TRAMPLE
by Wilma, 7/7/94
wherein is recounted the rise of a secret
vigilance committee of women
CAUTION: Story of women who like sex and violence and whose victims
do not necessarily consent to either. I was in a mood, okay?
Contains female domination of women and males, lesbianism, bondage.
Part 1 of 5
It had started as an impromptu retaliation against Virgil Pack
one June night when three 18-year-old girls dressed as sexy
vampires had walked back to Janice's house after a costume party.
They were dressed identically in black bodices and short skirts,
red capes, thigh-high fishnet hose and high heels. They caught
Virgil letting the air out of Janice's Dad's car in the driveway.
Their intention had been merely to confront the mildly retarded
little demon whose raison d'etre was to make life miserable for
every living thing. But Virgil escalated the situation. He might
have gotten away with jerking Brigette's black wig off and maybe
even with shoving Cindy when she objected. His critical error was
kicking Janice's feisty little Cocker Spaniel in the ribs when the
puppy came to their defense.
The dog hit with an ugly thump against the car. Unable to
breathe or to stand up, the animal's helpless writhing and gasping
froze Janice in stunned disbelief. A grave-cold hatred replaced
her shock, and she turned toward Virgil with a bone-chilling
glower. A feral growl escaped her throat as she started toward the
sneering little monster. So compelling was her stalking intensity
that Virgil failed to notice Cindy coming up behind him.
The blow from behind knocked Virgil toward Janice who rammed
her knee viciously into his face as he fell. In seconds, all three
girls were upon him, stomping and kicking him mercilessly until he
stopped moving. Cindy and Brigette came to their senses first and
had to pull Janice away from the unconscious form. When she heard
him moan, she jerked loose from the girls long enough to stomp him
once in the groin before they pulled her away again. They saw
Virgil crawling off as they pulled Janice into the house.
The dog recovered in time. Virgil did too, but his lot was
considerably less fortunate. Knowing no one had seen the episode,
he told his parents he had been attacked by a gang of masked boys
he couldn't identify. That face-saving lie was his undoing, that
and the phone call he made to tell Janice she and her friends would
be sorry for what they did to him.
"My little puppy will limp the rest of his life," Janice
pouted to Cindy and Brigette a week later. They were sitting in
the middle of Janice's large bed, their teddies and panties and
feminine lace midst a decor of sugar and spice and everything nice
clashing with their secret stirrings and forbidden thoughts.
"And Virgil will get us back if it takes him forever,"
Brigette said. "He's smart enough to get revenge and stupid enough
to kill us if he can."
"Virgil should have to limp like the puppy does," Cindy
suggested. "And we have to do something to keep him from
terrorizing us -- and I don't care if he *is* a little bit
retarded. He's still dangerous."
The three of them studied each other, reading each other's
minds and feelings. No one spoke, but they all knew. Stomping on
Virgil had included an element they were not acknowledging aloud.
It was Brigette who said it, finally, her head down and her
blonde hair hiding her face: "It turned me on to do that."
The silence that followed was brief.
"I'm glad you said it first," Cindy told her. "It turned me
on, too."
They looked at Janice for confirmation. She nodded. "Virgil
is a menace to the neighborhood. He's not so retarded he can't
learn, and I think we ought to reform him."
* * * * *
Nobody had ever seen him cry before, especially no girls. He
hadn't done anything wrong. He was only looking at them. They
were so pretty in their bikinis sunbathing in Janice's backyard.
Who wouldn't look? Any boy would have taken them up on their offer
to rub suntan lotion on their pretty legs. That's how they tricked
him into coming over the fence when they caught him spying on them.
Then they tricked him into coming inside with them to make Koolaid.
He'd get all the blame if anybody found out. They'd lie, and he'd
get all the blame just like he always did. Dad would kill him. It
didn't matter that they were bigger than he was. They were girls,
and girls never get blamed for anything.
And nobody would believe it anyway. He couldn't believe it
himself. They were walking on him! Two of them held him down
while the other one walked on him! Nobody would believe it,
especially not Dad. Dad would kill him if they told on him for
being in their house again after the police had warned his father
about it.
It was Brigette's turn to stand on him now. Janice and Cindy
were sitting on the living room floor on each side of him pulling
his arms out. Each one had one foot in his armpit and the other on
the side of his face. They had soft feet. He felt strange. What
they were doing to him made him feel funny. He didn't understand.
