boris was able to stuff an entire burger in his mouth at once. If someone around the table wasn’t looking, the burger in front of that person might disappear in a flash, much to the amusement of the others around the table when “no one knew” where the burger had vanished to, and the person had to order again. Boris’ favourite trick was with 12 inch subs. “Wanna see a magic trick?” he said, Russian accent amplified. Within a record 16 seconds, the sub would no longer be visible, although his cheeks bulged for a while longer.
Srinjon Gupta was the third of these guys in the class above me. More modest in size, not quite 185 cm, he did well academically but was not as much the athlete the other two were. He was quieter, did less extracurricularly, and was headed towards medicine as a career. And maybe because Srin hung out with Katashi and Boris but was in some ways less spectacular, he was harder to get to know.
Still in the café discussing the weekend with Katashi, he told me that he had invited the two tramplees to come so he could clear up any misunderstandings and get them to sign a waiver. “A waiver?” I asked. “Yeah, after last year, I thought it might be a good idea. Zach got pretty bruised up and if we’d gone harder at him, might have been injured, so I thought we could get them to sign a waiver similar to the one you sign when you go rappelling or hang gliding.” I was welcome to stay for the conversation. I hadn’t seen Zach or Xavier since we graduated from high school; both were in my class.
Those two now walked in. Zach was around 178 cm and Xavier was quite a bit smaller, maybe 168 cm. Xavier’s family was from Goa. In high school, Xavier was one of the few people that in Grade 12, still fit into a hallway locker. This led to his being shoved in there and locked up regularly by myself and/or other kids with a lust for torturing smaller kids. Not necessarily younger ones, although that was OK, but kids our age who had just failed to grow so much so they were vulnerable to getting picked on for our fun. Once I warned him, “Xav, if you make any noise in there, I might get into trouble, and if I get into trouble, your fate will be worse than the worst tortures in Tartarus!” Evidently Xav was up on his Greek mythology sufficiently that he stayed quiet until my next spare, when I came to unlock him and let him out. Another time we used a window-washing platform to lure him onto a ledge on the roof of the school, then we removed the platform, leaving him up there, in the rain of course, until we were kind enough to get him again. He took it in good humour and generated no detentions for our fun.
Zach was the guy in high school who awakened my inner trampler. One day we were both in the library and I was in the middle of a calculus problem set, trying not to get distracted by my new, beautiful, six inch black premium Timberlands. They were heavy and mean looking and made an ominous sound when I walked down a wooden floor, as if anything in their path would get totally annihilated if it didn’t scurry out of the way. Zach was in the carrel next to me, and was also distracted by my Timbs. We started to talk about them, and he offered that he would not be annihilated by them. He could lie down on the floor by the bookshelf, in a hidden area at the back, and I could do my worst with my Timbs to annihilate him, and he’d still be fine. It was a challenge made in heaven for a repressed trampler, because the convo was not about me, or about the pleasure of trampling, and what it might or might not say about me, but only about whether Timbs were powerful boots, or Zach was more powerful at resisting them. Neither of these was a taboo topic.
We moved over to the bookshelf, and, holding onto it for balance, I hesitantly stepped onto Zach’s chest, then abdomen, then chest again. I had never done this before, but had had so many wet dreams about it. I felt a surge of power. He lifted his head off the ground to look at the boot that was on his chest, and I just naturally felt the obvious thing to do was to place my other boot on his face and push it back to the ground. Whoa! I was on fire. But soon after that, approaching footsteps led me to step off and him to get up, and we never got a chance to do it again. But the hormones of pleasure had flowed. Five years later, we were sitting with Katashi at a café, planning so much more than what had happened in the library.
After an incredibly small amount of smalltalk, Katashi looked at Xav and asked him if Zach had described last year’s weekend. “Yup” said Xav with a smile. “You know that there’s a 100% chance that you’ll be massively bruised and sore, likely for six weeks after?”. “Yup.”
Zach said, “he knows that. He saw me after I came back last summer.”
Katashi said, “oh, that was nothing. Wait till you see how bruised and sore you’ll get this weekend.” Then his voice lowered and his gaze intensified, as he looked at both of them, “And you know the chance of death or serious injury, possibly with lifetime consequences, is not zero?”
“Yup,” gulped Xav.
“We will do our best to avoid it because we want to trample you again.” Then he smiled the Katashi Mean Smile. “And the paperwork, if we killed you, would waste a lot of time. But it could happen, to be sure.” He took out the waivers. “Read carefully and sign at the bottom... while you still can.”
Zach said, as he read the waiver, “this is cheerful. We could suffer fractures of any bone in our bodies, or all of them. We could get run over by your truck, intentionally or accidentally, or suffer during transport any other way. We could drown in the lake. We could suffer from toxic ingestion of mud and other substances. We might get dehydrated, or starve—no guarantee is made that the quantity or quality of food or drink will be sufficient to meet our needs. None of our belongings, including the clothes on our back, are guaranteed to survive as they might be destroyed intentionally or accidentally.” I did not know it at the time, but that waiver was also Katashi’s agenda for the weekend.
“Sounds great!” sarcastically opined both Zach and Xav. They each signed at the bottom; I signed as witness, Katashi smiled broadly and said, “you guys are in for a great weekend, and we are, too. See you Friday at 7 in the school parking lot, as arranged!”
Zach and Xav left and I was left at the table with Katashi. I was feeling both uneasy and excited, and a little bit out for control, a bit outed. Whom from our school would Zach and Xav tell about me? And what exactly was planned for the weekend? I stared into my coffee.
Katashi proved a good mind reader. “They’re not going to tell people and they’re not going to put it on social media. No one has an incentive to do that. And you’re probably wondering what I have planned for the weekend.”
“Yes,” I said sheepishly.
“Most of the time, it comes spontaneously. You see something or someone that you’d like to crush, and you do it. Just try to make sure it’s a slave or a slave’s belongings. The Masters don’t really want their own belongings inadvertently destroyed. The slaves would be disappointed if it didn’t happen to theirs. If they come to defend their belongings, they’re giving you full license to crush their bodies, too. But in terms of planned activities, there’s really only three things—there’s a water war, there’s a driving practice, and there’s a race through the woods. All three of them are outside, so we’ll decide when we see the weather, when we’ll do each one.”
“What if we push them over the line?” I asked.
“Last year, we had a safe word—‘safe’. It’s needed because they’re always going to be complaining that we’re too rough or aggressive, but they don’t really want us to stop. But it was pretty gruelling for Zach last year, yet he never used the safe word. But yeah, if one of them says “safe”, then stop. I don’t think they’ll use it, though. So...are you good to go?”
“Yup. I’ll see you Friday at 7.”
2. Friday Evening Meeting at the School Parking Lot
When I arrived, at most a minute after 7 pm at the school parking lot, Katashi was just parking his pickup. Katashi was used to the finer things in life, and if Lambo made a pick-up truck, I would have expected Katashi to be driving that one. But this was a regular, contractor’s pick-up, even though it had bigger wheels and a slightly elevated suspension, which Katashi said he got specifically for the cottage. The cottage was a few kilometers from the public road, and the drive is not plowed in the winter and sometimes gets very muddy and hard to get through, he explained. This apparently made it necessary to have it higher off the ground, with bigger wheels and aggressive treads. I figured it went along with Katashi’s Timbs, which also raised Katashi a bit off the ground and gave him aggressive treads. In my mind’s eye, I imagine Katashi back in 1500 in some impenetrable Japanese forest, dressed in a hakama and kataginu, with his two swords, but still in his boots, and he’d be the most frightening person you could meet. A Samurai over six feet. I imagined there’d have been few of those. Back to the present century, quick!
Boris was next to show. I was impressed to see him pull his 6 foot 8 massive frame out of the small car he drove. The car’s suspension made a remarkable recovery as he got out of it. Then Srin, Zach and Xav showed up. We greeted them as the schoolmates they were and shook hands. Then Katashi stepped out of the friendliness.
“OK, enough with the equality BS. We’re leaving that here, at the school. They can get their “friend” status back when we return to the school on Sunday. “Assuming they return”, he grinned. But from now until then, they’re slaves. We own them, they’re not equals or friends, and they serve our needs. We’re their Masters, and they do what they’re told, or what they think we want, and if we’re pleased, they suffer; if we’re not pleased, they suffer more. Are all six of us in agreement that this was what we agreed to?”
“Yes!” three voices enthusiastically agreed. Katashi looked at Zach and Xav. They looked at the ground and responded more quietly, “Yes, sir.”
“OK,” Katashi continued. So to remind everyone of their status, they need appropriate slave names. I’ve decided on Loser for Zach, since he’s doing it for the second time, and Runt for Xav, since he obviously didn’t get enough to eat growing up.” We laughed at the humiliating names. And indeed there was a substantial difference in size between the two small slaves and the four big Masters.
The next decision was about where in the truck the slaves would travel. Katashi wanted to tie them up and put them in the cargo part of the truck. At this point it had started to drizzle. We had been standing under the roof overhang, so we were not getting wet. But since the Masters needed privacy to discuss where in the truck the slaves would travel, they sent the slaves a short distance away into the drizzle. This way, they could discuss how miserable they could make the slaves while travelling, while watching them get rained on. Boris and Srin objected to having the slaves in the cargo area, tied up. It wasn’t legal, it wasn’t safe, and if we did have a collision, how could we explain it? So Katashi said fine, the slaves can go on the floor of the cab, one in the front, one in the back. That seemed safer. Clearly passenger seats and seatbelts were not being contemplated as options. So we called the slaves back. Xavier—Runt—was going in the front—into the footwell in front of Boris, who was going to be sitting in the front. Srin and I were going in the back with Srin behind the driver and me behind Boris, and Zach—Loser—would be on the floor. It was starting to rain a bit harder, the slaves were now appropriately soaked while we were comfortably dry, and it was time to go.
Boris commanded Runt to lie on the pavement in front of the truck door so he could step on him to get in the truck. There was a small puddle right in front of the door that Runt would have to lower himself into in order to lie flat on the asphalt, so he hesitated, getting on his hands and knees rather than lying down in the puddle. Boris stepped on his back just to show that Runt was now too high for Boris to get in the truck. He kept standing on his back, twisting his boots into Runt, trying to get Runt to lie down in the puddle. Despite the drizzle, we were amused to watch. Runt started to complain about the torture. Boris said, “Runt, I told you to lie on the ground—if I wanted you to be on hands and knees, I know how to say that to you.” Runt said,” OK, OK, Master, just get off and I’ll lie down, you’re too heavy to lower myself. Boris got off, being careful to make sure his heel landed on Runt’s hand, and continued crushing his hand as Runt lowered himself into the puddle. Boris stepped on his back, kicking Runt a bit in the head as he moved his boot off his hand and said, “OK, Runt, was that so hard?” Runt knew better than to respond. The back of his hand still bore the imprint of the treads of Boris’ heel.
As Boris stepped into the truck with his right foot, he made sure all of his 130 kg was balanced on the toe of his left boot, which was digging into Runt’s back. Runt was moaning loudly. I thought it was a beautiful move! “Get in!” Boris commanded Runt. Runt had never been trampled by Boris—I wonder what he thought about any further trampling now. But he crawled into the footwell in front of Boris. Boris lifted his massive boots and pushed them against Runt’s body, clamping him into the space, casually pushing against the back of the seat to increase the pressure as he adjusted his position.
Taking the cue from Boris and standing behind the driver’s seat now, I told Loser to lie on the wet ground. As he had years ago in the library, he lay on his back. I didn’t have Boris’ mass, though, so I stepped on his abs and got in the truck, but without Loser moaning with the pressure. Then Srin did the same. And finally Loser crawled into the truck along the floor, and Srin and I rested our feet on him—mine on the back of his head and upper chest, Srin’s on his thighs. Loser’s clothes were wet from standing in the rain, and then lying on the wet parking lot to be our stepstool. Good thing my boots are waterproof so I won’t absorb any of the wetness from his clothes, I thought.
As we got going, I realised that it would be even cooler to have my boots on Loser’s face, rather than the back of his head. Quite spontaneously, I kicked him in the head. “Ouch!” Another small, gentle kick from me. “Ouch! what do you want?” “Turn over! Face your Master, don’t turn your back on him!” He turned slowly. When he was face up, I brought my dirty wet Timbs down on his face, covering his eyes with one, and his mouth and nose with the other, making sure that my heels were digging into part of his face somewhere. Wasn’t sure where. Didn’t much care, either. This was going to be a very good weekend.
