Fetish Story - Ms. Elizabeth Hurley and Posh

Life is a strange thing. Looking back I can remember a string of events that took place when I was 16 that was really quite odd, now that I think about it. Five years later the whole things seems almost surreal. I remember the day that set things in motion quite clearly. It was a warm, sunny Saturday in Manchester (England) and I had gone to the lake to do some fishing. After an hour with moderate success -- nothing big enough to take home -- I had gotten a snag on a big branch out about twenty feet. I pulled and pulled, side to side, but couldn't get it out. I eventually yanked the rod so hard that the end snapped. Great! Now I needed to buy a new rod, and they aren't cheap. So I gathered up my things, picked up my bike, and headed home.

We lived in a tiny house in an expensive area. I guess we were the poorest family in the area. A few stars lived in the area including the very successful pop star known as Posh. I rode down the dirt path toward the street, and when I pulled out onto the pavement I saw Mrs. Posh. She had just come home from the stores and was carrying in arm loads of bags. She looked up and saw me and smiled. "Hi Mrs. Posh," I yelled. She liked to be called by that title. I was hardly in the mood to smile, but Mrs. Posh always made me smile. She was such a beautiful woman with a real fun personality. "Hi Philip," she replied, "Hey! Can you give me a hand with these bags?"

I turned back toward her house, dropped my bike and fishing gear and took a few bags into the house. I didn't mind helping Mrs. Posh, but I kept thinking about my broken fishing rod, and the sadness was apparent. "What's bothering you Philip," She asked. We had finished bringing in the bags at that point, and so I sat down at the kitchen table and told her about what happened at the lake and how fishing season had just started and I was low on money. She listened sympathetically, and then said, "Hey! I've got an idea. I always need help with work around the house on the weekends. Why don't you come by for a few hours next Saturday and work for me. I'll pay you $5 per hour. Whaddya say?"

"Sure," I answered. I could use the money and Mrs. Posh was always fun to be with.

"Great! Then I've got myself a slave," she said with a smile. I'll see you next Saturday at 10:00 in the morning.

"OK" I said, walking out the door. "What did she mean by slave?" I thought to myself. Whatever, at least I'll make some cash.

One Week Later

I rode my bike up her driveway, dropped it next to the sidewalk, and knocked on the front door. I heard the click of her shoes on the hallway floor, and then the front door opened.

"Ahh, my slave-boy is here," she said. "It's good to see you. I hope you're ready to work, because I plan to get my money's worth."

Mrs. Posh was always pretty, but today there was something even more special about her. Maybe it was the friendlier, almost flirtatious way she treated me. She was about 5'4", roughly two inches shorter than me, and slim. She had long dark hair and dark eyes. "Posh" was her stars name. She looked more Lebanese, but with white skin. She was wearing dark tights with a big T-shirt, and black pumps, with about a 2-inch heel. Mrs. Posh was the type of woman who always wore heels.The first thing she had me do was move some firewood in the back yard and clean out the gutters. She was doing some work inside the house at first, but then came outside to watch me up on the roof. I was working up a sweat emptying the leaves into a bucket. She sat down on one of the patio chairs and watched me. I looked at her, and she smiled at me. Then I saw her light a cigarette and settle comfortably in the chair. Her legs were crossed, left over right, and she was bouncing the left foot up and down, her shoe dangling from her toes. "This is the life," she shouted up at me. "It's good to have someone else do your dirty work." I smiled back at her, and continued working. She continued sitting there, smiling, smoking, and bobbing that foot up and down.

Finally I finished and came down the ladder. She told me to go in and wash up, she needed my help with some work inside the house and didn't want me to get her house dirty. Her house was always impeccable. After I finished washing my hands, arms, and face, I came out of the bathroom and met her in the family room. Despite the fact that she had two sons, this was not a typical family room. It was beautifully designed and full of artwork, fine furniture, and expensive little statuettes on the book cases, in addition to a state-of-the-art entertainment center. Mrs. Posh told me she needed me to vacuum the carpet and pick the dead leaves off the plants while she did the dusting. When I finished vacuuming, I turned off the machine and turned to look at her. She was staring up at a bookshelf looking perplexed. She reached up but couldn't quite reach the exquisite jade elephants on the top shelf.