Soft girl feet. Pretty legs. Sexy bodies. Titties. Bellies.
Pretty faces. They were being mean to him, and he was trying not
to like it. It was confusing.
The auburn-haired Janice was the leader. She was the meanest,
too. She had sat on his chest and slapped him before she walked on
him. Cindy was the next meanest. She stood on his face when it
was her turn. When she stood astride him and slowly squatted down,
he saw her red pussy hairs between her milky white thighs.
Now the golden-haired Brigette he thought was so sweet and
nice was grinding her foot on his dick and balls. It hurt and felt
good at the same time. He didn't understand how that could be. It
was wrong to like it. He was a boy, a tough boy just like his Dad,
but these girls were extra tall and extra strong. Even Dad called
them teenage Amazons and looked at them when Mom wasn't around.
Brigette stepped onto his stomach. It was hard to breathe.
She walked in place on his stomach and belly, her soft feet and
pretty legs and sweet face not in keeping with what she was doing
to him. She enjoyed hurting him between his legs. She moved one
foot to his dick and pressed down slow and hard and looked mean.
They quit when he started crying. Janice and Cindy stood up,
and they all just watched him cry. Just stood there looking at him
and watching him cry. He cried more from the shame than the pain.
"Go home," Janice ordered.
They watched him struggle to his feet and walk toward the back
door holding his stomach and his crotch and crying. He heard them
laughing and making fun of him.
* * * * *
They had walked on him again. Now Janice was holding him on
her lap. He was naked. Janice was naked. She held him tight and
masturbated him until he was sick inside. It was scary, like his
dick and balls wanted to throw up and his belly fall out. When he
convulsed, they sneered at him and kept doing it. They sucked his
peter and masturbated him, and he thought they were taking his soul
out of him. But he couldn't stop them, and they wouldn't quit.
They were all naked, holding him on their laps and hugging him
tight and making him weaker and weaker with their hands and mouths.
Trample,
Part 2 of 5, by Wilma
Over the next couple of months, Virgil was less and less fun.
Little matter to the girls, they relentlessly trampled him and made
him lick them, and they continued to weaken and drain him until his
spirit languished. In August, they watched from Janice's upstairs
bedroom window as he limped toward the car with his parents to be
taken to his new home at the Institute. He was mindless . . . as
though he had no soul. And he limped. Virgil limped, and three
naked young women felt each other and watched him limp.
They backed away from the window and stood in a pas de trois
with their arms extended and each with her fingers interlacing the
fingers of the other two women. They gazed adoringly upon each
other's nakedness. They lowered their arms to their sides and
moved slowly together until each woman's body pressed against the
other two. Their arms encircling each other, mouth found mouth in
a sensuous three-way kiss as each felt the softly feminine silken
flesh of the other two pressing against her.
Janice took the lead in moving them to her bed, and they were
soon enmeshed in a lascivious trine of lesbian sex, legs on faces,
hands on breasts, mouths sucking at female sex, the sights and
sounds and smells and tastes, the feel, the moves, the fluid flow
of Sapphic grace, pulsing, fucking, hunching and bucking, lurching,
moaning, licking and sucking, the women the women the women did
feed with lust for each other in gluttonous greed until at long
last they sated themselves and fell face into crotch their demons
dispelled.
Their orgasms purged them of guilt and celebrated their
triumph. They had removed from their presence an odious
malignancy, a dangerous personality who, but for them, would have
lived a life of miscreancy and become a bane of the useful, a
tormentor of the innocent, and an affliction of the good.
A practice sanctioned by grandiose justification, driven by
lust, reinforced by triumph, and celebrated by sexual release of
galactic dimension was thereupon born in the breasts of three
beautiful young women and would become the means by which they
would rend Virgils everywhere and intimidate oppressors.
Thus came into being a union of women dedicated to vigilance
and retribution for actions against women who love women. They
called it TRAMPLE: TRiumphant AMazons Promoting Lesbian Eminence.
heh.
* * * * *
It was an uncommonly warm and beautiful October afternoon.
The three coeds sat on the grass in front of the main library where
a statue of Benjamin Franklin looked sagely over the campus. The
girls were working on a problem: what to do about Miss Simpson, an
English professor who had humiliated Brigette in class that morning
by making fun of her essay on Sappho and excoriating her for
embarrassing the class with her politics and sexual preference.