Meanwhile, Boris was in a really great position to torture Runt. He could brace himself against the back of his seat and crush any part of the small slave he wanted, in the footwell. Boris didn’t talk to the slave—he just ground him into the floor every few minutes, and all we heard were some muffled yelps. Any bigger yelp got a kick, so Runt quickly learned to keep it quiet.
We drove north through the drizzle, Srin sitting behind Katashi and me sitting behind Boris. Boris was so huge, he pushed his seat as far back as it could go. Still there was enough room behind the seat for Loser’s head, and my boots to torture him with. Loser was stretched out on the floor in front of Srin and me, with Srin’s boots more or less on his knees and mine on his face. I was totally getting into this, scraping Runt’s forehead with my right heel, or crushing is nose with my left foot, or stomping gently on his face in time to the music Katashi had playing. I could see Loser was in to it, getting harder as I did more. At one point, Srin felt he needed to show Boris something on his phone, so he stepped directly onto Loser’s crotch as he leaned forward. Boris turned, bracing his boots against Runt’s head in the footwell in front of him. Both slaves yelped a bit and were totally ignored by the rest of us. I was wondering how things could get any better, but they turned out to get far, far better still.
3. We Stop for Food
None of us had had dinner before leaving, so we pulled over to a highway food-and-gas stop. We did not want to let up the pressure on the slaves so Katashi went in to get the food. We got enough food so there was a chance if the Masters did not eat it all, some might be left over for the slaves. Katashi inhaled a burger and started driving. The slaves were really hungry. I was kind to Loser, though. I ate my burger over Loser’s head—and we allowed him to flip over to face down. Anything that fell out of my burger, or out of my mouth, he was allowed to lick off the floor or off my boot if I stepped on it first. His hunger motivated him. A bit of food would fall on the floor (or I would let it drop) and he’d lunge for it with his face. At the same time, I’d try to step on it before he’d get it. Often, his face collided with my boot. Sadly for him, my boot was a fair bit harder (and less sensitive) than his face. His success rate was fairly low: for every morsel of food I let him lick off the floor, he had to endure about 10 boot-to-face collisions—oh well, things people are willing to do when they’re hungry.
When the Masters were full, it was time to feed the slaves the leftovers. There was a small burger and a pizza left. We pulled over into a roadside parking lot and put the food on the ground. Boris pulled his massive frame out of the truck and stepped on the burger, his weight shoving almost all of it straight into the treads of his size 14 Timbs. I ground the pizza into my treads. Then we both got into the truck and Katashi drove on, while the slaves had as much dinner as they could clean out of the treads of our boots.
We drove on, the slaves trying to recover some food from my and Boris’ treads.
4. We Arrive at the Cottage
Eventually we turned off the big highway onto the county road, and then off the county road onto the little road, and then into the cottage driveway, which was long and rough as advertised. The truck bounced over rocks, big roots, branches and splashed through big puddles. We Masters were quite comfy in our seats, but the poor slaves under our boots got bounced around between the floor underneath them and our boots on top of them. My boots got to bounce a bit more on Loser’s head than was absolutely necessary. I think he whined a bit but I wasn’t really paying that much attention. The rain had diminished into a drizzle, the truck came to a stop, and the headlights shone at the Kuragari family “cottage” immediately in front of us. I had imagined something small and rustic, but had forgotten how well-off Katashi’s family was. The “cottage” would have made a fair-sized city house.
Boris and Srin opened their doors and started kicking and stomping the slaves at their feet, to get them to get out. Loser seemed to know he had to lie down on the ground at the truck door, despite the mud, so Srin and I could step on him on the way out. Boris had to command Runt to lie by the truck door since it was his first B&B weekend, as it was mine. Whatever a B&B weekend was—clearly this was not a B&B we were arriving at. I had to reflect that the two slaves were having very different experiences, supporting our disembarkation from the truck. If I were a slave, I’d rather have both me and Srin step on me, than have Boris step on me. The more I looked at Boris, the bigger he seemed. If Boris decided to pause with his full weight on Runt’s chest, I wondered how long Runt would be able to breathe. This was not the time that Boris chose to experiment, though. He stepped on Runt’s back, pushing his little body deeper into the mud, then pivoted on one boot to elicit an “Au!” from Runt—I’m convinced that was the only reason, because it was to dark to properly enjoy the sight of Runt squirming—and stepped off.
Katashi undid the cover of the back of the truck, told the slaves they were now allowed to get up off the ground and carry all our gear into the cottage. Mud clung to their shirts and pants as they got up from the wet ground. He went up to unlock the door. The slaves loaded the packs on their backs and carried them up the stairs, giving them to Katashi at the door who put them in a pile inside. The two Masters and Master-in-training followed the slaves up the stairs. When the packs were inside, Katashi told the slaves to lie face up, Loser outside the door and Runt inside, since the Masters’ boots needed wiping as we entered. Runt needed to lose his hoodie and track pants since it was too muddy to wear inside following his service as Boris’ doormat at the truck. Luckily his T-shirt and boxer shorts (with a nice lump in them) were still clean. Katashi was already inside. Srin went first, stepping first on Loser’s chest, taking a few wipes on Loser’s wet hoodie, then on Runt’s T shirt. Then he noticed the lump in his boxers and made sure to put his full weight there. Then he stepped inside and started taking his boots off. I was next, and aped Srin in every respect. The boxers were still lumpy, so the area deserved a generous stomp. Finally Boris started wiping his giant boots first on Loser, who was outside. “I hate dirty boots” said Boris as his massive weight first crushed Loser’s abdomen as he wiped his left boot on his chest; and then crushed Loser’s chest as he wiped his right boot on his abdomen. Boris said to Loser as he continued to repeat this: “if Runt had licked them better there wouldn’t be so much leftover burger to wipe off on you, so if you don’t like this, take it up with your co-slave”. Eventually one could hear the fabric of Loser’s clothes ripping under Boris’ boots. “Next time, wear sturdier clothing” was the predictable comment, as he stepped up on Runt instead and starting wiping his boots there. Runt started moaning pretty soon. Boris crushed Runt’s crotch. Runt wailed. Full-weight Boris on his little body was no treat.
Once we were inside, it was time to get changed and comfortable. Katashi told the two slaves: “Inside, you guys are going to be in gym shorts and nothing else. No shirt, and no shoes. We like to see the bruises, scrapes, cuts, and other damage your bodies will accumulate in their contact with our footwear”. Short pause. “Frequent, and frequently unkind, contact.”
The Masters could wear whatever was comfortable, of course, keeping in mind that some types of clothing and footwear were better for keeping the slaves in check and imprinting bruises on their bodies than other kinds. Once the slaves were finished cleaning our boots, of course, those would be fine to wear in the house as well, said Katashi, as would soccer boots and sneakers. Most unusual, I thought, for a Japanese guy to be OK with shoes indoors. I guess when trampling conflicts with tradition, trampling tramples tradition.
5. A Nightcap
But first, it was time to have some wine before bed. In preparation for Katashi’s weekend at the cottage, his groundskeeper had prepared it for Katashi’s arrival, with flower vases in the bedrooms, and had filled the fridge with food and drink to keep us boys happy, including beer, some good wine and snacks. Near the fridge, in the family room, were two sofas facing each other with a couple of small ottomans in between them to put your feet on. The three Masters and Master-in-training had all kicked off our boots by the door and were walking around in sneakers. The slaves were in their gym shorts and nothing else. The Masters planted themselves on the sofas. Katashi told Runt and Loser to move the ottomans out of the way and replace them with themselves. But also they should bring all our boots and lick them clean while we have our wine. So the slaves positioned themselves on all fours while we put our feet on their backs, and while they licked our boots clean, one by one. Once in a while, if one of us thought that maybe they weren’t doing a good job or working hard enough, it was easy to give them a swift kick. Since they weren’t wearing a shirt, it was possible to see the marks on their skin accumulate with each kick.
Katashi first offered us some Northern Rhône Viognier from Condrieu. Katashi put the tall, narrow glasses on a tray, poured the wine, gave each Master and me a glass which now had some lovely misting on the side because the wine was so cool. It required some coordination to avoid spilling the wine while resting one’s feet on the back of the slaves who were not completely still because they had to lick our boots clean. As Katashi intoned about the tasting notes . . .
“you can expect rich oily flavors of tangerine, papaya, lime peel, and green almond with rich toasted oak notes of gingerbread, macadamia nut, and allspice; because of the primarily clay-and-decomposed granite soils, Condrieu wines are often plump with lower acidity. . .”
We had to balance our wine glasses and still deliver the occasional kick to the slaves, since Katashi said we should try to bruise them up a bit before bed (really bruise them up a bit more, since they definitely looked a bit worse after the ride up, particularly Runt.
We then switched to the wider glasses as Katashi poured the Shiraz. “Barossa?” asked Boris. “No,” said Katashi, “but it is from South Australia, to be sure”. Once again, the tasting notes droned on to allow us to kick the slaves a few times... “powerfully ripe confected blackberry, dried currant and mocha aromas along with a healthy punch of tobacco and an earthiness similar to smelling a wet red clay pot. Significant meaty and black pepper aromas as well. The fruit flavors are big. Tannins are grippy, but fine-grained and powdery, rather than chapping or harsh.” I caught Srin rolling his eyes.
“Ouch” wailed Loser, as Srin landed a nice kick in his belly. We swirled the wine a few times in the fancy glasses to develop the aroma, then sipped.
“Either Fleurieu or Limestone Coast”, I guessed. Katashi smiled.
“Fleurieu! Very good!” Praise from Katashi was rare. Especially for something as important to him as wine provenance. I enjoyed the moment.
Just before bed, it was time for a victory lap. Each of the Masters rode a slave around the room. Srin was the first to ride, and he chose Runt, since Srin was the smallest Master and Runt was the smaller slave. Katashi went next, on Loser. Then I went around on Loser. Boris decided he wanted to go on Runt. We knew this would not end well. Massive Boris on little Runt. Bravely, Runt let Boris sit on him, but after 2-3 small steps on hands and knees, Runt buckled onto the floor. Boris continued to sit on him with his bum on the small of Runt’s back, but now his feet had to go forward, landed on the back of Runt’s head. Or rather, his left foot did—Runt’s head was too small for Boris’ massive feet. Runt was facing to his right, so Boris parked his left foot on the right (up-facing) side of Runt’s head and face, while his right foot was on the floor, next to Runt’s face and crushing against it. Boris’ left foot pushed Runt’s face into Boris’ right ankle.
“Are we continuing the ride, Runt?” asked Boris, as the vice grip of his feet continued to crush Runt’s head.
Runt mumbled something into Boris’ right shoe, against which his mouth was crushed.
“Runt, get up!” Boris commanded. There was no way Runt could even think about getting up. He was completely clamped to the floor. It was also doubtful if Runt could hear Boris, since his left ear was crushed against the floor, and Boris’ left sneaker was obliterating Runt’s right ear.
“Where’dya find this guy?” Boris asked Katashi. “Totally useless. This is the time for some scatological remarks about his worth that I won’t lower myself to making, but really, Katashi.” Boris started to get up off Runt. He stepped onto his back, got up, then stepped off Runt’s back onto the floor, then kicked Runt in the chest and told him to turn over. Runt did.
Then Boris stepped on Runt’s stomach and chest (Boris’ feet were so big, they overlapped the two areas), looked from his height into Runt’s face and said to him: “you little Runt—do you hear me?” Runt nodded. “Next time I want you to do something, and you fail at it, I will grind you into the floorboards. You will cease to exist. You’ll be finished. Do you understand me? You disappointed me greatly tonight. Don’t do it again. Do you understand?”
Runt nodded. “Yes, sir” he said almost imperceptibly. He would have loved to tell Boris that a little runt like him could not possibly walk around with a massive guy like Boris on his back, but he realised that Boris was not in the mood to discuss physics.
The only thing still needing to be decided was who slept in which bedroom. Katashi had one that he normally used. A Master-in-training would clearly be the last one to choose. And between Srin and Boris, clearly Boris was going to choose first. So we went on a tour of the place and Boris chose his room, Srin chose next and I got the one left over. The other question was where the slaves would go. Katashi and Boris felt the slaves should sleep on the floor next to their beds. That way when it was time for these Masters to get out of their nice warm soft bed, they would be able to step first onto a nice warm soft slave, and then onto the not-nice, cold hard floor, rather than have their feet endure the shock of stepping onto the floor right away.
Srin wanted to know how come he wasn’t getting a slave to step on when getting out of bed, and was just told he was stupid, there were only two slaves so clearly Katashi and Boris were getting them. I didn’t think I should ask.