"Can I help you?" I asked.

"No," she answered, "I don't let anyone touch my elephants, and the footstool I used broke last week. Actually...yes you can help. Come here!"

I walked over, not knowing what she wanted me to do.

"Lie down here, will you, on your stomach. Yes, like that. No, a little closer to the wall."

I could only guess what she planned to do, and I was surprised at myself for complying without hesitation. She then kicked off her shoes, revealing a pair of beautiful feet in nylons. Her toenails, which were right next to my face, were a perfectly pedicured black. She stepped up onto my back. I felt her go up on her toes, and then come back down on her heels again. "I got it," she said. But then she didn't get off. She was standing there dusting it, while still standing on my back. I felt her go up on her toes again, and then back down. She had put the first one up, and gotten another. And she was still on my back dusting. At that point I remembered seeing about 8 elephants on that shelf, and she spent about 30 seconds on each one. The pressure of her standing on my back didn't hurt, although it was a little uncomfortable. She would move around a little, shifting her weight from one foot to the other, humming to herself as if she were standing on the floor in the room by herself. I couldn't believe it. I was laying on the floor as this woman's footstool. She didn't even seem to be acknowledging that there was a boy right there under her feet.

After a couple of minutes of this, we both heard a car coming up the driveway. Mrs. Posh moved a little to the side to see who it was, which meant she had to shift her weight over, placing one foot on my butt as she craned her neck to see out the window. All I could see was an ant's view of the room and her pink pumps roughly 12 inches from my nose.

"Now who drives a Jaguar?" she wondered out loud. "Oh! It's Elizabeth Hurley. Good, she must have my dress she borrowed." She paused and must have looked down at me. "Oh, she is going to love this," she said, and wiggled her toes on my back and butt, as if to remind me that she knew she was standing on another person. The doorbell rang, and Mrs. Posh yelled, "Come in!" as she repositioned herself, turning around to face the room, she had one foot on my upper back and the other she brought around and placed squarely on my face, which was turned facing the room. She struck a casual pose and waited for Ms. Elizabeth Hurley to come in. Ms. Elizabeth Hurley came in the front door, and seemed more concerned with finding a place to put the dry-cleaning than looking at her friend. I could see her, sort of, as one side of my face was mashed into the carpet, and the eye on top had its vision somewhat obscured by Mrs. Posh's toes draping over the front of my face. Ms. Elizabeth Hurley was a little older, maybe 35. She was obviously well-to-do and seemed a little annoyed about having to bring her friend her laundry. "Victoria, I am not your maid, so please find someone else to pick up your dry-cleaning from now on," Ms. Elizabeth Hurley said somewhat coldly. She put the clothes on a chair and turned to look at Victoria -- so that was Mrs. Posh's name. Ms. Elizabeth Hurley had shoulder-length blond hair, a fit body, that still looked very feminine, and a little too much make-up. She didn't even notice me lying there.

"Victoria, do you have those pictures for me to look through?" she asked. "I wanted to look at them today if you have the...." She saw me. She just stared, looking rather confused, and then slightly amused.

"Oh, Elizabeth, I see you've noticed my new slave-boy. He's great. He does whatever I tell him and he only costs five dollars per hour."

Ms. Elizabeth Hurley was still speechless. Slowly a smile spread across her face. "That is great. But I'm jealous. Considering what I pay my help, I don't get that kind of commitment. I certainly can't walk all over them, well, not literally anyway," she remarked, laughing after her last comment. "I would love to have one of those. I would love to be able to look down and see another human being lying under my feet, completely devoted to obeying my tiniest whim. That is great!"

"Well, knock yourself out. My home is your home, and my slave is your slave. 'Tee-hee' Far be it from me to keep you from doing what you want." And with that, she stepped down off of me, walked across the room, and sat in a large leather easy chair.