Miss Simpson. She had a Ph.D. but insisted on being called
Miss. The coeds sitting on the grass would soon change that.
Brigette had a solution to the Miss Simpson problem:
"Let's trample her," she said.
There is a look that comes over a woman suddenly flushed with
lust, and all three women had it. It's accompanied by a quick
intake of breath through the mouth followed by a heaving chest as
she inhales through the nose and exhales through the mouth. Her
eyes search the nearest sex object, which in the case of the three
girls was each other, and salivation increases. The breathing
technique dries the lips, and she moistens them reflexly by tucking
them in briefly and pushing them open with her tongue. She is
likely to extend her face in the direction of the sex object who,
as in this case, may be mirroring her lascivious behavior.
Specialized sweat glands are cued, pheromones are exuded,
piloerection occurs, her skin tingles, and blood flow is redirected
to make tumescent her sexual apparatus as primitive, subcortical
portions of the brain orchestrate her body's electrochemical
response. Body heat rises, Bartholin's glands secrete the nectar
of muliebria, and the woman is prepared for -- indeed, driven
toward -- sexual activity. The entire operation is accomplished in
seconds, and the brain's quick loss of blood engenders swooning
which, in turn, produces a rather dopey, unfocused look replaced
anon with half-closed eyelids and attempts to uncross the eyes.
Which is to say, they looked sexy, their pussies hiccuped, and
they almost fucked each other right there in front of the likeness
of a founding father. They did in fact kiss lightly but drew up
short of full libidinous surrender there on the lawn. Instead,
they treated passersby to their ceremonious pas de trois sans the
sensuous three-woman osculation that would possibly have led them
into a scene leading to their arrest for public lewdness.
* * * * *
It was ten o'clock, and Cora Simpson opened the door of her
ranch style stucco house ready to admonish the late trick-or-
treaters who rang her doorbell. "Twik or Tweet," said two little
goblins, and she didn't have the heart to scold them. Besides,
their mothers, two beautiful vampires standing out on the sidewalk,
must have had good reasons for taking the kids out so late.
They should be cautioned about dressing like that in this day
and age, though, with their breasts bubbling up like that and
wearing thigh-high fishnet hose with those high heels. It was a
dangerous world for women. Oh well, it wasn't any of her business
if they wanted to take risks. If she were twenty years younger,
she'd be the same way. And she'd look just as good, too. She
still had her figure and tone, and she could still turn heads if
she wanted to . . . and be touched again by a lover if she chose
. . . even by a woman as beautiful as those two . . ..
She shook off the images. She had overcome that problem. Dr.
Birnbaum said so. He said all she had to do now was pray and not
let herself slip back into obsessive thoughts about other women.
She had to fight it, and fight it she did, privately and publicly.
She gave the children specially wrapped fudge she had made
herself. She waved at the vampires, but they didn't wave back.
She turned the front porch light off as she closed and bolted the
door, glad another Halloween had passed with the only damage being
the broken window on her back door. Last year was much worse.
She leaned her forehead against the door. She wished she had
not seen those women. They wouldn't leave her mind. She rubbed
her eyes with the palm of her hand as she turned and started toward
the stairs.
Brigette timed it perfectly: "Hi there!" she said brightly at
the precise instant Miss Simpson took her hand from her eyes and
saw the blonde vampire standing there arms akimbo and feet apart.
Cora was petrified. Her body would not move. Her breath stopped
after the initial yell, and she was paralyzed in a frieze of
herself, unable to move even when Brigette came toward her like a
stalking panther with a look of diabolic cruelty that would chill
the blood.
Trample,
Part 3 of 5, by Wilma
"Wha------"
*SLAP!*
The blow was solid and hard with the butt of Brigette's hand
landing just below the corner of Cora's mouth and her palm across
her cheek. The force of it whirled her around, and she landed face
down on the floor knowing not her name nor the planet she was on.
Brigette stood over her ready to kick her senseless if she
showed signs of not already being that way. Cora moaned and
struggled to regain a grasp on reality but could do no more than
raise her head off the carpet and wobble it back and forth.
Brigette relaxed her vigil and watched the groveling woman
contemptuously for a few seconds before opening the door for Janice
and Cindy.
