Exhilarating, petrifying? Confusing, that is it, the word that describes the very muddled state in which I have found myself in recently. This week has been earth shattering, testing me on levels that I thought were forbidden and safe. Questioning events, time, my own identity, my wants in life and my needs. Finding myself thankful for the beauty in my life, for those that are my constant reminders of why I smile each day, and yet, finding myself daydreaming and unsure.

I turned thirty. That in itself was both reveling and heart wrenching. I never thought I would be thirty for some odd reason, I thought I would be in my twenties forever, that I would have an eternity to be young. Not that I am old, exactly, just feeling my youth, the naivety and trust that everything will always right itself, and everything will be okay slipping through my fingers, too much reality, too much pain, too much wisdom in years lived to hold on to notions so fleeting.

I was melancholy, trying to smile despite the fact I felt my mortality like the slow slice of the reapers blade on my cheek. But in my little pool of self pity, Everyone stepped up to remind me that I was still alive, full of energy and love, of passion. Reminding me of the simplest yet most precious blessings I have. My family, my friends. I celebrated Friday, Saturday and Sunday. With a desk decorated in over the hill and a flower bra and set of bright purple fairy wings that I had always wanted. I was taken out to lunch, made dinner, got roses and turtles and cards and kisses. Was reminded that I was blessed for my new friends and old, the ones I had reunited with and the family that treated me far better than I deserve.

Still I pondered over my life, what I wanted in the next ten years, and found much to my amusement I didn’t have the slightest idea. I am more just content to follow the current, yet sometimes I feel the keen need to make a map, to plot a destination for these meanderings. But you have to have an idea of where you want to go, and all I know is that survival and laughter are paramount, nothing else so much matters.

Monday it was back to routine, back to pretending that I wasn’t confused, or absolutely positive my life wasn’t where I wanted it to be. Back to wondering where my next distraction would come. Oddly enough, I found it in a text. Our encounter had been planned for weeks, and yet, it was not in the fore front of my mind as he was forbidden. He is long distance, and usually busy, so not even a top distraction. So of course I have kept him at arm’s length, only learning what I had to so that I might fulfill his fantasy.

He had mailed me off of my website asking me for something that I found both fascinating and odd. Honestly, I didn’t think it would ever work. I am so ridiculously submissive, feeding on someone else’s power, on the energy of pleasing them. Yet he needed dominance, he needed something more than my subtle seduction and allowance of desire could give. Despite my reservations , he is to be deployed again soon, and it was so simple, his fantasy, his desire. And as he explained, mail after mail, he was never crude, never derogatory or demanding; just sincere in his request.

I was to trample him. To stomp and crush and grind. To make him beg me to stop as I destroyed his will, his belongings, his unblemished skin. The thought filled me with fear. How could I do that to someone? How could I injure him, much less, what if I injured him too much? What if I broke something? He was excited at the prospect. I was terrified I was the next Dateline NBC story. When fetish goes too far, Kitzy Bombshell live from her cell tells how it was all just an accident….

But he was driving through, and this was a once in a life time thing. Why live life afraid of three squares a day and free cable? So I said yes. Honestly not even sure if I could get the angst together to even pretend to injure him, much less give him the beating he so craved. But I would do my best to fulfill his desire. My submissive need to please so strong that I knew I could dominate him, just not how far I could go.
His text was sweet, making sure I knew he was still coming, making sure I was still interested. Buttering me up with tales of how beautiful I was and how he couldn’t wait to be dominated by someone so lovely. Which was honestly, sweet, yet strange to me. Tuesday was the day we would meet. He would rent a motel, I would go play for an hour then leave, no sex, no money, but yes I could feel a thousand voices screaming whore in my ear. I didn’t rightly care. The good thing with age comes the realization that no one lives your life for you.

Nervousness filled me so bad I couldn’t concentrate at work, texting him off and on to see where he was. Maybe he would back out, maybe a force of nature would prevent this if it wasn’t meant to be. Yet time inched forward, and I looked up from one of my customers to see him walk through the door. He carried himself with an odd mixture of confidence and peace. There was no aggression in his stance or movements. He was tall, taller even than me, and not rail thin, but more, sinewy, built slender yet firm. His smile is devilish, handsome, mischievous, suggesting. He hypnotized me, would have been my plea. His voice low and calm, even as he sat with one leg nervously jumping as I spoke to him while finishing up a loan.