"Well, all right," replied Ms. Elizabeth Hurley, and she walked across the floor to where I was lying. I was still completely silent. I didn't know what to do or think. I was always taught not to talk back to adults, and Mrs. Posh was also my employer today. What could I say? Would they get mad at me if I protested? I was so shocked I just lay there. Ms. Elizabeth Hurley walked up to me, and I looked up at her, with my face still on the plush white carpet. She was wearing a green dress with black leather boots on her feet. She looked at me for a second, let out a slight chuckle, and then stepped up on my back. She was a little heavier, but still, it wasn't really painful. But then immediately she got off again. "If I'm going to do this, I'm going to do this right," she said. "Roll over, boy!" she told me. I slowly complied, not wanting this wealthy, imposing, demanding woman to get mad at me. I settled down on my back this time, and she immediately stood up on my chest. Now, unlike my back, this was more uncomfortable, even a little painful. Ms. Elizabeth Hurley saw the discomfort on my face and smiled down at me. What a smile! It was a look that said - I own you.

"Fun, isn't it," I heard Mrs. Posh remark from across the room.

"Oh, yes, very much so." At this point, Ms. Elizabeth Hurley stopped looking at me and looked up at her friend again. She seemed to have forgotten all about me as they started their conversation about the pictures again. Looking up at Ms. Elizabeth Hurley, trying to keep my stomach muscles tight, she seemed completely unaware that I was there. She flipped her hair back out of her face, gestured with her hands, and shifted her weight to stand more comfortably.

After about 5 minutes, Mrs. Posh must have looked down at me. "Ms. Elizabeth Hurley, maybe you'd like to sit down. His face is a little red, and I do need to send him home alive."

Ms. Elizabeth Hurley looked down at me looking annoyed. "All right, but one final thing." She looked me in the eyes, and with that same authoritarian voice said, "Stick out your tongue." With a look of fear in my eyes I slowly complied. Once my tongue was out, she gave me that same evil smile, picked up her left foot, placed the heel of her boot on my tongue and slowly pulled it across my tongue until I had licked the entire length of the sole of her leather boot. I could feel small bits of dirt on my tongue, but mostly the humiliation of having just licked the sole of this woman's boot clean. She placed that foot next to my head, and repeated the same thing with her right foot. I felt paralyzed: with embarrassment, with fear, with humiliation. I just lay there as Ms. Elizabeth Hurley walked over to the chair next to Mrs. Posh's and sat down. I heard Mrs. Posh giggling again. Ms. Elizabeth Hurley fell into the chair with a sigh, and with a tone of contentment remarked, "That was the most satisfying thing I've done all week. I used to do that to my little cousin when we were little. Our families would go on vacation to a cabin by the lake in Michigan when we were kids. He and I were told to play together. After swimming we would walk around the lake together. There was always an area which was like a small pond of mud.

To get across it there was a narrow walkway, but it still required you to walk over about four feet of mud. I would force him to lie down in the mud so I wouldn't have to get my feet dirty. At first he would lie on his stomach, and I would always make a point of stepping on the back of his head before getting to the other side. I just loved the look on his face when he would pull it up out of the mud, crying. Later I would make him lie on his back, and would usually stand on his stomach for a few minutes, his body sinking into the mud. Finally I would agree to get off him only if he would stick out his tongue so I could clean the bottom of my bare feet. I'd always make sure he got cleaned up in the lake before we went home, and I told him that if he told anyone, I'd hurt him really bad. He never said anything. It was the funniest thing, the look he would get on his face when our parents would tell him to go play with me. He looked so pitiful and I would just grab him by the hand and say 'let's go!' I'll tell you Victoria, I sure didn't think when I got up this morning that I'd get the chance to make another boy do that today."

They both laughed, as I still lay there in disbelief.

"Oh, slave-boy," Mrs. Posh called, snapping me back to reality, "run along to the kitchen and get us two glasses of iced tea, with ice." I jumped up and trotted into the kitchen. As if in a trance I poured the two glasses of tea, and then took them back into the family room, stopping only briefly to look at my tongue in the hallway mirror. When I came back, both ladies were talking about the work I had done that day. Ms. Elizabeth Hurley looked up at me with a look that suggested she was impressed with all the work I did. I could do more than just serve as her footstool and foot-cleaner. I actually felt a sense of pride as Mrs. Posh praised the good work I did around the house. I handed them their glasses which they took without so much as an acknowledgment. I felt like a piece of furniture, or a servant who was considered less than human. I felt like a slave.