Cora Simpson's brain cleared enough to tell her she was not
hallucinating, but she couldn't fully accept the fortuitous horror
of her reality, either. She saw women's feet in high heels. She
saw fishnet hose on full, shapely calves. She saw the exquisite
firm flesh of their upper thighs. She saw gorgeous, full-bodied,
viciously beautiful, demonic young goddess-women above her.
Confusion and fear clashed inside her with a conflicted
gratitude that she was about to be abused by three ravishing and
bizarre young lamias and was faultless in having to submit to them.
She had no choice as they dragged her by her arms and her hair to
the middle of the room. Struggle would have been futile, she
reassured herself. The scene was the reification of a nightmare
and a fantasy, at once terrifying and titillating but exculpatory
for its granting her true victimhood in spite of her aberrant
obsession with lesbian algolagnia that had beleaguered her soul and
filled her with unmitigated secret shame for so many, many years.
They stripped her naked and trampled her. Janice stood
astride her face with one foot on her wrist and her heel digging
into the biceps of her other arm. Cindy sat on Cora's knees and
held her legs down while she teased her pussy with her fingernails.
Brigette placed one heeled foot on the woman's breast and looked
down at her.
"Say my name, Cora," she told her. Calling her by her first
name was a delicious little added humiliation for her haughty and
dignified English professor.
Cora couldn't think of her name. She knew the girl, of
course, the lovely blonde whose open sexiness and preference for
women had engaged Cora's fantasies and her defenses, but she
couldn't retrieve the name for the life of her.
Brigette pressed her foot into Cora's breast, her visage
twisted into the very picture of feminine cruelty as she did so.
"Say my name, Stupid."
Janice pressed her heel harder into Cora's biceps. "Say her
name, you ignorant old bag!"
"Brigette! Your name is Brigette . . . Brigette."
The blonde goddess-girl moved her foot to Cora's stomach and
slowly shifted her weight until, with Janice's help, she was able
to stand on the woman with both feet. Holding Janice's hand on one
side and Cindy's on the other, Brigette trampled Cora Simpson and
watched the woman grimace with pain and disgrace. The golden-
haired beauty walked on her stomach, she walked on her belly, she
planted a foot in the woman's groin and shifted her weight back and
forth slowly between Cora's stomach and her lower belly. She
walked to and fro on her victim from her pussy to her face.
Cora moaned and contorted her face in pain as the girl
trampled her. She gazed up into Janice's crotch and grasped the
auburn-haired girl's calf and felt the muscle flex as the cruel
young lovely dug her heel into her arm. Down below came a new
sensation now as Cindy got off the woman's knees and balanced
herself skillfully on Cora's upper thighs and pelvis.
"Let's see if she can take all three of us," Janice said.
"I'll be nice to her and take my shoes off." In a moment, she was
standing on Cora's chest and face. The three gorgeous coeds
proceeded to trample Miss Simpson until at last she lost
consciousness and was still.
"She's not moving," Janice said.
"Is she dead yet?" Brigette asked coldly.
"I don't know. She may have suffocated or hemorrhaged or
something. Get off of her." She stepped off the limp body.
"Let's trample her to death," Brigette growled.
"No! Get off of her NOW!"
Brigette and Cindy hurriedly obeyed, and Janice checked Cora's
pulse and respiration.
"She'll be alright. Let's go."
"Aren't we going to make her suck us off?" Brigette pouted.
"She's unconscious, Brigette."
"I can still get off."
"So can I," Cindy chimed in.
Janice sighed. "Well go ahead then."
Brigette went first while Janice and Cindy watched. She had
her panties off and was tucking the unconscious woman's face into
her crotch almost before Janice ended her sentence. Holding the
dawdling head in her hands, she grunted and hunched the woman's
unresponsive mouth until her little grunts seemed to join together
in one long moan when she cum. She seemed oddly passive as she sat
there letting her orgasm jerk her at its will until it was done.
Janice helped her get up, and Cindy took her place. The
redhead squatted instead of sitting, and wiggled and adjusted until
she had the unconscious woman's nose up her asshole. She looked
like a guilty dog shitting where it wasn't supposed to as she made
quick little rocking movements while masturbating. She cum in
seconds, catching herself offguard and looking surprised.
"Huh. Your turn, Janice," she said, still a little puzzled.