So that having been decided, Runt walked over closer to Katashi, as if he were hoping to spend the night on Katashi’s floor. Boris asked Runt what he was doing…Runt stayed silent. Loser, maybe to protect Runt, slowly drifted over closer to Boris, just to make it natural for Boris to choose him as the mat. But Boris still had it in for Runt because Runt didn’t carry him around the room, so he thundered, “let’s go, Runt. You’re gonna be the mat in my room. I might have a restless night and hafta get in and out of the bed every hour, you little weakling. And rest assured, each time my heel will grind a different part of your sorry carcass!” Boris gave Runt a swift kick in the ass which sent Runt forward a few steps and said, “get your ass into my bedroom, lie on the floor next to the bed and stay there until I say you can move!”. Runt obeyed. The rest of us each went to our own room, with Loser going with Katashi.
Well, so that was the first evening of this weekend. I was curious what the rest of the weekend would bring. As Master-in-Training, I was certainly learning lots.
6. Saturday Morning
In contrast to the drizzle and gloom of last night, Saturday started with a sunrise, visible through the trees and over the lake, that could not but elevate spirits. All was sweetness and light: the birds were chirping, the soft breezes made the ash leaves tremble, the white flaky birches poked out of the layers of last year’s leaves from the forest floor. A perfect day to learn how to trample our two slaves properly. I felt like I’d gotten off to a good start yesterday, but there was probably so much more to learn.
After surveying the happy morning scene out the cottage window, and still in my rumpled shorts and T shirt that I’d slept in, I slipped on my Adidas high tops and headed downstairs to see what the outside looked like, and what I might be able to scarf out of the fridge for breakfast. And, with any luck, some coffee.
The fridge was loaded with everything, so I got out some eggs, some bacon, found a frying pan and went to work. After sitting down on one of the sofas with my plate of breakfast, coffee steaming beside me, the sound of bare feet padding down the stairs preceded Loser’s entry into the kitchen. “Whoa!” exclaimed Loser. “What a great day!” He opened the fridge, his eyes grew wide, but then he realised he was a slave and this was not just an ordinary fridge in an ordinary friend’s cottage on an ordinary weekend. “Hey, Master” he asked, “if I get some food out, are you going to let me eat it?”
“Loser, I don’t care if you eat, but there’s no footrest here for my feet, and your job is to be the footrest.”
So over he came, put a plate of various breakfast things on the floor, and assumed the hands-and-knees position in front of me. I landed a few swift kicks into his ribs and stomach to remind him to think about his duties—like being the footrest--next time, then plopped my feet on his back as he hunkered down to eat his breakfast. I checked stuff out on my phone for a few minutes. After he’d eaten about half the food, I heard signs of life upstairs, so I got up and stepped on Loser’s breakfast. All he saw was his breakfast disappearing under my Adidas, food getting squished out around the sides.
“You’ve had enough, Loser. Go upstairs and tell me what the other boys are doing.” Another swift kick to the ribs followed, this one just for fun. Loser ran upstairs, but within a minute, he was back. “Ya gotta come upstairs with me, Master-in-Training, to see what Boris and Runt are doing.”
7. Boris Before Breakfast
So up we went to Boris’ bedroom. Looked like Boris told Runt to sleep on the floor next to his bed, so if he needed to get out of bed, he could step on the slave rather than right on the floor. Runt did that, and, in the morning, Boris had lowered his heel onto Runt’s head. Having his face crushed was a rude awakening for Runt, but Boris was obviously enjoying grinding his heel into Runt’s face (and Runt’s shorts were bulging.) And now, as Loser and I entered, there was Boris, sitting on the bed, with Runt writhing on the floor, as Boris’ massive heel ground Runt’s face into the floor. Back and forth he pivoted that rough, callused heel on Runt’s cheek—partial weight, to be sure, since he was sitting on the bed, but with massive force nonetheless. Runt was trying to grab his foot with both hands to lighten it bit, to reduce the force slightly, as if that would be of any use. Boris could easily overwhelm any resistance Runt put up, and such resistance egged him on and amused him.
“Ah, good thing you’re here!” said Boris to me. “A Master-in-training needs to be taught from time to time.” He lifted his heel off Runt’s face and kicked him in the belly instead. Runt was small enough, and Boris strong enough, that Runt actually slid few inches along the floor, like some piece of trash that Boris might have kicked. Runt yelped. Boris said, “go get me my Jordans from my backpack, Runt!” When Runt came back with them, Boris made him lie down again, stuck his giant feet into the size 14 bright red Jordans as he braced them against Runt’s body on the floor. Runt moaned.
Boris intoned to me: “One thing ya gotta learn as a Master is that you do what you set out to do. The slave does the same thing. Once a process is in play, the Master executes it, and the slave endures it. There are no options for the slave. And since the slave doesn’t get to choose it, the Master needs to set it up carefully. So for example, let’s say we put the slave in the middle of this room and I take strides from one wall to another in different directions. I will not go out of my way to either step on the slave, nor to avoid him. But I will evaluate the direction and my stride length so that my contact with him is what I want it to be. And he will learn the meaning of fear under my Jordans. They may look soft, but there’s 260 lbs on top of them and they might be unpleasant for Runt depending on what part of him is being crushed.”
Boris turned to Loser and ordered him to get the rubber duckies from the bathroom. Near the bathtub in a basket was a collection of rubber duckies, presumably for kids’ baths when kids are visiting the cottage. There was also a box of plastic toys somewhere in Boris’ bedroom, and a vase of fresh cut flowers that had presumably been placed there in advance of our arrival by the same people that had filled the fridge with food. Boris took the flowers out of the vase and scattered them on the floor; he took a few plastic toys and threw them on the floor, and when Loser returned with the duckies, they went on the floor in random fashion as well. Then Boris told Runt to lie on his back in the middle of the floor, arms and legs spread wide; and told me to stand on either side of Runt’s head with my ankle bones against Runt’s ears, so he doesn’t move. I was going to be “the human clamp”.
“So this is how you do the cross-room torture,” he said to me.
Boris walked his Jordans to one wall, turned around, and in measured, even strides, came all the way to the other side; as he crossed the middle where Runt lay, he was able to not break his stride as he stepped over him without touching him. Runt had tensed up in fear as Boris slowly and deliberately approached, then relaxed as Boris stepped over him without contact. As he took each step, his 260 lbs of mass bent the floorboards, which creaked. Since one of the rubber duckies was directly in his way, it got crushed and let out its characteristic squeal as Boris’ weight squeezed all the air out of it through the vent at the bottom. Now I understood why he wanted the ducks on the floor.
Then Boris turned around at the wall and started to stride back towards Runt. Runt tensed up again, bracing himself to be crushed under those Jordans. As Boris slowly but deliberately approached, the floorboards continued to creak. One of the big red flowers ended up under one of the Jordans and got completely crushed and flattened, some of the crushed petals stuck to the treads of the Jordan. The next thing to get crushed was Runt’s hand, which made him wince a bit, then Runt’s abdomen. Runt wailed a bit as Boris crushed his abdomen; as his foot moved off, the crushed flower petals were still stuck to Runts skin. On the other side of Runt, there was another flower, another duck, and then the wall. So far so good, but I had the sense that Boris was going to make this worse for Runt on every crossing. Loser was watching all this with a combination of pleasure and dread.
Boris turned around. This time on the way towards Runt, there was a small plastic truck that got flattened under Boris, then a little painted wooden house that had a couple of teeny-tiny elderly people sitting in front of it. Crunch went the house and the gramma and grandpa! There was another step, and the next one looked as if Boris was about crush Runt’s knee, so Runt quickly pulled up his leg, leaving his foot where his knee had been. A massive Jordan crushed Runt’s foot. Runt grimaced, but the very next step elicited a big yelp as Boris’ other heel came down on Runt’s crotch. Runt turned pale and looked as if he was ready to vomit. Runt struggled, so I had to tighten my ankle-clamp on his head. It totally turned me on, knowing I was starting to crush his head between my ankles, and also that I was holding him hostage to whatever Boris wanted to inflict on him. “Shut up, Runt!” said Boris. “You haven’t experienced anything yet”. Boris next step was onto Runt’s upper arm, then off Runt entirely towards the wall, crunching a few more flowers and making a few more rubber duckies squeal as he walked.
Another crossing of the floor, this time with the shoe engaging with the side of Runt’s abdomen and scraping down to the floor. Runt squealed. My ankles crushed Runt’s ears more. Runt grabbed my ankles—I loved that. There’s nothing he could do about the pain I was causing him. My Adidas had a good grip on the floor and my bony ankles were going to keep crushing his soft fleshy earlobes against his skull. “Don’t wriggle, Runt”, I told him, “this can get a lot worse if you do”.
At the next crossing, Boris stepped right on top of Runt’s chest, which disappeared under that big red shoe. But then, in contrast to the deliberate step-by-step inevitability that preceded this, Boris came to a stop on Runt’s chest as Runt turned red. All of Boris’ weight was on the one shoe, and Runt just wasn’t breathing all that much. Runt used his hands to grab Boris’ toe and heel, as if he could lift Boris. Or at least so that he could push up a bit to reduce the weight. Boris stood up on the ball of his foot and pivoted, full weight on Runt’s chest, 180 degrees. Runt struggled with the pain. I squeezed my ankles together, crushing Runt’s skull a bit more. Boris came down with his other shoe on Runt’s abdomen, pulled his phone out of his pocket, and started reading something on it. Runt was getting desperate. Boris said to Runt, enjoying but ignoring the fact that he was red in the face and that his eyes looked as if they would pop out of his face, “Runt, I don’t think the Jordans are severe enough for you. How about we use my soccer cleats?” He turned to Loser and said, “Go get them for me, they’re in my backpack.” Runt could not speak, much less move. As I crushed his head between my ankles, he couldn’t even nod. Boris stepped off Runt, motioned for me to release his head, and kicked him to mobilise him. Runt was still curled up in a ball on the floor, covered with crushed petals, flower leaves, and bits of broken toys that Boris had randomly destroyed.
Loser got the cleats from Boris’ pack. Size 14 red Puma soccer shoes with hard plastic cleats. Loser looked at the sole. He’d never examined one with so much attention, thinking about it in relation to the pain it could cause. The sole was of black plastic, and the cleats were also of very hard black plastic but with bright red tips, to go along with the red shoe leather uppers. Under the forefoot there were five little round black plastic cleats with red tips around the periphery and one cleat in the middle without a red tip. Further back, under the ball of the foot, two small bars with red tips, one on either side. Under the heel, two small bars on the outside of the heel, and two round cleats on the inside. Loser found it absolutely frightening to think that 260 lbs could be balanced on just those little spikes, pushing the spikes and the thin, hard bars into someone’s body, or moving across the skin and shredding it. And to put those shoes onto the most powerful trampler, and have him apply it to the weakest slave, the balance seemed to be off. But then this game was not really about balance, quite the opposite.
Still, as he handed the shoes to Boris, he found himself saying, “Master Boris, this is really not right. Your cleats will go right through Runt’s skin. You’re going to put holes in him. You’ll kill him. He hasn’t even had breakfast. Don’t you think this is a bit over the top?”
Boris took one look at Loser and said, “Loser, I was going to spare you, but no longer. I think you’d better go get Srin. I need him here. You’re in so much trouble now.”
Loser went across the hall where Srin was just getting up and asked him to come into Boris’ bedroom. Boris said to Srin, “I need your help putting Loser into an ankle clamp. He had the audacity to complain when I was doing the crossing demo for our trainee, that I shouldn’t trample Runt in cleats! Can you imagine?” Srin did his best to appear shocked and disapproving of Loser and told Loser, “you’ll be down on the floor, on your back, just like Runt, head between my ankles!”
Boris sat down on the bed to put change from his Jordans into his cleats. As Boris commanded, Loser lay on the floor in front of Boris who shoved his feet into his cleats while they were on Loser’s chest and abdomen. Big scrapes showed up on Loser’s skin as Boris slid his cleats across his skin. “OK, Loser, put your head between the Srin’s ankles!” Loser slid across the floor and inserted his head between Srin’s ankles, as he clamped down on his ears. I was already standing with Runt’s head squished between my ankles.
Boris was ready to cross the floor again. This time, Runt was pale and his lower lip trembled a bit. He couldn’t move his head to see Boris’ cleats, but he could easily hear the slow klak, klak as it approached. He could hear the squishy sound of another flower meeting its doom underneath those cleats, and another crunchy toy getting destroyed. He braced himself for the next searing pain, but he couldn’t tell where on him the impact would be, nor how terrible. As it happened, Boris stepped right over him without touching him. The colour returned to Runt’s face as Boris stepped away. On the other side of Runt lay Loser, and the size of Boris’ strides were exactly such that one of the front cleats caught the side of Loser’s chest and with all of Boris’ weight behind that one cleat, slid down the side of his chest. Loser let out a giant cry of pain. Srin and I looked at each other with broad grins and bulging shorts. Boris didn’t break his stride, and we could not see his grin until he turned around at the wall.
