Molly Brown
19-Sep-98 00:42:13

I loved high school; it was a wonderful time for me as my introduction clearly shows. Perhaps the fondest memory of that time for me involves a young lady named Molly Brown. Yes, that was really her name, and I considered her to be "unsinkable" (an obscure reference to The Unsinkable Molly Brown -- the story of a tenacious young woman who overcame all odds to achieve wealth, fame, and true love).

Anyway, Molly sat behind me in world history class, or perhaps I should say: I sat in front of her. In my introduction I described how I would drape a coat over the back of the seat and curl the fingers of my left hand around the very back wire of the wireframe bottom of the desk -- the part where we could put our books if we so desired. I also described how the young ladies seated behind me would prop their feet up in the wireframe bottom of the desk and inadvertently pin my fingers between the bottom of their shoe and the wire bar around which my fingers were curled. And all of this was obscured from their view by the coat draped over the back of the seat. Well, Molly was no different. I did the same with her as I did with the others. I always did like Molly best, because she usually wore high heels to class and dressed in body-flattering attire. When she wore high heels and slid her foot forward on my fingers quickly and forcibly, my fingers would be oh so thoroughly crushed, because that area on a highheel shoe where the sole curves down to become the heel was oh so effective at pinning my fingers completely all around. And she had playful feet which she moved around frequently, giving me as much pain and pleasure as my heart could desire. She also wore her make-up just a little bit too heavy, and this intoxicated me. There is just something about make-up heavily applied that sets my heart to racing. Maybe it is the emphasis of the fact that this particular female affectation is illusionary in nature. I have a thing for succumbing to feminine illusion, too.

As I was saying, Molly was no different. I did the same with her as I did with all the other young ladies. But one day, her feet must have been particlarly sensitive, because she seemed to be unable to get her left foot comfortably situated on my fingers (maybe I had curled them wrong that day). She lifted my coat to see what the problem was. I was mortified, because I hadn't had time to move my fingers, so she saw them curled around the bar. I became stiff and flushed with fright, wondering what her reaction would be, wondering what the next few seconds would hold, wondering if she would reveal my secret to the whole class. Then I heard her familiar voice, calm but slightly annoyed, from behind me, "Could you please move your hand so I can put my foot in your desk?" I didn't know what to do. I panicked for a split second. Then my subconscious must have taken over, because I turned around to look at her and heard words coming from my mouth that I was not consciously ordering to emerge. My fingers had come away from the bar when I turned around, and she had promptly positioned her left foot on the back bar. I said, "Hey, that's my hand-grab. I need my hand-grab." She looked at me for a moment with blank curiosity, then she moved her left foot and said, "Fine, take your hand-grab." I thought to myself: You idiot... Now you have ruined your finger crush opportunity in this class for the rest of the year. I then re-took my hand-grab. But, what happened next was truly amazing to me and still is to this day.

Our eyes were still locked on each other's. Perhaps we were exchanging some subconscious body language signals. Perhaps she was just a crush mistress at heart. But she looked down at my fingers, looked back into my eyes and smirked knowingly. Then she put her left foot on my fingers deliberately. I smiled back at her in ecstatic surprise. With that same knowing smirk on her face, she eased herself back in her chair and went back to her classwork. I turned around in total disbelief of what had just happened. I kept thinking: She knows my fingers are there, but she put her foot there anyway. Then I began to feel her slide her foot all the way up on the bar and move it around the way she always normally did. She didn't ease up on the pressure or anything. She just returned to business as usual. Sometimes, I think, she even pressed harder and moved her foot more violently after she knew my fingers were under her foot -- as if to say: Let's see how much you can really take. Periodically she would even rear back slightly in the desk, lifting the front legs of her desk off the floor and putting more pressure on my fingers. I never once removed my fingers from beneath her foot. I always endured and enjoyed every morsel of pain and pleasure she gave to me from that day forward. After that day, she would always lift my coat and look down before she put her feet in the back of my desk. And, if my fingers weren't curled around the bar yet, she would wait until I had put them there before she put her feet in the back of my desk. I had found my Nirvana. World history was my relaxation period from then on.

Molly and I never discussed the incident. When we passed each other in the hall or saw each other elsewhere, we never acknowledged anything strange between us. We would say hi and move on as always. But during world history class we would exchange brief, knowing glances as she walked down the aisle to take her seat behind me each day. Then we would assume our relative positions for the rest of the period. She never said or did anything else, except once. One day after she had sat down, I heard her say, "Look, an ant on the floor." She was wearing black highheel ankle boots that day. I turned around. She then lowered the sole of her left shoe slowly onto the ant. She increased the pressure ever so slightly as if to draw out the experience. Then I was blessed with a loud crunch as the ant's body collapsed under her foot. I couldn't believe that an ant had made such a loud crunch -- she truly was an artist. As if to put icing on the cake, she glanced up at me with a naughty grin on her face and said with malicious glee, "I could hear its tiny body crunch under my foot." Then she giggled wickedly and looked away. I turned around in my seat, my penis raging with desire. I put my fingers in their usual spot and waited, enraptured by my most recent crush experience and the thought that soon that ant's crushed remains would knowingly be smeared on my tortured fingers by the same goddess who had crushed that fortunate ant.

To pleasure eternal and immortality in the flesh...
This is immortalmasochist signing off.