"Huh-uh. You girls are going to take care of me when we get
home. Look what I found beside the couch." She held up a pair of
high heels. "Behold the symbol of TRAMPLE and watch closely as I
leave our message with our Miss Simpson."
Cindy and Brigette laughed as their auburn-haired leader
installed the newly improvised emblem of their secret sorority.
Cora Simpson would awaken after they had gone. She would
awaken with the heel of a woman's pump in her mouth and another in
her pussy. She had met TRAMPLE.
* * * * *
"Dr. Birnbaum. What is he?" Janice asked the rug, raising her
bare foot from the woman's mouth to let her speak. Janice was
sitting in her swivel desk chair at the side of Cora's head. A
meeting of TRAMPLE was in progress. The teenager's long legs were
stretched out comfortably in front of her.
"He's a counselor at church," Cora choked. It was hard to
speak in her usual clear voice with Janice's other foot resting on
her throat. She addressed her answer to the bottom of her leader's
foot poised inches above her face.
"And this doctor told you lesbianism is a sin and has to be
eradicated?" Cindy asked her. She absentmindedly pinched Cora's
nipple with her toes and looked across at Janice on the other side
of the rug's naked body. All four women were naked, and Cindy
always flushed and tingled when they met like that.
"Yes ma'am. Only he's not a real doctor. He's a doctor of
divinity. It's an honorary degree." The last two words were
muffled when Janice lowered her foot back down on her mouth.
"And this fundy quack has been treating you for the mental
disorder of wanting to be a woman's slave," Brigette said with
undisguised disdain. "Looks like his treatment didn't exactly
take." Relaxing on the couch with Cora's elevated feet on each
side of her, the blonde crossed her ankles and rested the heel of
her foot on Cora's mons veneris.
Trample,
Part 4 of 5, by Wilma
Cora reflected on her status as her owners discussed Dr.
Birnbaum and others marked for trampling. The girls had trampled
her repeatedly in the month and a half since Halloween. They had
taken possession of her house, she had signed her car over to
Janice, and her entire paycheck went to them, a sizable amount
since she was chairwoman of the English Department and a full
professor. They didn't call her Miss Simpson anymore. "Cora" was
about as nice as they got. More often, they called her "Stupid" or
"Cuntsucker" or any of a variety of other pejoratives things that
crossed their active young minds.
They were busy deciding the fate of people's lives, and she
wondered if they were even aware of what they were doing to her as
they talked. She was required on pain of having her face stomped
to keep her tongue out while Janice's foot was on her mouth. She
had learned to swallow pretty well even with the auburn-haired
goddess-girl's feet on her mouth and throat.
She focused a moment on Cindy's toes pinching her nipple and
the redhead's other foot massaging her stomach. Farther down,
Brigette was now probing her pussy lips with her big toe, and Cora
knew the girl would soon be inserting her toes into her.
Brigette was far and away the most dangerous of the three. In
spite of her angelic look, the blonde apparently had no limits on
what she would do to her -- not even in the bathroom. Cora was
terrified of the girl when Janice and Cindy weren't there.
Not that they were anyone to be taken for granted. Janice,
for example, enjoyed suddenly hitting her for no reason at all.
Sometimes the four of them would just be talking and watching TV or
something and *KERFWOP!* would come a blow out of nowhere. The
other girls thought it was the funniest thing they ever saw and
always laughed from the surprise.
That very morning, in fact, Cora had brought Janice a cup of
coffee while she read the newspaper. "Why thank you, Sweetheart,
that's very thoughtful of you," Janice said smiling sweetly. Then
*THUD!* came a hard backhand that sent her sprawling across the
floor. Cindy and Brigette had laughed until they cried. The girls
just loved surprises and had a fine sense of physical humor.
Cindy was into smothering her, usually in her ass and crotch,
and scissoring her face with her powerful young thighs. All three
girls were mean to her face -- and good to it -- but Cindy would
torment her for an hour sometimes controlling her access to oxygen.
"I determine whether you get air or not," the stunning redhead
would say nonchalantly with a toss of her head as she settled onto
her face. "Smother her to death," Brigette would hiss, but Cindy
liked her conscious and aware of her dependence.