As Boris set towards the two bodies on the floor again, they were visibly anxious. Contact with Boris’ cleats meant a great deal of pain and some lasting skin damage. Boris walked slowly and addressed Loser.
“You know, Loser, there are these arrangements in the trampling world where the slave micromanages the Master. The slave gets it into his head that he can tell the Master how the Master may torture him. In the end, that doesn’t work for either of them. And that’s not the deal here. If you try to tell me how I may and may not trample you, how much pain I may cause you, and so on, it’s not only not fun for me, but also not for you. You’re the slave. You need to lie down and take it. You can withdraw consent, but if you do, you’re never getting invited back. And you can’t withdraw consent on behalf of your fellow slave—only he can do that. But you’re either consenting or not. And if you are, then lie still because this may hurt a bit!”. Big smile from Boris to Loser as Boris’s next stride ended up with just one heel on the side of Loser’s chest. All that weight on two small bars, and two spikey round cleats. Boris balanced his massive weight on just one heel, and then he slid that heel down the side of Loser’s chest. Loser let out a massive shriek and curled up in a ball, at least to the extent he could, given that his head was in Srin’s unforgiving ankle vise grip. With the next stride, he stepped right over Runt without touching him, then strode towards the wall, mashing another toy and another rubber duckie which squealed, mocking Loser’s shriek. Boris purposely crushed the duck slowly, I thought, just to make fun of Loser’s cry.
The next crossing ended Runt’s reprieve. Boris shoe planted itself right on Runt’s chest. Runt made a noise as if he was getting carved into pieces—which was not far from the truth. A couple of the cleats actually cut into Runt’s skin, which was already abraded from the Jordans he’d just been trampled with. A few drops of blood oozed the floor. Boris stepped off Runt onto Loser’s forearm, which Loser was not expecting. The cleats got clearly imprinted on his forearm. He moved off the forearm into Loser’s crotch. Loser actually shook with pain. Boris stepped onto Loser’s thigh with the other foot, and then stepped off Loser, walked a couple of steps, did a 180, then at a faster gait, took a course that had him stepping one more time on the chest and abdomen of both slaves, twisting a bit on each one just to make sure there’s some ripped skin as a memento of the cleat trample. Loser moaned and cried, Runt let out a little painful high-pitched squeal, and both curled up into little balls from the pain. Then Boris klakked his way to the bed to get his cleats off his feet, very pleased with the misery he’d just caused.
“So there you go, Master-in-Training. Minimal injury—just a bit of bleeding and bruising--and yet a ton of fear. Simply by doing what you said you’d do. A good Master should never modify what he sets out to do on the basis of a slave’s preference.”
At this point, Katashi appeared in the doorway, impressions of his pillow still visible on his face, but with his Adidas Hardcourts on his feet. He surveyed the scene: a rubber-duckie cemetery with a bunch of them flattened; a number of flattened toy trucks and houses, a scattering of destroyed, demolished flowers, stems, and leaves, and two slaves curled up on the floor, some of the crushed petals and leaves stuck to their skin, one of them bleeding, completely spent.
“Looks like Boris tenderized you guys a bit for my morning trample! Thanks, Boris!”
The slaves looked at him, apprehensively. Surely he can’t be serious.
“OK, I’ll spare you this morning.” Sighs of relief. “Just line up along the wall, you two, and I’ll just give you the once over.” He was serious.
The slaves dragged their sorry carcasses to the wall and lay down along the base of it. Loser’s head was in the corner of the room, and Runt’s head was at Loser’s feat. Runt was face up, Loser face down. Katashi said, “Loser, your choice if you want to be face down. But I’ll make you remember it.” Loser stayed face down. “Okay,” said Katashi. He started walking up Runt, making sure to take little steps and cover every part of his shins, thighs, groin, abdomen, chest and face. Bracing himself against the wall, he stepped on Runt’s right cheek with his left shoe and vice versa, covering his whole face, with just Runt’s nose sticking out between the shoes, and stayed there for a while. Runt’s mouth was under Katashi’s heels, and Runt wasn’t moving because he knew that would just make it worse. Then Katashi got off Runt’s face, leaving the outline of his shoes clearly visible on the cheeks and forehead, including an obvious Adidas imprint. Runt would be going around all weekend, and all next week, with Katashi’s shoes imprinted on his face, like a walking Adidas ad.
Katashi took a big step off Runt’s face onto Loser’s calves. Then he did something I found very interesting: with some deft twisting motion of his feet, he took quick steps up Loser’s legs, bum, and back, leaving obvious red imprints where he stepped. Loser winced and yelped with every step. At the end, he stepped on Loser’s head, which he turned to the side, and slowly ground Loser’s ear under his toe, as if it had been a cigarette butt. Loser was audibly unhappy about this, so Katashi lifted his foot and told Loser to turn his head so he could snuff out the other ear. It was an interesting decision for Loser. The already traumatised ear now hurt more to continue trampling than if he let Katashi trample the other one that had not been trampled yet. So he turned his head, and Katashi made sure that his pain was symmetrical. Katashi was pleased with himself, got off, said to Boris, “make sure the slaves clean up the mess they made” and to everyone, “see you guys at breakfast” and strode off.
Boris said to Loser, “Loser, make sure you clean your and Runt’s blood off the floor. I don’t want your blood on my bedroom floor, ok? It attracts flies and other vermin! And clean up this mess,” pointing to the destroyed flowers, the crushed toys, the deformed rubber duckies. Loser nodded. Boris continued, “Loser, torturing people makes me hungry. After the bedroom is spotless, make sure you have a great breakfast ready for me when Runt and I are done with our shower. Be careful—breakfast deficiencies can elicit severe punishment for slaves. What you just saw was nothing, just a little fun game before breakfast. Runt, go run the water for my shower and make sure all the soap and shampoo are in there, I’ll be right there.” Runt left to go prepare the bathroom for Boris’ shower. Loser and I went back downstairs.
I heard later that Boris made Runt lie down on the shower cubicle floor which was too small to fit Runt, so his legs were vertical along one of the walls and head was supported a bit by the other wall, but his body was on the shower floor. Boris stood on him the entire time he was showering, rinsing himself off onto Runt who was trying hard not to inhale the soapy water. Boris could easily see he was making Runt hard, and stepped on him a few times to allow Runt to experience his full weight there as he moved around. Runt was still bleeding a bit in the shower from the cleat scrapes, so Boris made him air dry because he was worried about blood stains on the towels, he told Runt. Then the two of them came down to the breakfast that Loser was making.
8. Breakfast
Katashi and Srin were already downstairs, sitting at the table, sipping their coffee and waiting for whatever Loser was cooking up. Having just had his body destroyed, Loser was not moving so fast. His back and his legs bore the bruises and scrapes of Boris and Katashi’s morning pleasure.
The breakfast had to do with eggs, bacon, pieces of chicken, peppers, tomatoes, cheese. Turned out that Loser was pretty good in the kitchen. There were chuckles as Boris and Runt walked in, Boris with a big grin on his face and Runt with big bruises and scrapes all over his chest and Adidas imprints on his face. The floor shook a bit with each step Boris took. Runt’s little steps and general demeanour made him look like a skittish cat that frequently gets kicked by its owner. Katashi took a close look at the Adidas sign on Runt’s face and nodded with pleasure. Katashi, Srin and Boris were all wearing their now-impeccably-licked-clean Timbs, and I wondered if I should be in them too, since I was still in my Adidas high tops. Boris and Runt each grabbed a chair around the table. It took almost no time for one of Boris’ big boots to whop Runt’s ass. “What do you think you’re doing? You know your place!”—Boris pointed under the table. Runt crawled under the table, trying to avoid random kicks and stomps from six Timbs and two Adidas, which were all aimed at him without being able to see him. This was fun. He was under the table, we were sitting around it, so we could kick without seeing what we were kicking and step and grind anything on the floor that felt soft and fleshy. Pretty soon, breakfast was ready, Loser put five plates on the table…and got another of Boris’ boots in his ass. “Um—count properly—there’s Katashi, Srin, me, and the trainee. Who’s the fifth plate for? I think you know your place but if you want to be taught, happy to teach you!” Loser served out the full pan of breakfast into the four plates, refilled everyone’s coffee and crawled obediently under the table, trying to fend off a hail of Timbs and Adidas as he did so. I had already eaten but this looked too good to refuse—and grinding slaves underfoot, what could be better? But, as before, it did get better still.
Over breakfast, we had a chance to discuss what we should do with our time in this great place in the woods. Loser, in making breakfast, had cut off the chicken meat from the bones and left a pile of bones on the counter, which we brought over to the table so that once in a while, we could throw a bone down to whichever slave grabbed it first. I put one of the bones that still had a chunk of meat on it right next to my right Adidas, and as a furtive hand reached for it, slammed my sneaker, wham, on the hand. There was a struggle, and eventually the hand got pulled out but the bone was still under my shoe. So I lifted my sole just enough to invite a repeat effort. The hand tried to snatch the bone again and wham, down came my foot on that hand again. Damn was it fun to be a Master! Beside me, Srin decided to try the same thing, but he was in Timbs. When the heel of his Timbs came down on the hand that was trying to snatch the bone, there was limited struggling—far too painful for a hand to struggle against the dug-in treads of that boot.
Back under my shoe, the hand eventually managed to pull the bone out, but the meat got ripped off the bone and stayed under my shoe. So I stood up to crush the meat into my sole; then sat down again and offered it to whichever slave it was (I think it was Loser, but didn’t care) to lick off if he wanted. Meanwhile, Boris dropped some food next to his boot, but the slaves were too careful to stick their hands close to Boris’ boot. Instead, one of them tried to use the bone that was under my food to knock the food that was next to Boris’ boot closer to them under the table. Boris was ready for an attempt and brought his boot down on the bone. Crunch went the chicken bone. One can only wonder if someone’s hand bones would equally have gone crunch if they’d been used to grab the food.
Katashi asked how I was as a canoeist. Naturally, he’d won some competitions in it, like he had with everything else, and the other guys, who had already been up here, were OK. I told him I was reasonably proficient. So he said fine, maybe, while it was sunny, the first thing we should do is to play “water war”. Katashi confirmed that both the slaves could swim, and that neither one of them wanted to go in the water this morning because it was cold. “Perfect” said Katashi. “We’ll put you on air mattresses” which is, in retrospect, what he would have done regardless of the water temperature or the wishes of the slaves to go in the water or not.
9. Water War
Everyone got life vests. The Masters wore whatever would keep them reasonably warm, including hoodies, swim shorts and sneakers, while the two slaves wore only life vests and shorts. Each of the slaves got a full-length air mattress to blow up and lie on. We walked a short distance to the boat house, took out two canoes, three paddles per canoe, and some light rope to tie the air mattresses to the canoe with. The wind was coming offshore, so as we set out, it was easy to get the canoes and mattresses, each with a slave on them, into the middle of the lake.
To even out the teams, Katashi and I were in one canoe, while Boris and Srin were in the other, since Srin was the lightest of the four of us and needed to balance out Boris the heavyweight. Whatever canoe had Boris in it would clearly be lower in the water, but also have Boris’ significant strength to propel it. The two mattresses with the slaves on it were at the end of the ropes tied to the canoes, maybe 50 feet from us. The canoes came together and Katashi explained the very simple rules: whichever team of Masters managed to dump their slave first—have the slave fully in the water and separated from the air mattress—won each round. Each round would start with the mattresses a similar distance from the canoes. Katashi would blow the whistle to start the round. The slaves would resist our efforts because the water was cold.
The Masters agreed. The two more skilled canoeists were obviously in the back, leaving it to Srin and me to try to dislodge the slaves from the front, or so I thought. I would use my paddle to push Loser off his mattress, I thought. I had it all planned out. The whistle blew, and we paddled like crazy, I thrust my paddle under Loser and levered him into the water. But almost at the same time, Srin had braced himself in his canoe and grabbed the edge of Runt’s mattress, pulling it up and rolling Runt into the water. The slaves did not actually know what the game was about, but they both swam back to their mattress and got back on. We decided to call this round a draw, even though I felt our splash happened slightly earlier than B&S’s. In the other canoe, B&S had a little powwow. Katashi and I had a powwow also. Instead of thrusting the paddle under the slave, I was going to shove the slave off the mattress with the paddle while at the same time grabbing the mattress and pulling it towards me. Then we started again.