Ms. Elizabeth Hurley looked at me and remarked, "I'll tell you what, boy. You come work for me next weekend. I'll pay you twice what Victoria pays you, but you'll work for me twice as hard." It wasn't a question. It wasn't a business proposition. It was an order. I just muttered, "OK."

Ms. Elizabeth Hurley shot me a hard look. "First lesson, boy. You will address me as 'madam.' I am not your friend. I'm not even your employer really. I'm...your owner. When you are on the clock with me, you belong to me. I’m a beautiful model and you are just an ordinary member of the public. Is that clear?"

"Yes, madam."

A smile lightened up her face, "Good, and if you get tired of calling me madam, you can always refer to me as your goddess." Both ladies chuckled.

Mrs. Posh spoke up, "Well, Philip, don't just stand there. Show your new goddess some proper respect. You should at least be on your knees before her." Again, they both laughed. It now seemed they were going to try to outdo each other.

Ms. Elizabeth Hurley said, "Actually, I prefer him to be completely prostrate before me. He should be as low to the ground around me as possible."

Mrs. Posh was determined to outdo her friend. "Well, as long as he's lying flat on the floor, we might as well elevate ourselves above him as much as possible. Slave-boy! Lie flat on the floor here in front of our chairs, with your face up again."

I crawled over to them, and turned over onto my back. The two ladies seemed convinced that this was the best way to demean me the most and elevate themselves the most. And so Mrs. Posh placed both her feet right on my face, while Ms. Elizabeth Hurley stretched out her legs, crossed the right over the left and rested them squarely on my crotch, so that her left heel rested squarely on my young manhood. Mrs. Posh slid her feet back and forth, going opposite directions at the same time right over my face and giggled once again. The two ladies sat there, sipping their tea and talking, with me, a young boy of 16 serving as nothing more than a place for them to rest their feet; two nylon-covered feet on my face, and a pair of black leather boots resting on my groin. And what could I do but rest there, unable and unwilling to move.

Finally, Mrs. Posh got up and went into the other room. She came back with a manila envelope which she handed to Ms. Elizabeth Hurley. Ms. Elizabeth Hurley thanked her for the pictures, whatever they were, and stood up to go. She fished her keys out of her purse, and without even looking down, stepped up onto my chest with one foot, placed the other squarely on the side of my face, stepped up onto my head, and then walked right off again, having just used by chest and face as if she were stepping over some steps. She walked to the door, turned and said to Mrs. Posh, "Alrighty then, I'll see you next week. Don't forget to bring the boy." And she was gone.

I lay there for another minute or so until Mrs. Posh called me. "Hey slave-boy, I'm not paying you to just lie there. Get up! Take these glasses back into the kitchen and then you can go. I'm going upstairs to take a bath. I'll leave the money you earned on the table."

I picked up their glasses while Mrs. Posh went upstairs. I took them into the kitchen, walked back into the hallway where I saw $20 on the table by the door. I picked it up, stuck it into my pocket, and went out the door. As I rode home I kept asking myself, "Did that really happen?" It all seemed so strange, so embarrassing, so odd, and yet I knew I would be back next week. I seemed powerless to tell these women no, or to disappoint them. One more week and I'd be back, but this time we'd be going to Ms. Elizabeth Hurley's house. Good grief! What was I going to have to do then?