It is a miracle what small talk does to frazzled nerves. Ironically enough the day I can usually depend on to be slow had people pouring into my store. So eventually he just hugged me and said he would meet me at the hotel, giving me the information. The meeting had me more confused than before not helping my resolve to cause him pain. In fact, I was more than ever frightened that I would not be able to cause him any harm. He was so sweet. How was I going to crush him beneath me?

He told me we would begin playing by me crushing everything that he had brought for me. He had set out some cups to get me started. I felt, silly, reserved, and unsure. Nevertheless I crushed them as I approached the room, knocking on the door. When he opened the door, I kept thinking I wish he had been ugly. Looking at his full lips, salt and pepper hair and gentle warm eyes, I found myself wondering how the night would end.

As we stepped inside I felt the urge to play hopscotch from cup to cup to cup, and I did, smashing each one. I looked at him, for signs that it affected him. He asked me how I felt, how it made me feel to crush them, and he grabbed a beer from the fridge and we sat to talk to discuss his desires. I learned little things about him about the many times he had played before, about the way things worked. Then we spoke about just simple stuff, get to know you things that allow you settle down in a comfortable rhythm with the person beside you.

As I finished my drink, I laid it on the carpet and crushed it underneath my bare feet. He lay down and handed me his can and I did the same. I liked watching him, his face a mirror to the excitement he felt as the aluminum cans bent and flattened underneath me. I decided now would be the time that I went to change. Discovering the bathroom had even more cups and small metal cans. I stomped them loudly, loving the way they sounded, hoping he could hear them as I pulled off the simple business attire I wore.

Pulling on my short white skirt, and bright green panties and shirt, I pulled my hair down from its bun at the nape of my neck and took off my glasses, completing the transformation from my business life to Kitzy. I pranced in and he smiled saying I was beautiful. At that moment I thought of seducing him in the normal way I would a man, straddling his body as he sat on the couch, talking low and sweet as my breasts heaved in his face, and the weight of my body pressed into his groin. I knew that wouldn’t work though. That I should quit being so distracted and as he laid down on the floor belly touching the carpet, and placed a cup in front of him.

I stomped it as I casually walked by. Then another and another. As I walked by I watched him, his body tense with desire, and I grew more confident, more powerful. Each thing I crushed and grinded, sometimes getting his fingers, his hands, sometimes missing them on purpose. Growing more and more excited as I saw his hips grind into the floor, needing contact. I craved the sounds, and the looks of his pleasure, the POP or CRUNCH something would give as I destroyed it. I tore his favorite hat with my bare feet, his remote control, I shattered and as the pieces flew everywhere I knew it was time to step on him, to give him what he needed for release.

Straddling his body, looking at his face, feeling a hundred feet tall as I hovered over the top of him with my five foot eleven frame, I stomped. Hard. Fast. I watched, looking for signs of regret, signs of wanting to stop this, but he didn’t, his body screamed arousal, so I stomped again. Focusing on his chest, blow after blow, then his stomach, switching from side to side, stomping as hard as I could. Each painful strike making him red faced, curled trying to hide the sensitive region that I was assaulting yet unraveling for the next wave instinctually.

The groans coming from his body were both pleasure and pain. My heart beat quickened, my nipples hardened, and as I pushed him further and further I was so completely aroused I was stunned. It had to be the sounds he was making, the need he felt. I wanted to pull his hands from his pants, I had noticed him slowly rubbing the head as I punished him, and I did with my feet, pinning them underneath me, grinding them into the carpet. Then back again to stomping him, red faced and moaning. Panting from exersion I stopped when he had come. I felt, powerful, in a way that I couldn’t begin to understand or control. I felt need, I wanted more.