The mattresses were once again at the end of the 50 foot ropes, the whistle blew, and both teams started to paddle hard. Somehow the other team was a bit faster this time—Boris’ big muscles were like a jet engine to that canoe, and then we saw their strategy just before executing ours: They simply ran the slave over! The canoe crashed into the mattress, Runt got pushed off the mattress by the prow of the canoe and momentarily disappeared under the canoe, reappearing on the other side. We did manage to push Loser off also, but our strategy was too slow.
So we did it a few more times, both canoes employing the “run the slave over” strategy, but it was clear that Katashi and I, for all of Katashi’s athleticism, could not compete with Boris’ brute strength. Boris’ massive arms and abs could just propel their canoe sufficiently faster and they would always get their victim first.
We let the slaves climb back onto the mattresses while we discussed what to do next. I had noticed that Katashi, although not as strong as Boris, was more accurate in his steering. So I tried to gently lead the conversation into a different game, that I was hoping Boris would propose as his idea, which worked. That is, we let the slave swim back, and see how many times, as they swam back, we could run either slave over with our canoes. To score a hit, the slave would have to be hit by the canoe (not just a paddle) and would need to have their head underwater for a split second. Either canoe could hit either slave. Each team would count their numbers of hits and compare on the shore.
This was a much better game, because now Katashi’s steering accuracy could compensate for Boris’ brute strength. Also, not to toot my own horn too much, but I was a better front paddler than Srin. We would slide up on each slave with enough speed and accuracy that they disappeared momentarily underwater, but not enough to give them a concussion so they wouldn’t be fun to torture later, or enough for a big scalp laceration that might bleed annoyingly and make a mess later. Boris and Srin were admittedly faster, but heads are so much smaller than air mattresses that they sometimes missed hitting the slave with the canoe, and the time they used circling back to try another hit easily took away the advantage of their greater speed. The slaves were incentivised to swim as fast as they could, because less time in the water meant getting run over fewer times. Eventually we ended up on the beach, all of us. The Masters felt invigorated from our morning exercise; the slaves were, cold, tired, and the backs of their heads hurt. Definitely time to plan a relaxing activity for them for the afternoon: driving practice for Masters, human pylons for the slaves—they won’t have to do anything, just sit there like pylons.
10. Reprieve
We got back to the boathouse, stowed the gear, and went up to the house. As before, the slaves preceded us slightly and then lay down in front of the door, and behind it, so that we Masters could wipe our feet on them as we walked in. All the dead leaves and pine needles on our shoes would make a mess in the house if we just walked in, and in any case, wiping our feet off on the slaves made less for them to clean off our shoes later. I was learning how to be a very considerate Master. On the other hand, the slaves were hungry, tired, and in a bit of pain from all the times we rammed their heads with the canoe. To say nothing of the number of times before that, that we’d stepped on them, stomped hard on them, kicked them. Too many delightful times to remember, I smiled to myself…
So Katashi asked them the key question, as they were sitting on the floor by the door, licking the dirt off our high tops: “If we have time, would you like to do that again tomorrow?” and both of them cautiously replied, “Sure…”
Katashi also knew that there’s a fine line to slave frustration, and if you don’t let them recuperate, you’re at risk of crossing it. So he said to them, “ok you two, I suggest you take a couple of hours off slaving. Meaning—you can eat whatever you want, you can have hot showers to clean off and warm up, you can wear whatever you want, all for two hours, say, till 1:30 pm. Then meet again here by the door, for the afternoon’s activities.
Runt looked relieved. Loser looked a bit mischievous and said: “so, are you commanding us to rest up?” Boris, behind Katashi, would have none of this kind of provocation. Loser was still sitting on the floor licking clean someone’s sneaker when Katashi had spoken, so Boris strode over to him, put one foot on his shoulder, pushed him to the floor, and stood with both feet on his chest sideways, deliberately gradually sliding towards Loser’s neck. “Loser” said Boris, the Russian accent subtly stronger, “he is telling you to rest up so you’re not garbage for us in the afternoon. He’s not treating you as an equal. You’re still a slave!” Boris had slid closer to Loser’s neck and Loser was starting to choke a bit. “You will in future pay some heed to your negligible status, your position being level with floors, carpets, ants and cockroaches, all of them having the privilege of us stepping on them and in the case of ants and cockroaches, the sweetest, most privileged of deaths as a result of the honour of having one of us crush them.” Loser was crimson in the face and tried to use his hands to shift Boris’ weight, which was laughably futile. Boris himself shifted his feet away from Loser’s neck. This did not improve Loser’s colour much since he was still not breathing all that well under Boris’ weight. And something was poking straight up in Loser’s shorts at the same time. “So, Loser, Katashi gave you a two-hour reprieve in order to make sure you can be the best possible slave this afternoon. It is your slavish duty to obey Katashi’s wish!” And with that, he got off him, kicked him in the side just for good measure, and Runt and Loser together slithered away, out of our sight. (A bit later, Runt slithered back, grabbed a couple of roast chickens out the fridge and a couple of beers, and slithered back to wherever they were hanging out during their “reprieve”.)
With the slaves gone, over lunch, the three Masters and Master-in-Training discussed what to do next: driving practice or the run-through-the-woods. This discussion followed our usual pattern. Srin said that, since ultimately both activities were still to be done, he was fine with either activity this afternoon. Boris digressed, saying the slaves were insufficiently grateful for having been given a reprieve for two hours. They had signed up to be slaves and should be made to suffer for the entire weekend. If they don’t suffer enough they might be dissatisfied and not want to do this again. I waved my hand to demur stating any opinion, saying “in training, remember?” Katashi took a deep breath, narrowed his already-narrow eyes, and said, mostly to Boris,
“We can disagree about whether they were reaching the limits of their frustration, and whether the risk was greater with making them suffer more, or giving them a break.”
Then he paused and said,
“We will do driving practice this afternoon. The slaves are tired and driving practice is more passive for them.”
When Katashi spoke in this way, no one spoke after. Years ago, the same tone ended classroom discussions (even the teacher stayed silent), and lunchtime talk. If one were to challenge Katashi’s considered opinion, which, as here, was backed by a single reason, he would reveal his thinking, and it would generate the same feeling as when an enemy tank unexpectedly emerges from a copse of trees onto a field where one is having what one thought was a one-on-one shootout with a single enemy soldier. The tank now aims its gun at you in the same way Katashi would aim his arguments. If he did not have a tank, Katashi wouldn’t opine. If Katashi opined, one stayed silent after.
11. Driving Practice
Katashi wanted to give us an opportunity to practice driving his truck and to enjoy the slightly raised suspension and big wheels with aggressive treads that he had outfitted it with to deal with the challenge of the cottage access road. (Or was it more to give the impression to anyone seeing the truck that it will drive, and park, where it wants?)
The game Katashi had in mind: Drive the truck right next to the slave lying on the road, close enough to touch the slave, but not to crush him. The same as one would do with pylons, only with human pylons—our slaves. Actually running over a slave would be messy in so many ways. Katashi’s idea was that the slaves would be lying on the road, their arms at their sides, and the front truck tire would be driven such that it touched the arm but did not run over it.
The part of the road we would be using for this went between two low retaining walls such that the width of the truck was about four feet less than the width of the road between the walls. Thus if the truck were driven exactly along the middle of the road, it would be two feet from each wall.
Srin asked Katashi, “so, with two feet on either side, do you really think it takes precision driving to get the truck through there?”
Katashi smiled condescendingly at Srin. “It depends. If there are slaves lying at the bottom of the wall on either side of the road and you choose not to run them over, you might have to be more precise.”
Big smiles broke out. So that was the plan. Katashi had brought a number of Loser- and Runt- sized fluorescent yellow long-sleeved T shirts and said to us:
“The slaves will be easy to see in these. At the same time, they are light coloured enough so that after you’ve passed by the slave, the truck’s tires should have left tread marks or mud on the loose edges of the sleeves. You will drive the truck up and do that to the slave on one side of the road, then turn around in front of the house and drive back down to do it to the slave on the other side of the road. That will be round one, and points are awarded for doing it precisely, to both slaves—leaving tread marks on the sleeve of each without crushing the slave’s arm. Then, for additional points, we will move the slaves even closer together, so that there’s no extra space—you have to steer the truck precisely between the slaves on the road, and if you get it a centimeter or two wrong, you will run over either one slave or the other—that is, you’ll crush the side of the arm of one slave, or the side of the arm of the other slave. (And if you screw it up even worse, you’ll crush the slave’s arm, break their bones, and then we’ll have to go to the emergency and answer stupid questions about how it happened—so don’t do that!) Notice that in this second round, there will be no spare space—the tires will fit exactly between the arms—on the left and right of the truck—of the slaves lying on each side of the driveway. So if you miss the sleeve of one slave, it’s because the truck was a centimeter or two too far to the right or left; that means it will run over—by that centimetre or two on the other side—the arm of the slave on the other side. So you lose points on both sides if you’re imprecise in your driving—because the tire did not run over the sleeve of one of the slaves, and did run over the arm of the other slave.”
Wow. That was a lot of words for Katashi. But he wanted to make sure that we understood precisely what the game was about, since the goal was to terrify the slaves, but not to permanently harm them.
I had to ask. “So most of the stuff we’ve done so far involved actual physical pain as well as humiliation. But here, we’re not actually planning to run them over, right?”
“No.” Katashi answered.
“So we’re terrorising them psychologically. We’re showing them that they’re so worthless, we can pretend that we would not care if we ran them over, but we won’t…?”
“Right. But we’re leaving it a little bit ambiguous for them. They need to trust that, like when we trample them, we’re dominating them, not killing or maiming them. Yet we could easily kill them if we made a mistake, either when we’re trampling them with our feet, or with the truck. But we won’t make a mistake. It’s really not that much different from trampling except that the terror and domination is all psychological, instead of a blend of physical and psychological.”
We called the slaves downstairs. “Reprieve over” yelled Srin. We put our boots on, the slaves lay on the floor on either side of the door, we stepped on them as we walked out, then they got up and followed us. They no longer need to be told the routine for getting in and out.
We walked the few steps to the driveway, Katashi gave the slaves their fluorescent yellow, long-sleeved shirts and told them to put them on. Pylons need to be visible, he told them. We set up on a part of the driveway where there was a low retaining wall on either side. Katashi and I would take one side, Srin and Boris the other. One Master at a time would drive the truck, Katashi first to show how. Katashi explained to the slaves what they would experience.
“You guys are lying on either side of the road. It’s a challenge for the driver to see where exactly where his right front tire is going, so that’s what this is about. Each slave will have 1-2 Masters as spotters. They will be sitting on the wall, or standing on you, to tell the driving Master if he’s about to run you over. You just hafta make sure you don’t move.”
“You can’t be serious” said Loser. “The whole point of pylons is that it doesn’t matter if the novice driver runs them over, because they’re fixable or replaceable—and we’re not.”
“That’s precisely why you guys are doing it. To make the stakes very high. We’d be so very sorry if you got run over by accident—we wouldn’t be able to trample you any more!” The way Katashi said this, any emotion could be inferred—sarcasm, sincerity, or derision. The tone of the delivery was exactly right for Loser. It was insulting, it was threatening, and it was dominating by Katashi. The message essentially said, “Loser, I’m way more powerful than you, you’re in my power and you will submit to my will.” Loser’s shorts revealed that the message had hit home. Loser lay down on the road in his yellow shirt where Katashi had commanded. Runt lay down on the opposite side of the road in his yellow shirt.
Katashi got in the truck and started driving towards us. Loser and I were on Katashi’s right side. Loser lay on the ground as commanded; I sat on the wall with my boots on him, one on his chest, one on his face. I positioned it so he could still see the oncoming truck. But as the truck slowly approached, which must have looked massive to Loser as he lay on the ground, he lost his cool, started to shift, then started to try to get up. My duty was to keep him there, so I stood up to put my whole weight on him, but he kept wriggling. I stomped on him a few times, really hard, to distract him from the truck with the pain of my stomps, but he was still scared of the oncoming truck. I had to stop the truck so I put my hand up, palm facing Katashi, and he stopped. I talked to Loser and tried to goad him into lying still, but he was too frightened. “This is stupid. Why am I lying on the road and letting some dude run me over for his pleasure?”