One Week Later

The next Saturday I was again riding my bike to Mrs. Posh's house. I got there right at 10:00 as per her instructions. She had called the day before and left a message with my mom. She had told her what a good, little worker I was, and that I should be there again at 10:00. Just like the week before, I pulled into her driveway and left my bike on the grass. I knocked on the door and heard Mrs. Posh call, "Come in Philip!" I went in and sat down in the family room, on the same chair that Ms. Elizabeth Hurley had been sitting in the week before. I strained to see if I could see an imprint in the carpet from my body either below the chairs or by the bookcase. The carpet was so plush and new that no imprint would have stayed long. I heard the click, click of heels on the stairs and turned to see Mrs. Posh coming down the stairs. She was wearing an attractive black pantsuit with black patent-leather pumps with heels probably about 3 1/2" high. She had clearly made herself up to look nice, not like the week before.

"Are you ready to work today?" she asked.

"Yes ma'am," I replied with a slight, nervous smile.

"Good, because your goddess will be here soon." She giggled a little, thinking of her friend Ms. Elizabeth Hurley as the goddess of this young boy.

Soon there was a knock at the door. I had been daydreaming as Mrs. Posh had finished getting herself ready. She told me to answer it, and when I did, there was a woman standing there I had never seen before. She was about thirty, relatively attractive, wearing what looked like a man's suit with a black cap over short blond hair. I didn't know who this was or what to say, but fortunately Mrs. Posh shouted over my shoulder, "Oh, hi Vivian, we'll be right there."

Vivian answered back, "Yes ma'am, whenever you're ready." Then she looked at me with a sort of sympathetic and yet amused grin on her face and turned to walk away. What I hadn't noticed was that a stretch limo had pulled up in the driveway. Aha! Vivian is a chauffeur, and she must work for Ms. Elizabeth Hurley. "Good heavens," I thought. "Ms. Elizabeth Hurley must be loaded."

Next I felt Mrs. Posh lightly slap me in the back of the head and say, "let's go!" as she walked out the door ahead of me. I shut the door behind us and followed her to the car. Vivian held the door open, and Mrs. Posh ducked her head and climbed in. I had never been in a limo before, and so I approached it hesitatingly. Slowly I looked inside and stepped in. My eyes were still adjusting from the sunlight, and so it was hard to see who was there, although I heard Ms. Elizabeth Hurley's voice and could see the outline of her body.

"Oh good," she remarked, "The boy is here. I was afraid he wouldn't come. He just loves to be around his goddess, doesn't he." She laughed.

I wondered why she always talked about me in the third person, as if I wasn't worth the time of conversation. She only seemed to speak to me when she wanted me to do something. All she would say to me were the orders I was expected to obey; and that's what I always did, without question. Why?

Ms. Elizabeth Hurley was also more dressed up today, although I don't think she had ever dressed casually. She wore a beautiful silk ivory-colored blouse, a well-tailored black skirt, tan nylons, and a pair of bone white heels - high heels - with a sort of snake skin pattern and square toe. I was sitting in the back seat with Mrs. Posh while Ms. Elizabeth Hurley was reclining on the seat on the side of the car. As the car got underway, Ms. Elizabeth Hurley turned to me and asked, "You are going to be our obedient slave again today, aren't you?"

It wasn't really phrased like a question, but I answered, "Yes, madam," anyway.

"Good, then you know what I like you to do, you know, to remind both of us who is boss." She settled back in her seat, crossing her left leg over her right, and cocked her ankle so that she was showing me the sole of her shoe.

I looked at her with a bit of shock on my face, and then I turned to look at Mrs. Posh, who was smiling again. Mrs. Posh then said to me, "Go on, it makes her feel young again." And both women laughed. Ms. Elizabeth Hurley looked at her friend with a mock look of disdain, pretending to be mad at the friendly joke about her age. Suddenly the car was very quiet and both women were looking at me, waiting. I gingerly got down on my knees, placed my hands on the floor by her feet, and lowered my head. Ms. Elizabeth Hurley relaxed her ankle a little, which meant that I was going to have to get even lower to fulfill her demand. Finally my head was almost on the floor of the car. I stuck out my tongue, and with one long swipe ran my tongue along the sole of her shoe. There was no dirt on this shoe. It was a fairly new shoe, and the leather bottom still had writing legible on it. I felt as low as a person could be. What could possibly be more humiliating. At least the last time I had been passive, sort of stuck. All I had done was stick out my tongue, but this time I had deliberately lowered myself to the floor and of my own free will licked the sole of this rich lady's high-heeled shoe.

