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Ms Tarasov
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Ms Olga Tarasov--descended from Russian nobility but her family having lived in the United States for three generations--still had that aire of a royal dutchess when she would visit our home during my teenaged years. Ms Tarasov was a tall, blonde, BBW with a curvy build--an attractive woman in her mid-40's with enough wealth to afford expensive jewelry, designer clothes and shoes, and drive a fully-loaded, white, Cadillac Fleetwood. Her winter visits included mink coats with matching hats and fine leather boots with sharp heels that left deep prints in the snow as she walked up to the door of our house. During the summer she wore dresses that flashed her long, solid, muscular legs, and spike-heeled sandals and mules with tall, pencil-thin, metal-tipped heels that "clicked" against the cement surface of our driveway and the small walk leading to the front door. She loved to see Mom's summer flowers, and as she walked over the lawn, her sharp heels would often sink deeply into the earth, pressing holes into the ground whether it was soft or hardened by the summer sun.
Yes...Ms Tarasov was a heavy woman, but stunning in appearance--shoulder-length, blonde hair; large, firm breasts; a prominent, well-rounded derriere; and those long, curvy, solid legs which transmitted beauty and power. I once heard her mention to my Mom that she weighed 265 pounds, but her tall (probably 5'11"), BBW build compensated for her weight so this mattered little to her. And she was right--Olga was a regal beauty.
However, it was her sensuous heels that I loved the most--normally five-inch, stiletto heels with slightly platformed soles. I would fantasize about the tremendous amount of pressure per square inch beneath Ms Tarasov's steel-tipped spikes; that big, beautiful woman's full weight focused on heel tips no larger in diameter than a pencil.
Thus, I once invited her to look at a woodworking project I was making in the garage. Of course, I had laid some cardboard, made of large, flattened boxes, out across the garage floor. And predictably, as Ms Tarasov walked over the cardboard to inspect my work, her sharp, stiletto heels punched into the cardboard like an ice pick into soft butter. However, unlike butter, her heels made a sharp "POP!" "SNAP!" sound as they shot into the cardboard like bullets. She paid no attention to this, almost like it was expected and it made little difference to her. On another occasion she was wearing cone heels, those fared heels that have the tips the size of a quarter. Even these heels pressed deep imprints into my pre-planned cardboard walking surface. This made me think about how any type of high heel must apply crushing pressure under an adult woman's normal weight.
Ms Tarasov was an assertive, self-confident woman who domineered and won over any obstacle. She had the wealth and power to win, and cared little about what stoood in her way. I realized this that same day she walked into the garage wearing those cone heels. They were so elegant with the sensuous straps that covered her feet and the slightly platformed soles that cushioned her feet from any object she might step on and crush under her weight, her heels smashing anything into pulp if they were to have the misfortune to be in the place where those heels pressed down. Yet, her assertive and uncaring nature were not shown that day by her shoes--it was something else that she did with full knowledge and complete lack of concern.
It happened as she was leaving our house and walking down the driveway. Her strong, muscular calves were displayed so nicely by the white dress that swished nicely across her legs by the sway of her full hips and buttocks. She put a package that my Mom had given her into the trunk of her car, and as she closed the trunk lid, Ms Tarasov glanced down at the car tire, then made a smerk on her face and proceeded to get into the car. The car sunk a bit under her weight, she pulled the door shut, and then she turned on the car ignition. Above the sound of the engine, she smiled, said that she would see us in a week, waved to us, and then shifted her big, white, Fleetwood into reverse. Even above the sound of the engine, I heard the "POP!" followed by a soft "Cruuunch" as she backed the car down the drive. And as Ms Tarasov drove away, it was then that I saw some flattened thing on the cement where her car had just passed over.
I approached with careful curiosity and was surprised to find a crushed box turtle. It was completely squashed into pulp and smashed into mush under the tires of Ms Tarasov's 4,000 pound luxury car. Then I realized that this must have been what she had noticed and gave a mischevious smerk about. Yet, it meant nothing to her. She was not about to dirty her hands by picking up such a lowly being that had sought to hide behind the tire of her car. It was in her path, and its only option was to be crushed out of existence! Such was the character (or lack thereof) of Ms Olga Tarasov. | |
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