I was about to get into how it’s for his pleasure too, how this is really no different than any of the other things we’d done and enjoyed, but Boris, on the other side of the driveway, was not inclined to let us have a long talk. In three big strides, he crossed the road. Loser turned his head sideways immediately, knowing that if he kept looking up at me, Boris would step on his face. So Boris stepped on the side of Loser’s head, pivoted on his ear to a massive howl from Loser, and as I shuffled down towards Loser’s abdomen and crotch to give Boris room, Boris shifted one boot and most of his considerable weight onto Loser’s chest. At this point, Loser couldn’t wriggle if he tried. Boris signalled to Katashi to proceed. The truck started moving again. The front tire precisely rubbed against Loser’s arm sleeve, then rubbed along the sleeve all the way up to his shoulder. Katashi steered the truck slightly to the left so there would be no danger of the back wheels touching Loser, and drove off. Without a word—in fact he hadn’t spoken the whole time--Boris got off Loser and moved over to stand on Runt, as Katashi turned the truck around and came back to do the same thing to Runt. Katashi left the truck a short distance away, walked up to us, and said,
“Slaves, anyone hurt?” They shook their heads. “OK then, who’s the next driver?” (It’s not like Loser wasn’t hurt—after I stomped on him so hard, and then Boris crushed his ear and pivoted on it. I was sure it would be purple later. It’s just that he wasn’t hurt by the truck.)
Srin took the wheel next. Katashi and I stood on Loser as the truck approached. Very carefully, Srin moved the truck forward, but as he got close to Loser, he was 1-2 cm too far from his arm. He tried turning the front tire, but the risk was that he would mount Loser’s wrist and crush it. So he reversed the truck, took another run, and this time made it along the arm much as Katashi had done. In the other direction, he approached Runt perfectly. So far so good.
Now it was Boris’ turn to drive. “How does the driver’s seat go back?” Katashi demonstrated. Boris took a faster pace than Srin. As he approached Loser, Katashi and I, who were standing on him, moved a bit back—the speed of his approach was a bit too fast and he appeared to be coming too close to Loser. As it happened, he was slightly too close—as the front wheel moved along, it was grabbing not only the sleeve but also Loser’s skin, pulling it down on the ground and running it over. “Whoa, whoa!” we yelled, but he stopped the truck only after he’d cleared Loser. Loser took his shirt off for Boris to survey the damage. Boris looked very pleased with his work: a nice purple line ran up Loser’s arm, like a stripe. “What a great souvenir for you, Loser!” said Boris.
He got back in the truck, turned it around, and gave Runt the same purple mark. As Runt showed him it, Boris glowed with pleasure.
It was my turn. But after what I had seen Boris do, the Master-in-Training could not bring himself to drive close enough to the slaves to mark the sleeves. So I missed both sleeves, and got no points.
The next part was to move the slaves closer together so there was no room for error. I thought this part would be scarier for the slaves, but it turned out to be scarier for the Masters, just because there was no room for error. We also turned the slaves around so that for each slave, the arm with the purple stripe Boris had caused by actually running them over was turned away from the truck. So in this part, the slaves were placed in such a way that the truck fit precisely between the arm of one slave on one side of the road, and the arm of the other, on the other side. Katashi went first, then Srin, then I. Not sure why Katashi made Boris go last, maybe to have the game finished if Boris actually decided to run over the slaves. As it turned out, Boris got the truck front wheels about half way, stopped the truck, and decided to get out to inspect. From Runt’s perspective, he saw the truck stop, the driver’s door open, one massive boot after another come out of the truck above his face and then drop right onto his head—turned to the side in anticipation of Boris doing something like this. Boris then squatted, ignoring the fact that his boot toes were digging into Runt. In fact, he behaved as if his boots were on the surface of the driveway, and not mangling a human’s face. He checked out how close the wheel was to Runt, got up, walked along Runt’s body as Runt moaned with each step, stepped off, crossed in front of the truck to check the other side, stepped onto Loser’s head, bent down to check the position again without any obvious awareness that his boot, and his massive weight, were rearranging someone’s head.
Because we had turned the slaves around, Loser naturally turned his head so the ear that Boris had savaged during his last walk on Loser was down, and the as-yet-not-purple ear was up. Obligingly, Boris’ heel landed on that ear and turned on it a bit, to give him a matching set. Without really caring where his boots or Loser’s head were, Boris moved his boot back so that the ball of his foot was on Loser’s ear, and then with his full weight on that foot—and on Loser’s head/ear--Boris crouched down to check precisely the position of the truck tire relative to Loser’s arm. He stayed in that position, grinding Loser’s head underneath his boot (I’m sure Boris was fully aware and enjoying it greatly!) then stood up, pivoted around and retraced his steps via Loser’s head and Runt’s head back into the truck, and drove away. It’s not that he did all these manoeuvres specifically to cause more pain to the slaves; it was more that he was able to convey the illusion that they weren’t under his boots at all, they weren’t there at all. It was an incredibly hot set of moves, one that the slaves probably enjoyed greatly despite the enormous amount of pain it caused them. And not only the pain of the moment—the purple ears and swollen faces would give them pleasure for days or weeks to come, I suspected. Such lucky guys, to have had the privilege of getting crushed by these Masters.
Katashi told the slaves to take their pylon uniforms off. Along the sides of their arms, the truck had pinched and bruised the skin and left purple marks, but they had not been run over, there were no broken bones and no other injuries.
Katashi praised them: “You guys were excellent pylons! Maybe tomorrow, did you want to practice being speed bumps on the driveway?”
Loser said, “you know, I don’t know if the risk of that was worth the fun we all had with it.”
Srin said, “Loser, you’re a slave. Slaves don’t talk like that to Masters without paying for it.”
Loser replied, “Master Srin, you may be right about how slaves talk. But the facts remain that it would have been easy for one of you to accidentally maim us with the truck and then you wouldn’t have us to kick around any more."
“Loser, you really don’t know when to shut up. Tonight, it’s my turn to have a slave sleep on the floor by my bed and do whatever I command. So I’m gonna take you for myself. And by tomorrow, you’re not going to be daring to talk like this to a Master."
Again, Loser’s (swollen, purple) face looked defiant. But another part of his body showed Loser’s enjoyment of Srin’s position on this.
By this time, we were at the door. The slaves lay down on either side of the door while we four Masters trampled them getting in, kicked our boots off on them, and told the slaves to take showers—getting almost run over on a muddy road makes slaves dirty—and then to lick the boots clean for tomorrow’s adventures.
12. Katashi in Convo
I grabbed a beer and took it on the back deck to relax and think about what I was learning. As it turned out, Katashi was already sitting out there with a beer so I sat next to him. A few minutes passed as I took in the landscape, the sun which was gradually getting lower over the lake, the squirrels running through the tree branches, jumping from one tree to the next. Then I said to Katashi:
“Boris can certainly get away with a lot…”
“Yup,” answered the Man of Few Words.
“I don’t think they’d let me crush their heads like that.”
“Possibly not. Or not yet,” said Katashi.
“So why do they let Boris?”
Katashi let a bit of silence separate the question from the answer, maybe to emphasise the wisdom of his answer.
“Two characteristics: one that you can learn, and one that you can’t. For a start, he’s got the physique of a Nordic god, assuming Nordic gods were the height of one the tallest pro basketball players and looked like movie stars. Good luck with that one."
"But the other feature you can learn. How to look like you totally don’t give a shit about the slaves while being simultaneously super careful about two things: one is to hurt them a lot without ever injuring them at all; and the other is to make sure they’re enjoying it. There’s definitely a sweet spot with every slave—you torture them too little and they don’t enjoy it enough; or you torture them too much and they can’t enjoy it because they’re scared, either scared of pain or scared of injuries."
"Slaves enjoy the power difference, and power comes from the Master’s size, physique, elegance, prestige, anything you can bring to it. They want to be crushed by the people they most admire—so you have to be admirable in their eyes. But they also need to play the worthless role, since the more worthless they can pretend to be, the bigger the power difference. So if you let on that you’re concerned about them, it suggests that they’re worthy of your concern, which reduces the status difference and definitely reduces how hot the experience is for the slaves—and for you.”
“So that explains why the footwear has to be fancy and expensive?” I offered. “If they’re going to be trampled by a guy in sneakers, they’d better be fancy high-tops, not any cheap garden-variety pair.”
“Yes”, Katashi agreed, “although it’s also possible to find totally worn-out sneakers or boots, and muddy ones, hot, because it speaks to the slave’s worthlessness. But the Master’s other clothing, that won’t touch the slave, should be good-looking, while the slave should either have very little or no clothing or be in rags.”
“So if I end up taking a slave to sleep on my bedroom floor tonight, what should I do to make that work for them?”
“Well, just asking that question is really important. But it’s the same two things. First, let’s say the slave is lying on the floor by your bed. Step on him as much as possible before you get into bed. Pretend he’s not there, but secretly be aware of his enjoyment and don’t injure him. So, for example, step on his face, but don’t break his teeth or his nose.”
I could feel my own pleasure growing with this conversation.
“Also,” continued Katashi, “and this is important—show him you own him. How do you own him? By leaving none of his vulnerabilities unexploited. Remember that.”
Before I had a chance to ask him to explain what he meant by this, we were summoned to dinner. It appeared that Loser had persuaded Srin and Boris that they should let him make dinner. I think the motivation may have been (1) he knew he was the best cook and he did not want to eat what any of the Masters prepared and (2) he probably realised the alternative was to be mashed underfoot by Boris and Srin while they played chess, and he was sore enough already. He had found some steak in the fridge, grilled it on the BBQ, made some stuff to go along with it and set the table. Meanwhile, Runt, who had not succeeded in making a case that he was essential in helping Loser, was instead told to lie on the floor under the table on which Boris and Srin were playing chess, so they could grind him at will, and kick him every time one of them wanted another beer from the fridge. Boris and Srin played several games of chess while grinding Runt. They were just friendly games so no clock was used, but Boris was the better player and so had more time, while waiting for Srin to make a move, to torture Runt. When Boris stood on Runt’s chest crossways, his shoes were longer than Runt’s chest was wide.
Loser put the platter of grilled steaks in the middle of the table with the other parts of the dinner, and by now knew to only set the table for 4. Katashi said the slaves could take paper plates and help themselves to the food on the table, but had to sit on the floor under the table and eat it, and no cutlery to prevent injury (to the Masters’ boots, of course!). The Masters all wore boots to dinner because they did not want to mess up their sneakers, so it could not have been very comfortable for the slaves to avoid the 8 boots moving around in their airspace, or “accidentally” stepping on their food. The temptation to kick the slaves in the head, however gently, was too attractive for any of us to resist. The kicks were not hard and they were almost serendipitous, since we could not see the slaves; we just knew that if our boot hit something soft and mushy could be the face of a slave, where something hard was more likely to be the back of a slave’s head. At one point, it seems, Boris’ boot almost stepped on one of the slaves’ dinner on their plate. Just in time, the slave moved the plate over to my side of the table and seeing a very tempting baked potato, I stomped it with my heel so that bits of potato flew everywhere. I’m not sure how much dinner the slaves actually got, or what proportion they got off the plates vs. off the floor vs. off the Masters’ boots that they had to lick afterwards.
At the end of the evening, it was time to wander off to the bedrooms. As he threatened, Srin made Loser go with him. I wasn’t sure if I would get Runt to torture tonight, since clearly Katashi and Boris had first dibs, but they said it was a good learning experience for me, so I should take him and make sure he’s in rough shape by the morning. Runt probably felt that it couldn’t be any worse than being tortured by Boris the night before.
13. The Runt Night
Runt’s bare feet made no sound on the stairs, while my boots clomped noisily upstairs behind him. There was some dental hygiene and other ablutions to look after. There wasn’t a good bath mat in the bathroom, I told Runt, who obligingly lay down in front of the vanity so I could stand on something soft and cushy with my boots. I tried to stand still for the whole time to leave a nice boot imprint on his body after prolonged standing. This succeeded only partially—I’ll have to try it again. To turn off the vanity lights on either side of the mirror, I first had to step to the right (oh, was that his face under my boot?), and then to the left (oh, did I just crush his crotch?). This was actually the first time in the whole weekend that I was expected to manage a slave with no supervision and no other Masters or slaves present; I did not feel completely prepared, but figured I’d wing it. I was sure that at the end, my feet would be in better shape than the slave’s body. Katashi’s instructions went through my mind—if you don’t hurt him enough, he’ll be disappointed. Wasn’t there something else, too? I was tired.
As we entered the bedroom, I looked at Runt behind me, and looked at the empty space on the floor next to the bed where I expected Runt to lie down. Runt caught the gaze and understood, scurried ahead and lay down on his back. “if you don’t hurt them enough…”
“Runt, straighten out. I can’t get into bed like this.” I stepped on his thighs, and looked down at his face. It was a moment of truth between us. Runt lay on his back on the floor, looking at me with those big brown eyes of his, as I stood on his thighs and held onto the foot of the bed for balance. I tried to sense what he was feeling at this point.
