FROM A TOP TO BOTTOM by Debra

Trisha studied the shivering form on the other side of her desk. This had been her tormentor. She licked her ruby red lips in anticipation as she pictured her revenge.

The wreckage which stood in front of her drew itself up and stared at her with undisguised hatred. Then it saw her smile and it began to shake. It seemed to understand that it was about to undergo a trip to hell.

The creature is, or was the camp Commandant. His name had been John, but he now had been trained to answer to Bimbo, or Blondie, or even "hey, you." He was still a man, at least physically, but he knew, in his deepest heart of hearts, what Trisha had in store for him.

She did not keep him waiting. Trisha held up the most god awful pair of boots he had ever seen. They were full length, and made of bright shiny red vinyl. The tops were hardened and nearly knife sharp.

Whoever wore these things would find them constantly chafing at the crotch, until every step became an exercise in pain.

That was only the beginning. The toes pointed straight down to the ground and came to a sharp point. The toe of the boot was only an inch in front of the tip of the heel, which also came to a point. Both points were made of steel. The heels were twenty inches high, and the end of the toe point was about eight inches from where the toes of the wearer would end.

The boots could be laced tightly to the leg, molding themselves to the skin. Over the laces, which he knew would be tightly knotted, was a zipper cover which could be locked by padlocks at the top. Any one wearing these exotic, bedroom boots would be helpless. They would also be in a great deal of pain. Walking and standing would be impossible.

Bimbo understood it did not matter how impossible it would be. He would learn to stand, and to walk, and probably to run and jump and dance in those things.

He knew this, but even so his male pride would not allow him to simply capitulate. So when he was asked if he would put them on of his own free will, he refused.

Instead he stood helplessly as Trisha described how his legs would be shaved. Then a steel garter belt would be forced around his waist and tightened down by a series of screws until his ribs began to crack.

Each day, the tightening bolts would be inserted and she would personally turn them two full turns. Each day she would listen to him plead as his waist shrunk further and further. He would have a waist that she could span with her two hands before she quit. The finest silken stockings, black of course, would be drawn up his shapely, smooth gams and fastened to the garters hanging down. Then each foot would be forced into its prison.

He grimaced as she described how his feet would be reshaped as the boots were laced tight and then zipped up and locked into place.

How his feet would force themselves down into the pointed toe box, squeezing tighter and tighter until his feét felt like the bones were turning to jelly.

How he would be forced to stand for hours as his own weight continued the process, driving his toes further and further down into their narrow, pointed prison. The footgear would become one with him, a source of his anguish. After several months of this torment, his feet would be so reshaped that, like the bound feet of the Chinese of old, the boots could never be removed.

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