My father died when I was 10, just three weeks after he married my stepmother. His death was a shock to us all, and my stepmother and I grew very close in the days leading up to the funeral. I remember how she held me tight during the service, her soft, fat arms enveloping my tiny form and pressing me into her ample belly. I hadn't known her for very long back then, but as far as I could tell she was a warm, compassionate woman of 33 years and 330 pounds; I wasn't sure how I was going to cope with the loss of my father, but with her by my side I thought I would be safe.
I was wrong.
Less than a day after my father was buried, my stepmother made it abundantly clear that she was in charge of the house. It started when she called me out of my room and into the kitchen. "Michael!" she yelled, her voice echoing through the empty house and snapping my attention back to the world of the living.
"Yes, mom?" I answered, still reluctant to leave my room.
"Michael, get in here NOW!" she insisted. I knew better than to argue with that tone of voice, so I made my way to the kitchen. My stepmother was there, sitting at the table in a tight purple spandex singlet and pair of stiletto heels. It was a strange look for her, accentuating every ample curve of her enormous body. In one hand she held her cell phone. In the other a lit cigarette. The pack and her lighter were wedged into the front of her singlet, sandwiched between her J-cup breasts. A discarded banana peel lay at her feet.
She looked at me over the rims of her glasses, motioned to the banana peel, and said in a flat, authoritarian tone, "Well, what are you waiting for? Bend over and pick it up!" I was hesitant, but obeyed. No sooner had I touched the peel when my stepmother's feet came crashing down on my back, forcing me to my hands and knees. "Much better," she said, dialing a number into her phone and pinning me down with her size and strength. I tried to squirm out from under her, which only prompted her to quickly sit down right on me with an exasperated sigh.
I could hear her chatting pleasantly to her friend on the other end of the phone, but her weight put such a strain on my arms and knees that I couldn't make out the words. After a few short minutes, she took a final drag on her cigarette and ground it against the back of my head, like I was her own personal ashtray. I yelped at the sudden pain, but any struggles I put up were met with a sharp blow to the head. I did my best to suffer in silence as my stepmother carried on her conversation. As she shifted her position throughout her call, I struggled to keep my balance. I could feel her sweating through the thin fabric of her singlet, and smell every fart she let out.
Thirty minutes later, she said her goodbyes and got to her feet. She glanced down at me, smiling at first, but then with a sharp scowl. Before I could react she kicked me in the stomach.
"You idiot!" she yelled, gesturing angrily at the banana peel. "I said pick that up!"
"I did," I protested, "but then you ..."
She kicked me again, in the face this time. "Pick. That. Up!" she repeated. Wordlessly, I picked up the banana peel and threw it into the trash. She nodded approvingly, then took a gallon of milk out of the refrigerator and, smirking at me, poured all of it onto the ground in front of me.
"Oops," she said flatly. "You'd better clean that up, too." She tossed me a towel and, cracking under her gaze, bent down to wipe up her spill. "Good boy," she cooed.
I looked up as if to say something back to her, but before I could her left heel came crashing down on my right hand. I could hear my bones cracking under the pressure, and I was sure I was bleeding slightly. "You'd better clean that up fast, Michael," she said, a sing-song tone to her voice.
I did. I scrubbed the puddle of milk as fast as I could, but was hampered by my stepmother's heavy feet. More than once, she pinned me to the floor and smeared me around the stain, soaking it up with my shirt. She also kicked my face whenever it struck her fancy, which was a lot; I was bleeding from the nose before five minutes were up. Within ten minutes, she'd given up all pretense of having me clean up the milk and simply pinned me to the kitchen floor. She bent over--I swear I could hear the fabric at the back of her singlet scream in agony--and slid my pants and underwear down to my ankles. "Such a nice butt," she said, rubbing her hands over my posterior. She put out her next cigarette on my ass, laughing as a I yelped again in pain. Then she straightened herself up and planted her foot on my ass, with her heel right against my sphincter. "Such a tight butt," she purred. I felt her press her heel harder against my asshole, and soon it was all the way inside me.
My yelps became outright screams as she thrust her heel in and out of my ass. I couldn't believe it! My own stepmother was raping me with her feet! This went on for another fifteen minutes before she yanked her foot out with a loud plop. Pinning me down with her other foot, she presented the heel to my face and made me sniff the shit that clung to it. "Lick it off," she commanded.
I did. I found myself sobbing uncontrollably, which only made my stepmother laugh. After fucking me with her other foot--and making me lick that heel clean, too--she forced me to strip completely, and dragged me upstairs. That was to be the start of my ordeal.
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