Was he wondering, “would this Master-in-training own me tonight? Would he take possession? Or is he not there yet, has he not figured out what is required of a Master in this situation?”
I was thinking, “How do I show him I own him?” A faint voice with a slight samurai tone whispered, “leave no vulnerability unexploited.”
My gaze shifted from Runt’s face to his crotch right in front of me, where something was standing at attention. Runt’s eyes opened wider, as he saw that I was figuring this out. With my full weight on my left foot, I put my right foot in between Runt’s thighs, pushed it onto the floor, and then shoved Runt’s left leg out of the way, spreading the legs. I could see that Runt was ready to be owned. I lifted my right foot, allowing Runt to gaze at the great treads, the hardness of the sole, the weight and momentum it was about to acquire. I let Runt savour this moment—the moment of fear, the moment of ownership, the moment when any doubt about my owning him would evaporate. Then, full force, I slammed the heel of my boot down into that crotch. Instantly, Runt curled up into a ball, looked pale, looked like he was about to retch, shook a few times.
This was the moment, I thought, that I could screw this up completely by being hesitant. So I strode over towards his head and chest, and started kicking his knees away from his chest, saying, “straighten out, Runt. I need to get into bed”.
Runt did straighten out. He had really loved this. As soon as his colour returned, I could tell that he now knew that I was a real Master. Once again, I spread his thighs, but then I stepped on his crotch rather than stomping on it and he yelped. I stepped into his abdomen, thrusting the toes of my boot as deep as I could, and then onto his head. He managed to turn his face just in time to avoid having his nose crushed, so I was standing on his ear, twisting my heel a bit just to grind it ever so slightly, as I had seen Boris do to Loser. Then I jumped into bed. Using the other foot, I slipped my boots off one by one, letting each heavy boot drop straight on Runt’s face. Then I pulled my feet into bed.
Big sigh of relief from the floor.
I can’t let him feel relieved so soon, I thought. Out of bed I jumped quickly, this time landing straight on his nose, and walked barefoot straight down his body, stepping again into his crotch and hearing another moan. Walked to the bathroom, got a full bottle of water and sipped from it. Walked back into the bedroom, strode straight for Runt but this time he curled into a ball before I had a chance to crush his crotch. “Runt, if you don’t straighten out, bad things will happen. I’m your Master and I determine where I step and how hard.” I could tell he was still having fun from how the crotch felt when I stomped onto it again, eliciting a nice yelp and another possum curl. I had to walk on his side, still stepped on his head, and got into bed. As he uncurled I asked, “Runt, would you like some water?” “yes please, Master” said Runt. I took the bottle and poured some onto his face. Serve him right for curling up and making life difficult for me. The bottle went on my night stand. I’d be asleep soon, and if Runt was thirsty, he could help himself—and enjoy the punishment for doing so in the morning.
The sun on my face woke me up. The bottle was empty. Runt was sleeping. I needed to pee. Down came my feet onto Runt’s face and into Runt’s crotch and continued taking me to the bathroom. When I repeated this painful exercise on my way back to bed, I asked Runt,
“Runt, are you having fun this B&B weekend?”
“Yes, Master. I just don’t know why Katashi calls it a B&B weekend when it’s his own cottage we’re staying in.”
“Yeah, I don’t know either. But never mind the Master for a minute. I just wonder why you like this abuse so much?”
“Oh, are we having an adult conversation?” asked Runt.
“Trying” I replied.
“Ok, it’s really early in the morning for serious conversations. But if you really want to know…
“I do..”
“Then I don’t know.” said Runt. "I’ve always enjoyed this. Even when I was a kid, I enjoyed the idea of people walking over me. I got kindergarten buddies to use me for a bridge. It was a great game, they loved walking over me and I loved being walked over. In a way, it made me feel powerful for being able to withstand so much. And it’s pretty selective—I have to both like and respect the people to let them do this to me. Why do you like it?"
“It’s pretty awesome, having this much power over someone who’s writhing in pain at your feet, because of your feet, letting you do this to them, and liking it. I’ve also loved it from early days, putting on boots or sneakers and squashing toys, food, you name it—but then when the opportunity came to crush people, that was better than all the other things. – What have your favourite parts of the weekend been, so far?” I asked.
“The ride up was pretty cool. Being under Boris’ giant, heavy boots in the truck. Sometimes he was deliberately grinding me just for fun. Other times he wasn’t even paying attention, but he’s so big and so heavy and the boots insulate him from feeling anything, and it was dark, that I don’t think he had any idea what part of me he was crushing—and his not knowing or caring was even hotter than when he was doing it deliberately. What was your favourite?”
I thought for a minute. Such a jumble of hot moments. “I did like grinding Loser’s face on the way up, but I’d have to say that almost running you guys over with the truck, and running you over with the canoe, those were moments I’ll remember for a while! But I hear there’s one more game in store this morning that’s more fun than those two,” I said.
“What?” asked Runt, half curious and eager, and half scared.
“I can’t tell you. I don’t wanna get in trouble with Katashi. But you’ll find out soon enough. Let’s get some breakfast.”
Before Runt could move, my legs swung out of bed and my heel landed on his face. The collegial chat was suddenly over and he was my slave again, as my heel crushed his face ever harder and I pivoted on his face just to make sure he didn’t get any ideas about more conversation. I stood up fully, put all my weight on the heel that was on his face, and then, before he could curl up, my other heel hit his crotch again, still sore from last night. He let out a wail and curled up in pain. “Don’t be such a baby, Runt,” I mocked him, “I need you down at breakfast.” My enjoyment of seeing Runt, curled up and wailing on the floor with crushed face and crotch, was amazing. Even more amazing, despite the pain and the wailing, was that his enjoyment was great also.
14. Forest Trample
Breakfast was already in full swing when we got downstairs. Loser’s sorry body was under the table, contending unsuccessfully for space with three pairs of aggressive high-tops from the others. “Get under there, Runt!” I told him. Runt’s face was red and swollen from the weight and twisting of my heel on it. Katashi saw it and looked approvingly at me; I was delighted that Katashi approved. I grabbed some food, sat at the table and gave a few kicks and stomps to whatever fleshy things my shoes caught underneath the table which I could not see. A few nice yelps confirmed successful hits. Katashi addressed the slaves underneath the table.
“Listen up! After breakfast, you guys are to put on your canvas Converse sneakers and come with the Masters for a run around the track. The track is in the forest and about 330 meters for one time around. The Masters will do 15 laps. The track is unfortunately very muddy, and you will also be outfitted with ankle weights to make sure you get good exercise, and to keep you from going too fast. Slaves hafta stay on the very muddy path and not go on the drier shoulders of the path. Masters will be wearing our Timbs to keep our feet dry and running along the dry shoulders, except when we come up behind you, when we will go into the muddy middle to overtake you. We will be faster than you because we’re Masters, and not encumbered with ankle weights like you slaves, and we’re not in pain. Is everything clear? Think before you ask questions, slaves, stupid questions will be painful.”
In my mind the obvious question is why we were going into the mud to overtake them when they’re already in the mud...this made no sense to me. And although Katashi wouldn’t punish me if I asked, I kept it to myself.
Runt spoke up. As he asked the question, Katashi looked down and saw Runt’s hand sticking out from under the table. There was really not enough room under the table for Runt, Loser, and four pairs of large male legs and shoes, so some part of a slave was definitely going to stick out. Runt asked, “how heavy are the ankle weights?” Katashi’s red Jordan slammed down on Runt’s hand even before the question was finished. He stood up and lifted his other foot off the floor, then slowly pivoted on Runt’s hand. Runt yelped.
“Why is that a stupid question, Runt?” asked Katashi. Runt’s voice trembled from the pain of Katashi’s full weight pivoting on the hand he was crushing. “Because the answer doesn’t matter. I’ll wear whatever weight you make me wear regardless of how heavy it is.”
“Right, Runt. Any more questions, you two?” Katashi asked. He lifted his foot off Runt’s hand and sat down. Runt shook his hand to regain some circulation. “Can we wear T shirts for the run?” asked Loser. “Yes. They may not survive very long, so I would not choose the nicest ones. I don’t think you losers have any nice ones, but at least ones that look nice to you,” Srin said.
The slaves arrived at the door in two decrepit T-shirts, shorts and Converse canvas sneakers, strapped the ankle weights to their ankles, and lay down on either side of the door, to allow the Masters to step on them to exit the cottage, as always. Katashi went first, then Srin and then Boris. Srin was just stepping onto Loser as Boris’ massive boot came down on Runt’s back, and then Boris stopped.
“Srin,” Boris said. Srin stopped on Loser’s back, and pivoted around, as Loser winced.
“What?”
“Do you like these shirts the slaves are wearing?”
“Not particularly, but they’re just slave shirts.”
“They still offend the eye a little bit. I don’t think they’re needed, do you?”
Boris stuck the toe of one boot into the collar of Runt’s shirt, as his full weight stayed on the other boot on Runt’s back. He then pulled down at the collar, ripping it, and followed through until he had ripped the whole shirt from top to bottom, also putting a big red mark along Runt’s back where the boot scraped it. Srin admired the work. “Yeah, they really should take more care about what they wear in our presence,” said Srin, and did the same thing to Loser’s shirt. Thus the slaves had no shirts for the run and a few extra boot marks on torsos that already had a ton of boot marks.
We gathered on the track. The muddy centre of the track was just wide enough for one slave. “You’ll run behind one another,” Katashi said. Whenever we lap you, we’ll go into the muddy middle. You are not allowed to come out of the muddy middle. We will be doing 15 laps, so the faster you run, the less you will get trampled. You’ll get a head start, and if you manage to run 14 laps while we run 15, you’ll only get trampled once. And as you can imagine, getting trampled only once is much better than 2 or 3 times. Of course—smiled Katashi—that’s not likely to happen. Given your likely deficient performance, you’ll get trampled 15 times. Get going—we’ll give you 60 seconds’ head start.”
Running with ankle weights through ankle-deep mud in flimsy footwear is exhausting and slow. With any speed on our part, we should be able to trample them 14 times.
We did wait 60 seconds, then walked briskly behind them along the easy dry path next to the mud. As we approached them from behind as they trudged ankle-deep in the mud, Loser was several feet ahead of Runt. Katashi let out something that sounded like a Viking war cry and broke into a run, and swerved into the mud as we followed, boots splashing mud in all directions but our feet were nice and dry. I imagined how wet and miserable the slaves were in their canvas shoes.
Katashi came up to Runt from behind and pushed him forward into the mud. Runt fell forward, holding his body out of the mud with his outstretched arms. Katashi’s boots pounded up his legs, his ass, and stepped on his upper back, then jumped off in front of him, continuing to run forward, to push Loser into the mud the same way. I followed Katashi. I was pretty impressed that Runt was able to hold my weight up when I was standing on his shoulders, before I jumped forward. But it was better for Runt to hold me up on his shoulders than to get his face pushed into the mud.
His luck was not to hold because the next trampler was Boris, and Boris wasn’t going to gently let Runt and Loser keep their faces out of the mud. The massive boots stepped on the back of Runt’s legs, then on Runt’s back and Runt’s shoulders, and stayed there for a few seconds, until ultimately Runt couldn’t hold up Boris’s weight on his small arms any more, and collapsed, with Boris on top of him, into the mud. Boris then stepped on the back of Runt’s head, shoving his face into the mud, stepped off, and repeated the process with Loser. Loser was harder to crush, being a bit bigger and stronger than Runt, so Boris had to bounce a bit on his shoulders until Loser, too, collapsed into the mud and Boris put his full weight on the back of his head so that his face was good and deep in the mud. Then he stepped off, with a big smile on his face. I had the feeling that Boris takes great pleasure in his massive size and weight, in the knowledge that nothing can survive long under his boots, that he doesn’t have to try hard to crush and destroy anything he likes.
Srin followed, but he had the easiest job. Runt was already flat in the mud, so he just had to walk over him. As Runt lifted his head out of the mud to take a breath, Srin stepped on it, shoving his face back in the mud again. Then he moved forward to do the same thing to Loser.
Now that all four of us had trampled both slaves, they started lifting themselves out of the mud, scraping it off their faces, their bodies, their legs, spitting it out of their mouths and blowing it out of their nostrils. They were quite a sight to behold! We Masters delighted in watching them, then left them to clean themselves off and resume their “run”, as we ambled pleasantly around the track on the dry path. “I got a bit of mud on my boot” said Srin, mock-tragically. “We’ll make sure those slaves clean them properly when we’re done with this”, said Boris.