Cora ran errands for them, cleaned up after them, did all the
cooking, and took care of their clothes. She did their pedicures
and manicures, and she applied creams to their gorgeous bodies and
had the job of insuring that no part of any one of them was ugly
or stained. They did their own school work because Janice
insisted, but Cora did whatever typing and other grunt work was
needed and advised them on their homework. She was allowed out to
go to work, of course, and was given free time to do whatever she
wanted when the girls didn't need her for anything.
All in all, she was living a happier life than she had ever
lived before the girls took her as their slave. The only thing
missing was the loneliness and depression. The only fears she ever
had now were of displeasing the goddess-women who owned her or
being crippled or permanently disfigured. There was an occasional
fear of death when she was left alone in the house with Brigette,
but she didn't think the girl would really kill her. Not on
purpose anyway.
She had to take courses and pass tests, too. She was required
to be able to distinguish between the way they tasted and smelled
and felt. The only test she consistently failed was identifying
while blindfolded which one of them slapped her or punched her in
the stomach. There just weren't enough cues. The other tests were
easier and easier to pass. She knew their sweat, their skin
texture, their spit, the taste of their cum, and even got a C+ on
tasting their assholes. That was up from a D, too. There were
tastes from Brigette she had nothing to compare with from Janice or
Cindy, but she thought she could probably get a passing grade if
they ever tested her.
And always, they trampled her. Sometimes one, sometimes two,
sometimes all three, but they trampled her almost every day. High
heels, bare feet, stockings, front and back, face and body, and all
combinations. A day never passed, moreover, without getting to
suck at least one of them off at least once and body-worshipping
one or more of her teenage goddess-girls. They practiced their
wrestling holds on her, used her for a footstool or a chair or a
rug or a table, and exhibited seemingly unlimited creativity in
inventing new games to play with her.
Regrets? Just one: She wished she had found women like
Janice and Cindy and Brigette twenty years earlier.
* * * * *
Ozzie Birnbaum, A.B., M.A., D.D., had a secret. He had a
terrible secret he dared not divulge for fear of losing his
position at the church and in the community. An ordained minister
with a master's in counseling from Unity Tabernacle College,
honored by the college and in church with the honorific title of
"Doctor," a man whose counseling skills God had used to save scores
of people and families from the demon of psychological disorder --
this man hated himself as much as he did Satan.
He lusted in his heart and in his pants. He lusted on little
girls, he lusted on prostitutes, he lusted on every decent-looking
female he saw. He was sick in his heart from his hypocrisy and
powerless over it . . . and scared spitless that he'd get caught.
But here he went again, driving a hundred miles to find a
prostitute on whom to spend his lust. He would have been alright
today, he was sure, but Satan tricked him. The Evil One had
possessed a pretty little girl and had teased him with her short
dress and her cute face. He didn't touch her, of course. He never
touched them. He knew Satan would leave her and that she would be
left with only the knowledge of what Dr. Ozzie Birnbaum had done
with her, and she would tell. She wouldn't tell on Satan, she
would tell on him. He, not Satan, would bear the unthinkable
consequences. He shuddered as he drove the hundred miles on I-5 to
a city where no one would know him or care . . .
. . . or report him to his wife. Brenda had warned him "for
the last time." Fourteen years younger than his 42, she just
didn't understand. It was Satan, not he that was guilty. "Well,
it's you and not Satan I'll kill if you whore around and we lose
everything," she had retorted. If she liked sex as much as she did
his money and his property, he wouldn't have to "whore around."
He had never been so wrong about anybody in his life as he had
been about Brenda. He had bought a myth. Her severe beauty, it
turned out, did *not* hide a sexually promiscuous woman underneath.
Beneath her cold black hair pulled back tightly into a bun and
under her high-necked white blouses and black skirts was, sure
enough, a draconian termagant where popular myth said would be a
sexual wild woman once you got her stripped for action. So much
for locker room wisdom. God, was she built, too! What a waste.
Trample,
Part 5 of 5, by Wilma
What's that? Three women waving him to stop. They had to be
the same three young beauties that had passed him several miles
back. Yes, those are the same girls. They had waved and smiled
when they went around him at eighty miles an hour. Where's their
car? Could be his lucky day, he thought as he pulled up to them.
He lowered the window on the passenger side. "You girls lose
your car?"
The auburn-haired beauty bent down to the window. "We pulled
into the rest stop up ahead, and now the car won't start. Can you
give us a ride?"
"You won't beat me up and rob me, will you?" he joked.
