You wrote about your desire to be trampled by many women at the same time-- without their knowledge. This way they could move about freely on top of you, never knowing your exciting anquish as you lie beneath them, feeling every shift of their glorious weight. I share that desire. Except for the part about the heels. I would prefer to be trampled by many, many women in open-toed flats, sandals, or platform shoes. In fact, I've often fantasized about this. . how sweet it would be. One scenario I've imagined. I'm having a new house built way out in the country. And it's just been framed and sheet-rocked. So all we have is rough, wooden panel flooring, and walls. Maybe a roof. I get half drunk one night and confide to one of my ladyfriends about my desire to be trampled by all these women I've never met and will never meet again. She listens with interest, asks some questions, and a plan is made. She decides to invite about 50-60 of her friends to a party. Co-workers, acquaintences-- all lovely ladies who are the perfect weight to trample a fellow. She tells them it's a toga party, and they must all wear some sort of strap-on sandals, togas, and must paint their fingernails and toenails fiery red. No polish on their nails, no admission. The party will be held out in the country, at an estate under constuction, and there will be door prizes, fingerfoods, and everyone gets something just for coming (shouldn't I put up some sort of capitol for this sort of pleasure?!) She'll also invent a few other reasons for them to come. And they're invited to bring friends, as long as they dress the part. I'm there at the house the day of the party. I drill 2 2-inch holes in one wall-- a couple of feet apart-- and place my cameras behind them, to record the fun later on. In the floor, about 5 feet out from the 2 holes in the wall, I've built a sort of trough in the floor. It's about 2 feet wide, 6 feet long, and a few inches deep. Later, I'll lie down in this trough and place a large board over me-- a board with places cut out for my face to poke up through (down to my ears), my fingers to reach up through, and whatever other body parts I wish to have crushed later that evening. When the guests arrive, all looking incredibly delicious in their togas, sandals, and red nail polish, they begin flooding the room. On the floor there are big 1 and 2 inch cords leading here and there, and the ladies get used to stepping on them. Over the trough (with me waiting anxiously inside), a long rectangular table's been placed. It's got a floor-length table cloth. And it's where the punchbowl, the fingerfoods, and other fascinating items have been placed. It will be the center of activity for the night-- my ladyfriend has made sure of that. It sets out about 3 feet from the wall. About a half an hour after the party has begun, I'm lying there in the trough, my face peeking out--hidden under the table, and seeing all these incredibly edible toes poking underneath the tablecloth, moving in and out--I'm hearing their laughter (some are really getting sauced), and I'm thinking of all that weight in the room. All the weight that will soon be on top of me, crushing my face (and other body parts) mercilessly, without care, without knowledge, for at least 2 hours or more. Can I take it? Will I panic if the unending crushing of my face becomes too much? What if I misjudge this thing and 45 minutes into the crushing, my skull cracks? Do I lie there and try to ignore the pain? What if I bleed to death? Should I cry out for help? Would anyone hear me? Would the women hear me, then descend on me en masse and put me out of my misery once they've discovered me hidden in the floor? All this rushes through my brain over and over. Then the time comes! My hostess friend has noticed that the room has gotten a little crowded. She discreetly excuses herself and goes off quietly to start my videocameras recording. She returns and works her way through the packed room, over to the table. She gets a few of the ladies around the table to help her move the table over against the wall so there will be more room. As soon as I hear my friend's voice I get rock hard erect, and my pulse quickens so much I'm feeling very dizzy. I'm sweating now, as over the top of me I see the table inching over to the wall. In a blaze of light and a sudden, overpowering blast of perfume and laughter, I'm immediately stood upon by several women. As a multi-toed sandal comes over and down on my face, I suddenly feel 135 lbs of sweet femininity crushing my skull. Somewhere in the distance I hear my friend asking the ladies crowded by the table to help her take off the table cloth--so the cameras have an unrestricted view of me lying under the edge of the table. All I hear is laughter, and beautiful ladies talking a little coarser than they would were there guys around. All I see is blackness because of this lady's foot standing squarely across my eyes. This is feeling very, very niiiicceee. I gather my nerve and stick all ten fingers up through the fingerholes I've cut in the board. Almost immediately 3 or 4 of my fingers on one hand are crushed beneath, I think, the heel of someone's platform shoes. She's rocking back and forth, and I can almost hear my knuckles cracking. With my pelvis, I ease something else up through a specially cut hole in the board. Ooooh. Big mistake. That hurts. That reeeally hurts. But wait. . you know, actually, it feels quite nice. Wonder how long I can hold. . . Then, after a couple of hours, when the room is starting to empty, my hostess looks for an "out" for me. She discreetly slips away to the breaker box, flips a switch, and . . darkness. Several dozen ladies start to panic. I feel them scurrying across me for an exit. (I say "scurrying" because after a couple of hours of being crushed beneath their feet I've gotten quite used to it--and it's nothing but pleasure. They feel almost too light now. Immune to being trampled? Imagine it.) Once everyone's out of the house, and my hostess friend has apologized for the electical failure, calmed everyone, and seen them off to their cars, she returns to the room with a flashlight. Nothing but crickets, my easy breathing, and my hostess friend creaking along the boards toward me. She gets about 10 feet away. . and her flashlight cuts off. She continues walking toward me, cursing the battery for going out on her, then walks right up and stands on my face. She's playing with me. "Hello? Helloooo? Where are you? Why won't you answer me?!" And then she cuts the light back on and sounds surprised "Oh, I must've accidently switched it off. . . Oh, I'm sorry! I didn't mean to step on you! heh heh heh Ooh! What's this down here sticking up through the board? A root? I can't believe the contractors didn't dig this up when they put down the floors!" And with that she begins kicking at it, actually trying to detatch it from my body-- as one would kick free a root sticking out of the ground." That's too much! I scream out and pull it back through the board. She shines the light on my face, still laughing. "Some blood. But not a lot. I don't think they broke your nose, but they sure made mush out of your lips. God, they look bad. That's gotta hurt!" She helps me out, I thank her, tell her I really owe her-- to which she responds "Ya know, this was fun. Let's do it again next Spring. Till then, I think I'm gonna enjoy trampling you. I reeeally got into this tonight!! Do you mind?" Do I mind . .

repprobait@aol.com