As we continued to walk around the track, we made a full circle and a bit more, and there were the slaves again, ahead of us, trudging through the mud. We gained on them, Katashi once again let out some battle cry, and was about to push Runt down again when Runt lowered himself. Katashi walked over him, but now that he was already down and not resisting, Katashi stepped on Runt’s head and shoved it into the mud just as previously only Boris and Srin had done. Then it was my turn. There was something satisfying about shoving his head into that soft mud, knowing that he could feel my heavy boot treads crushing the back of his head, and on the other side, the mud oozing into every orifice of his face, and that he knew that coming up for air depended on when it would be my pleasure to step off his head. I did not stay on his head for very long—I wanted to enjoy the same sensation on Loser, a few feet ahead. Loser’s head was a bit bigger, easier for me to stay balanced on. I wondered what would happen if I just stayed there for a few more seconds—would he start to panic?
Boris’ huge weight pushed Runt even further into the mud. As he stepped on Runt’s head, it must have hurt a lot, as Runt’s hands splashed the mud a bit in distress. Boris smiled. He was being effective. He stepped off and walked up on Loser and stood on Loser’s head for a few seconds as it descended deeper into the mud under Boris’ weight. Then he pivoted on the back of his head (will that rip out a bunch of hair, I wondered?) and stepped off. As soon as Boris got off each slave’s head they bobbed up for air, only to be shoved back into the mud under Srin’s boots. Once again, the slaves dragged themselves out of the mud and scraped it off a bit as we watched, smiling. We then walked comfortably around the track, they moved forward a bit, but several hundred meters further, we got to trample them again. And again.
It wasn’t always an exact repeat. There was one circuit when the slaves thought that if they lay on their backs in the mud, then at least they could continue to breathe while they were getting trampled. Sadly, that was a miscalculation. When we caught up to the slaves on that circuit, they had already lain down into their mud on their backs, hearing us coming up behind them. So I went forward to watch Katashi to see how he would handle this. At this point, Loser was behind Runt so he was going to get trampled first. Katashi stepped off the dry path onto Loser’s thigh and then sank one heel into the bulge in Loser’s crotch. He twisted it around a bit, then stepped with both feet onto Loser’s chest and looked down at Loser’s face, floating in the mud, surrounded by mud. Katashi’s eyes narrowed and his smile broadened. He was obviously having a lot of fun. Loser did not look like he was having fun, but was betrayed by the bulge in his crotch. He asked Loser,
“So, you guys thought that if you lay on your back, you’d get to breathe as we trampled you?” There was a tentative nod from Loser. Then a big smile from Katashi. “That was a miscalculation!” Katashi’s muddy boot covered Loser’s face. The heel went over his mouth and upper lip; the space between the boot heel and forefoot neatly fit Loser’s nose, and the treads of the front of his boot stepped on the nasal bridge and forehead. Then Katashi applied his full weight to his boot, and pushed Loser’s head deep into the mud. As it sank, Katashi deftly stepped off his face back onto the dry path, walked forward, and started doing the same to Runt. Right behind Katashi, I got to do the same thing. Boris was following me. I can only imagine what Loser’s crotch felt like after Boris had stepped onto it and twisted his heel. Boris had no trouble sinking Loser’s head into the mud. And then, just for good measure, Srin followed.
Another lap, another effort at avoidance from the slaves—they curled up into a ball and we walked over their sides. The only problem for the slaves was that having big heavy guys walk on your side can be painful, and when the same big guys with good treads step on your ears and twist a bit, that can’t be too comfortable either. So the slaves abandoned that tactic too, after only one use.
In the end, Katashi was right. The slaves barely completed one circuit; the Masters completed all 15, so the slaves got trampled into the mud 14 times. This was by far the most demanding on the slaves in terms of pain, discomfort, humiliation, just general unpleasantness. So it was good to have left it to the end of the weekend.
After the 14th trample, Katashi told the slaves to wash themselves in the lake—don’t even think of coming near the cottage with all that mud on them. Off they went. Meanwhile, we’d left a cooler of nice dry Provençal rosé by a picnic table near the door of the cottage, so we Masters toasted our adventure with a few sips of summery heaven. Sadly—this made me realise that I was getting the hang of being a Master—I missed the presence of a couple of vulnerable bodies under the table that I could kick and stomp on while enjoying my rosé. Somehow, the wine didn’t taste as good without that.
“Hey, Boris,” Srin began, “you don’t think that maybe you were being a bit aggressive at times, did you?”
“This sounds like an interesting criticism from someone who was doing all the same things I was doing. What’s on your mind?”
“Well, when you apply your 130 kg to someone’s skull, or to any other part of their body, how do you know that something’s not going to break? I don’t apply that much force to these guys because I’m that much lighter than you.”
“When did it become my responsibility to figure out how much force their various body parts can withstand? It’s very obvious how much force I’m going to apply when they take one look at me (said with broad smile.) What’s not obvious is, when I’m standing say on Loser’s abdomen, how strong his abs are, how much he’s going to allow me to sink into it and compress his liver or spleen, or kidneys, and how strong they are. Maybe as I crush his abdomen, one of his kidneys might rip—but who’s supposed to figure that out—me or Loser? And sure, Runt’s small head could be fragile, and could crack under my weight—but Runt knows how much weight he’s subjecting it to, and if he’s dumb enough to stick his head under my boot, then I think it’s his responsibility to deal with any injuries. I’ll be happy to cause as many as he wants to have. But don’t think I’m some prehistoric ape. I do worry about things like sustainability and equity.”
“Sustainability and equity?” I asked. They were the last things I ever thought Boris would discuss except to make fun of them.
“Yes. Sustainability, because there’s effort in training slaves, bringing them here or wherever, destroying any self-esteem they might still have so that they understand that their only place in the world is under my boots. So if you go to all the trouble of training them, and then you damage them so they are no good to get trampled later, then it’s inefficient and wasteful.
“And equity, because if you bring two slaves up here and don’t crush both of them to the same extent, it’s possible that the guy who got less destroyed to be jealous of the guy who got more. So ya gotta be careful that if one of them gets destroyed, the other one gets destroyed as well.
Two sparkling-clean slaves came up the path from the lake, just as we were done with the wine.
“We couldn’t get into the cottage” yelled Katashi “because our boots are dirty and there are no doormats to wipe them on.”
“We just got clean!” protested Runt.
“Doesn’t mean we’re going in with muddy boots.” Well trained slaves. Once again, they lay down on either side of the door and one by one, the Masters carefully wiped their boots on them as we walked in. While normally this had been pro-forma, this time our boots were quite dirty with pebbles stuck in the treads that caused deep scratches in the slaves’ skin. They grumbled a bit, then took another shower to clean off the mud we’d just rubbed on them.
15. Debrief and Future Plans
The rest was dénouement. The slaves packed their bags and ours and put them in the back of the truck as the Masters had a bit of lunch. When the slaves were ready to go, we were finishing our lunch, so we forced them under the table just to kick and stomp them there a bit while we finished lunch, and dropped some food on the floor that they could eat off the floor or off our boots if they could avoid our boots aimed at their mouth or stomping on their hands on the floor.
We piled into the truck, with Runt begging to be in the back because being crushed in the footwell under Boris’ boots as he had been on the way up, given how sore he was already, was hard to agree to. After lying on the ground to serve as steps for the Masters to get into the truck, Loser climbed into the foot space in front of Boris, while Runt lay down on his back under Srin’s and my boots in the back seat. His face was under Srin’s boots, and Srin, even though he snoozed part of the way back, still managed, while sleeping, to grind his heels into Runt’s face once in a while.
As we got closer to the city, the conversation turned to the “evaluation” part of the weekend, and plans for next year. Battered, swollen, boot marked though they were, both slaves wanted to go up again next year. What about doing it twice in a summer, they asked? Or what about a winter/spring weekend? Katashi was relieved, since he had some doubts about whether the Masters had pushed the slaves a bit too far. Apparently not. Also, Runt had a friend who might consider coming as a third slave. It would be nicer for the slaves, said Runt, if the numbers were not so unbalanced. “Not only are the numbers unbalanced” said Loser, “but the biomass is even more unbalanced. If you add up the likely weights of the Masters, with Srin being maybe 90 Kg” he began, pointing out that Katashi and I were each slightly over 100 and Boris 130, “the biomass of the Masters was 420-430 kg, while Runt and I together are barely 140. So it’s a 3:1 advantage.”
Boris braced himself against the back of his chair with one leg, the boot crushing Loser’s chest so he could not take a breath or talk any more. “You speak of it as if it were a competition, Loser. But the results are a foregone conclusion. It’s a very Nietschesque concept. You guys are the Untermenschen, and we’re the Übermenschen. Your defeat is intrinsic to your existence. Our victory is intrinsic to ours. It’s why I’m sitting on a nice cushy chair, and you’re on the floor. It’s why I can say whatever I want whenever I want, but the pressure of my boot determines whether you get to say anything or not. Is that not right, Loser?” Boris released his boot just enough for Loser to be able to verbally agree. Then Boris gave him a nice kick, just to show that he could, and Loser yelped in pain. Boris shoved his boot over Loser’s mouth to stop the yelping.
Katashi was more practical. He said he was happy there were no injuries, and looked forward to next summer. He was happy to entertain a third slave, but couldn’t guarantee there wouldn’t be another trampler, and the “biomass”, as Boris said, was an unfortunate problem for small tramplees that no one is going to try to change. Watching small slaves disappear under giant boots was one of the great pleasures of being a trampler, said Katashi.
As we drove through the city getting closer to the school parking lot, Runt asked Srin, “Srin, why is this called a B&B weekend?” Srin’s white teeth shone from his deep brown face, and he poked Katashi gently. Boris stomped on Loser and said, “Loser, tell your fellow slave why it’s called a B&B weekend.”
“I don’t know, Boris!” Boris found a place on Loser’s arm that was even more bruised than the rest of it and pressed hard against it with his boot. “What is that, Loser?”
“It’s a bruise,” said Loser, wincing. Boris was trying hard to make this as painful as possible and being very effective, as always. Then Boris found a place on Loser’s thigh that had been scraped deeply, had bled, and the blood had dried up and crusted. Boris pressed his boot against the dried blood and scraped hard, so that the crust came off and Loser started to bleed again. “And what’s that red stuff?” asked Boris. “Blood. . .bleeding” said Loser.
“Right,” said Boris. “So, why do you think we named this the B&B weekend? It was in honour of you slaves!”
“A Blood and Bruises Weekend?” asked Loser. “How clever of you guys!” Loser could not restrain his sarcasm, with painful consequences from Boris which predictably followed. Wham! Went Boris’ boot into Loser’s chest, knocking the air out and stopping any further expression—of sarcasm, or anything else.
With his boot firmly on Loser’s mouth, Boris asked, “Loser, since I answered your stupid B&B question, you could answer me this: What does Katashi mean, the name, in Japanese?”
Naturally, Loser could not answer. Boris’ boot clamped his mouth shut. Katashi said, “Loser, when I was born, my parents named me Lisgar. What self-respecting Japanese kid could ever put up with that name? So I chose a proper Japanese name. Means “hard”—I hope you felt that this weekend.”
As Katashi’s truck approached the school, Katashi said to Boris, “Ok, Boris, time to let Zach sit on the middle seat and put his seatbelt on.” Boris smiled, “Who’s Zach?”
“Just do it,” said Katashi. Boris had trouble letting go. “He’s dirty, I’ve been wiping my boots on him—he’ll filth up your seat.” Katashi turned to us and told us to let Xavier sit on the middle seat also and put his seatbelt on. “Zach and Xav, you guys were great. Thanks for a very enjoyable weekend. Hope you enjoy all those scrapes and bruises. They’re gifts from us! You handled them very well!”
As we bade them good-bye in the school parking lot, I wondered how the slaves would explain their appearance—massive bruising and scrapes everywhere. Had they repeatedly fallen out of some fruit trees they were picking, and then got run over by a tractor? Did a building collapse on them and bury them in rubble? Had a bunch of thugs trampled them mercilessly all weekend? It will be up to them to explain why their ears are red and swollen, their lips huge, their eyelids droopy, their bodies full of cuts, scrapes, and bruises. And it will take them weeks to recover, I thought. But they’ll enjoy every wince. And they already looked forward to getting more next time.
Awesome especially the boots and pushing the slaves into the mud.
Very good story, Sir!!!
i'm pretty sure most of Your readers would love to read other stories like this, Sir...
Very good novel