"Next!" she ordered, and crossed her legs the other way. I repeated the action with this shoe as well, feeling utterly and completely debased. But at least the ritual was over. "Actually, boy," she continued, "just stay there and keep licking. It gives me quite a rush to feel your little tongue lapping at the bottom of my shoe. I can feel it all the way through the leather on my foot. It's like I have a little doggy down there, licking my feet. How sweet. Of course I wouldn't allow my dogs to lick my shoes. I treat them with more respect than that." And so the rest of the trip involved me lying on the floor of a limousine, with my tongue lapping the soles of a pair of high-heeled shoes, while another woman would occasionally poke me in the butt with the heel of her black pumps, just to see me jump a bit.

I could tell we were getting near our destination. The limo was slowing, and the ladies were looking out the windows. Ms. Elizabeth Hurley turned her head to look at something, and by turning her body was now pressing her foot down on my face. Not only couldn't I continue licking her shoe, but I couldn't move my head. Her foot was pressing down hard on my cheek, mashing it to the floor of car. Once again, she must have been aware of what she was doing, but seemed completely unconcerned. She continued to look, pressing her leather shoe onto my cheek, and surely by this point leaving a mark.

We had indeed arrived at our destination. We were at Ms. Elizabeth Hurley's house. Vivian parked the car and came around to get the door. Ms. Elizabeth Hurley had turned back around but kept my face pinned to the floor. When Vivian opened the door she could see the situation clear as day. She had to check herself to keep from laughing out loud.

"Do you like my new footrest, Vivian," Ms. Elizabeth Hurley asked. "All the high-society ladies have one these days," she quipped.

Vivian replied, "Yes ma'am, he's rather nice. I'm sorry for laughing, ma'am, but I think that is hilarious. I would love to be able to have someone to step on. You must feel like you're on top of the world."

"Oh, I do. But don't worry, I'll let you try sometime. Every woman should have the opportunity to feel like a goddess. I just like to do it every chance I get."

All three of us got out of the car, and Vivian walked with us to the front door of the house. Ms. Elizabeth Hurley led the way. I say it was a house, but the word mansion would more accurately describe it. A beautiful old stone mansion, two stories, but very expansive. There was some construction work going on, and so there were sawhorses and tape blocking the way. An alternate route was necessary to get to the door. As we walked around one of the hedges, Ms. Elizabeth Hurley suddenly stopped. "Wait," she said. With that, she extended her left index finger. As I looked first to her finger, with the emerald ring and red nail polish, and then to where she was pointing, I noticed she was smiling. She was pointing to an area where the walkway was being reconstructed. They had torn away the cement leaving a bear patch in the ground. What's more, the last three days of rain had turned it into a muddy mess. "Oh Victoria, I can't resist. I'm sorry, but I just have to do this."

Mrs. Posh sighed and chuckled. "Go ahead," she said, "but I'm going inside." And she turned and went in the house, shaking her head and laughing.

Vivian stayed with Ms. Elizabeth Hurley with a slight smile on her face that indicated she didn't know what was being talked about, but she was trying to be polite.

"Vivian, you're going to love this. Boy! You know what to do. Get in there, and face down. And don't worry about your clothes, I have other clothes for you to wear today anyway. My friends will not see you in those wretched things."

Again, I couldn't believe what I was doing. It was as if my body started moving without waiting for my brain's OK. Besides, what were my options, yell at this lady and have no idea how to get home. I didn't even know where I was. And so into the mud I descended. Soon I was just lying there, arms bent by my head, with my head looking up across her estate.

Soon I felt one of Ms. Elizabeth Hurley's high-heeled shoes digging into the back of my thigh. The pain seared through my leg and then lessened as the other foot went up on my butt. She steadied herself, and then moved onto my back. "This is the life!" she yelled, as she stood atop my back, completely victorious. Her heels dug into my back, and she began to bounce up and down a little. "I am a goddess!" she laughed. "Well, there's only one thing left to do now," and with that she move up further on my back. I felt her weight shift to one foot as the other came up over my head. She steadied herself on a nearby branch. I was waiting for the inevitable push of her foot that would send my face into the mud. I even took a deep breath in preparation, in case she decided to keep my face pressed into the mud, relishing the feel of my skull under her expensive leather shoes. But there was a pause.