We stopped, letting him catch his breath, letting me cool down, trying to control all the runaway thoughts in my head. This was crazy! I looked at the mess on the floor, look at him. I was torturing him. Causing him so much pain. I was insane! Why did I like it so much? I mean, not once did it cross my mind that there was something wrong with Noah for liking this, but I felt like I was a monster, some sort of deviant for liking his discomfort. I could feel the throbbing between my legs louder than my own heart beat, so desperate, to be filled now, to have release. But that is not what I was here for, and my denial somehow my only salvation as we casually talked as if I wasn’t thinking of pushing him onto the bed and simply taking what I wanted, his release nothing to me now.
Again such casual conversation, as if that blink was a day dream or nightmare, and this was reality, we had never moved from this couch, from this languid flow of conversation. My body slowly calmed down, my heart returning to normal. We sat and I heard of his life back home, and I spoke casually of my family and friends, yet vaguely as I often do.

Then we decided to go again. It was even more intense. Starting out the same, with cups and smaller things then as I smashed his ipod into the tile of the jaccuzi, breaking the tile in the process I felt a rush, stomping harder and harder, grinding it, demanding it to break underneath me as he watched, his hips softly gyrating. Then a cassette case that was in shards within moments, even a few shards sliding into the tender skin of my feet.

Then it was just time for him again, and began to rain blow after blow onto his shoulders and chest and stomach. I stood on him, all of my weight baring down, I could see him looking under my skirt, and I pulled it a little higher, moving one foot to his erection and moved my foot along it, stepping on it and his hands, then back to blows on his stomach and chest. Punishing him.

I wanted to moan as he did, so aroused with each passionate groan of misery and desire he felt. Then turning, staring at his hands trying to pleasure himself through his clothes, I let both feet nestle into his stomache. No ribs for safety, nothing to stop the constant pressure of my weight on him. His moans a mixture of pleasure and pain, and all I could think is that I wished I could see his orgasm, feel his seed warm on my feet as pleasure overtook him. He tapped my foot, and for a moment I thought I would be vindictive and stay. But I got off and turned around to look at him, still straddling his body, squatting just above his body, and staring at him. I smiled triumphantly, feeding on the power of his release to keep me from rubbing my clit against his diminishing hardness for satisfaction.

I extended a hand to pick him up. And he collapsed on the couch. I sat beside him, ribbing him a little and making sure he knew the satisfaction I felt from making him tap out, even if it was just because he had orgasmed. And the power in making him come and never touching his cock with my hands or mouth or body, it was intense, drugging. He wasn’t a complete submissive, and I wasn’t dominant enough to just say, by the way, in compensation I expect you to bring me to orgasm now. So again we sat, watching you tube on his computer and laughing about being on a boat. I was comfortable in his company, laughing and talking and being fascinated at the life he had lived and the things he had seen.

I began to yawn, and decided to get ready to go, not wanting to over extend my welcome. I changed, pulling my hair back up, putting my glasses back on, and felt myself reverting back into the very proper lady that I was supposed to be. I tried helping him clean up, much to his dismay, telling me that I didn’t have to do so. It was relaxing to me, to help him do something so ordinary. To feel, normal. He walked me to my car, and we hugged by again. As I got in, I drove away more confused and uncertain, yet feeling, confident, powerful, and more in control than I had in ages.

I feel odd now though, even writing this. Wishing I would have fucked him and it would have been horrible so I wouldn’t crave another encounter. Yet, I doubt it would have been, it would have been amazing, it would have been powerful and consuming. I would still be sitting here wondering when the next time I could see him again, and if there ever would be. And this is where the confusion sets in.

I want to talk to him, to ask questions, to do it again. In my foolish head I feel a bond, a connection, that sex would never fill. This isn’t my first rodeo, I never get attached to one night stands, I never crave them, never think about them in the middle of the day and shiver. I don’t know why. I just don’t instantly need. I am more level headed than that. More reserved. More simple in my division of love and lust.

I don’t understand why it felt so good to me, or I want to talk to him so much. I have turned down three people this week until I could figure this out. I don’t crave sex, I am not even sure I crave another chance to feel someone moaning under my feet. I am so terribly confused. I don’t know why I want to put down an entire box of individual chips and just jump and crush and stomp until they give me the satisfying POP of defeat. I don’t know why I expect that if I talked to him about it he would understand. And I don’t know why I would even want this stranger, no matter how handsome.

It isn’t even so much that I want a relationship, or a forever after, just a connection, just an acknowledgement that what I felt is normal and that I want to do this again. Why when I have so many people around me constantly vying for my attention. Why do I want to give it to the impossible every single time?