The blonde rolled her eyes and looked exasperated. "Oh, take
a risk," she muttered sarcastically.
And he did.
* * * * *
"He's coming to," Cindy said. "How're you doing down there,
big guy?" She jostled him with the booted foot she had rested on
the back of his head.
He heard the question, but he couldn't answer. He couldn't
see either, and he couldn't seem to get his hands to work. Or his
legs. My God! He was blindfolded and gagged! Hogtied!
Now he remembered. He had even asked the redhead what she
intended to do with that interesting club. A baseball bat triple-
layered with thick sponges tied to it with rawhide strips. "A girl
can't be too careful," she had said with a ready smile.
Where was he? In a car. He was face down on the floor in the
back of a moving car. Gravel. Gravel and mud. They were driving
slowly on an unpaved road. Turning now, and stopping.
The leader's voice came from the front seat. "Okay, Oswald,
you can walk with us, or we can club you and drag you. It's
entirely up to you."
He elected to cooperate. They were not gentle, roughly
pulling and scooting him and hitting him for every difficulty they
ran into during the process. At last, he was out of the car and
crumpled on his knees in the wet gravel and dirt.
Cora Simpson stood on the front step and watched the girls
torment their captive in the driveway. She turned and looked at
the strict young woman watching from the large living room window
and sipping a cup of coffee. The woman showed no emotion. She
simply watched. Brenda Birnbaum simply watched the three goddess-
girls further humiliate her husband. Then she smiled and nodded
when Janice looked at her and presented her husband with a motion
of her hand and an affected haughty look.
It was cold. A week before Christmas. Cora wondered how Dr.
Birnbaum could stand it. He grovelled before the goddesses wearing
only a wool sports shirt and pants, a red velvet mask-style
blindfold, and a black ball gag. His hands were cuffed behind his
back by leather cuffs, and his ankle bracelets were connected with
a short chain that would allow baby steps if he could walk at all.
The girls, on the other hand, looked like they were modelling
winter wear as they hit him and kicked him and berated him. Cora
watched them force the degraded counselor to his feet and baby-walk
him to the middle of the yard. They made snowballs and used him
for target practice, laughing and cavorting like children.
She saw Brigette pack snow around a sizable rock she found in
the driveway. Taking careful aim, she wound up like a baseball
pitcher and let it fly. It smacked against Dr. Birnbaum's
forehead, and he lost his balance and fell in the snow. Janice and
Cindy, not having seen what Brigette had done, took his fall as
noncompliance. Brigette gleefully joined her friends in trampling
him in the snow under their stylish boots.
Cora glanced at Brenda again to see what the poor man's wife's
reaction was. Brenda was holding her coffee cup unsteadily in one
hand and squeezing her breast through her frilly white high-necked
blouse with the other. She was swooning. Cora ran inside to take
the coffee cup; if it spilled, she would be whipped for the mess,
and her back and legs still burned from the whipping Brenda had
given her that morning for leaving water on the kitchen floor.
* * * * *
Christmas eve was winter wonderland at the Birnbaum's lakeside
bungalow. It was a time of healing and of joy, an idyllic coziness
of souls warmed by the peaceful and happy setting and gladdened in
spirit by having found their destiny and proper roles in life.
Birnbaum sat at his wife's feet lightly caressing her boots
and admiring her. Brenda had fucked him everyday, always on top,
and always bringing them both to orgasm. The beatings she had
given him as the other women watched were worth the pain and fear
just to be allowed to sit here now at her feet and love her and
feel her love for him.
Cora cried in unbounded happiness as she opened her present
and found a photo album containing her life history in pictures and
prose. The girls had to have spent a lot of time preparing that
precious volume and in writing the captions and comments. They had
entitled it "To Miss Cora With All Our Love."
Janice and Cindy and Brigette glowed with profound gladness at
the scene. There were still many wrongs to correct in the world,
others to trample and many to subjugate to their will, but all that
could wait for the new year and the years before them. They looked
at each other and smiled, knowing already the future of scores of
men, women, and children who had yet to learn what must be learned.
Postscript
This story chronicles only the beginning of TRAMPLE. I am not
permitted to divulge how long the committee has been active or how
big it is. I am authorized by Janice herself to tell you TRAMPLE
is still a mighty force and that many news items you see daily
unknowingly reflect the activities of this world-wide sisterhood.
--end of Trample--