"Oh, I think I've outdone myself," she giggled. "I never even thought of this before. Boy! Open your mouth, wide!" she ordered. I couldn't believe it. Was she serious? The pain was getting intense, and so I complied in order to hurry up the situation. She asked Vivian to check and make sure my mouth was open, as she couldn't see from her angle. Vivian was almost peeing herself from laughter but managed to confirm that my mouth was indeed open. With word from Vivian, Ms. Elizabeth Hurley position her foot over top of my head, and slowly pushed my face into the mud, my mouth wide open, taking in the muck from her walkway. With my face firmly squashed into the mud, she began rocking her foot back and forth, making sure that she got as much as my face covered as possible. Finally, she ground her foot back and forth as if she were putting out a cigarette. The whole thing was surreal. I could not really be here, could I? Suddenly I had an image of what this looked like: A young 16 year old boy, laying face down in the mud, his clothes filthy, and his mouth full of the same mud. And, at the same time, resting on his head was a bone white high-heeled leather shoe, that probably cost $300/pair. Its owner was an extremely wealthy woman wearing beautiful, expensive clothing. Her foot, so delicate and perfectly pedicured, I'm sure, was pressing down though this shoe onto this boy's head, as her slight ankle, adorned with an elegant anklet, rocked back and forth, grinding this boy's face further into the mud, while she remained perfectly unsoiled by standing on his prone body. Like I said, it was surreal. The pain, the discomfort, the humiliation all seemed disconnected, as if they were happening to someone else, but I new that was me, being ground into the mud by this haughty bitch.

Without another word, she brought the other foot up onto my head, so that she was standing full-weight on the back of my head, which was possible since my head was anchored into the mud, remained for a moment, and then stepped off the other side into the grass.

I slowly raised my head and spat out some of the mud. "Vivian," she called, "take him in the back way and make sure he gets cleaned up and into those clothes I arranged for him."

As I lay there, Ms. Elizabeth Hurley turned to go in the house. Vivian called after her, "Ma'am...uh, well, uh, may I?" she asked sheepishly, looking down at me.

Ms. Elizabeth Hurley laughed out loud, harder than I ever heard her laugh before. "Of course!"

With that, Ms. Elizabeth Hurley disappeared inside the house. Immediately I felt a pair of flats walking up my legs. Thank goodness they were flats, I thought. She climbed up onto my back, saying to herself, "This is great!" She slid side to side, jumped a little in the air, and even stamped on me a little. I was so completely drained of any fight that might be left in me, I just lay there, my face resting sideways in the mud.

Suddenly I felt one foot disappear, and the other foot get lighter. Vivian had partially fallen off. "Oh crap!" I heard. She stepped back up onto my back with both feet, moved up closer to my head, and with the right foot that had fallen in the mud, she wiped it back and forth on my face, trying to clean off the mud. Then she started to giggle. "I love this," I heard her say, and she proceeded to grind the side of my face into the mud the same way that Ms. Elizabeth Hurley had done with the back of my head. Finally, in imitation of Ms. Elizabeth Hurley again, I suppose, she brought up both feet onto the side of my head, stood there a minute or so, and then stepped off onto the grass. She had made the crossing as well.

Finally, she said, "OK. let's go. Time to clean up."

She said this as if nothing had happened. I was amazed again. It was as if just a minute before she hadn't been standing on my face, pushing it into the mud. Now she told me to come along like we were friends going to a party.

I pulled myself up, sore and completely a mess, and stumbled after her, around the back of the house to the servant's entrance. "A servant," I thought, "now that's a step up."

(Sorry... i found this story unfinished... An adapted story by Vanity, based on an original story by "Duffy"... I founded this fantastic and unfinished story, at the Internet archives, "2001" of the old "The Mousepad forum" when stories deleted after 20th page)