Patheticus Minimus 3D

My Indian mistress, mistress Veena, is a very sweet, but demanding young woman; as you can hear for yourself!  1. ‘Why you are not working, slave? Why you are slacking? Is it that you are wanting to be feeling the sting of my whip on your back? Be lickshining my dirty boots in the corner of the kitchen this instant!’ 2. ‘Slave, where are my black socks? Be fetching them for my feet, isn’t it?’   3. ‘Slave, my husband will soon be coming home from work. Be crawling over here on your hands and knees, and wiping the dust off the bottoms of my black socks with your mouth, and then fetching me my slippers.’   4. ‘Slave, I am giving you 100 lashes with my brown, leather whip! You are displeasing me with your impertinent tongue, isn’t it? 5. ‘Slave? Slave? Why you are not kissing the feet of my honoured guest, miss Sandra?’ 6. ‘It’s ok, Veena! He’s just a dumbass-stupid slave! I expect he needs to be constantly told what to do?’ 7. ‘I am thanking you for your kind words, Sandra! But it

  Foot-Lifestyle Changes I’ve always had what I would regard as a good working relationship with my petite and comely, 27 year old, brunette-haired, personal footmistress – miss Ivy. Having been enslaved to her all our adult lives since we were both 21 years old, I think we have come to know each other rather well, and we have become an integral part of each other’s existence – so much so that she rarely needs to beat me with her household cane, since I now know all her footmistressly likes and dislikes quite intimately! I know, for example, that she likes me to kiss her right foot on the middle of her shapely instep, in between two little natural, brown moles which are conveniently positioned a mouth-distance apart. This applies even if she is wearing socks, nylons, shoes or boots – my footkissing mouth will always endeavour to kiss her on the instep of her right foot as an acknowledgement of her foot moles. For reasons of symmetry I routinely kiss the same area of her left foo

In the Islamic-Gynarchy of Futurosa they like to make a public spectacle out of maleslave punishment. Today I shall be one such unfortunate spectacle. It is a baking hot day and I am confined, bare-backed, in the kneeling stocks awaiting my sentence of 7 harsh strokes of the cane to be carried out in the central square next to the main mosque. I have been kneeling here in the stocks for some three hours now – and shall have to wait a bit longer yet, for the Futurosan Gynarchy authorities like a criminal-maleslave’s back to be well raw and sunburnt before they apply the additional pain of the female rattan-cane to a punishee’s back. My soon-to-be punisher – 25 year old officer-mistress Kareema of the Islamic Female Police, who is of Pakistani origins – is gleefully standing guard over me, making sure to stand on my left hand side so as not to provide my already blistering back with any shade from the harsh rays of the midday sun. Out of the corner of my eye I can just see the dusty and