The Public Spectacle
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 scuffmarked, rounded toes of her modest, plain black, flat-heeled, slip on shoes and a slither of pale grey towelling-sock below the green, silken, tapered hems of her Islamic Female Police uniform which consists of a dark green, shalwar kameez trouser-suit and matching, green, dupatta-style headscarf.
I have already kissed those Pakistani-girl shoes and socks – in the hope of eliciting some clemency, but as I nervously eye up the tip of the dreaded rattan cane as it dangles from officer-mistress Kareema’s police-officer belt, I don’t rate my chances of receiving any mercy that highly; this particular, diligent and ambitious, young officer-mistress has a reputation for wielding the cane with fortitude across the bare backbones of her male prisoners!
Despite my fear and trembling, or, indeed, perhaps because of it, there is a festival atmosphere all around me, with the Islamic mistresses of Futurosa and their freemale, Islamic partners enjoying refreshing ice-creams as they stroll about happily in the sun, protected from its burning rays by their Islamic dress, and eagerly anticipating the forthcoming spectacle of the convicted, male slave being caned in public.
A number of the more fundamentalist, fully-veiled ladies stop in front of me, with the full blessing of my female guard, officer-miss Kareema, in order to raise the hems of their black burkas and stretch forth their sandaled feet for kissing. Although I can’t see the expressions on their veiled faces, I can sense their joy as they curse me in Arabic:
‘ها! ها! وقريبا سوف يكون جلد لكم ، العبد الكافر!’
‘! سوف ها ها الألم سرعان ما وضعت في مكانها الخاص، الرقيق -- ألم
السوط!’
‘ها! ها! الخاسر! معتوه! جلد القذارة!’
I’m ashamed to say I don’t speak Arabic, but I can tell from the sneering tone of their female voices that these are indeed unfriendly and veiled threats – not compliments!
Other, more liberally attired, Muslim mistresses stop by to present me with their dusty, white or black ballet flats to kiss beneath the hems of their blue-denim jean-legs. Even they, however, choose to wear modest headscarves around their pretty, superciliously smiling, Indonesian, Malaysian or Pakistani faces.
Again the multilingual insults are directed towards me – incomprehensible to me, even if their derisory tone is clear:
‘Ha! Ha! Tidak lama kemudian anda akan belajar patuh wanita, hamba kotor!’
‘Ha! Ha! Aku akan menikmati menonton Anda dicambuk, budak!’
‘ہا!ہا!کیا آپ آپ کی ننگی پیٹھ، غلام پر رتن حاصل کرنے کے لئے انتظار کر رہے ہیں؟’
A number of these more liberally-minded, Muslim girls choose to spit on me from on high, as their faces are unencumbered by veils like those of their Arab sisters. To be honest, I’m quite glad of their cooling, Asian-girl spit running down my heavily perspiring face, so perhaps they’re doing it as an act of sweet feminine mercy and compassion?
What is for sure is that none of the expectant or expectorating ladies are wearing socks on this bright, summer’s day in Futurosa and, as a consequence, I have been kissing a lot of sweaty, hot feet this morning inside their Muslim sandals or ballet flats – yet another reminder of the stifling heat which only serves to increase my discomfort and the agony in my bent-over and sunburnt back!
It’s not just the Islamic residents of the Gynarchy-Island who are milling around, however. There are some female tourists from the mainland also – women in non-Islamic, not to say completely immodest, western-style clothing. Two such women, both with bleached-blonde hair and sunglasses, are approaching my wooden, kneeling stocks now.
They appear to be mother and daughter, judging by their impatient conversation, which thankfully is in English, with one another, though the older woman can only be in her mid thirties, and her leg-skin is still delightfully smooth and soft-looking; and there is plenty of her white, but gloriously suntanned, thirty-something flesh, on display! She is wearing a very skimpy, pink and sparkly, almost bikini-like top; ultra-short, white hot-pants; and flat, pink flip-flops on her bare, pedicured feet.
The sluttily-dressed older woman’s toenails are also painted bright red, and she has a tattoo of a red heart with the words ‘Lynsey luvs Darren’ emblazoned on her outer, right anklebone.
I notice all these details purely because of my kneeling position in the stocks, which forces me to stare at and admire the feet of my many, female visitors as they lord it over me!
The younger woman, who is considerably podgier than her slim and svelte mother, looks to be 18 or 19 (she must, by law, be at least 18 to gain access to the public, punishment grounds!). All I can say is that madam ‘Lynsey’ must have been very young when she gave birth to her, for she’s still a very fit-looking, youngish woman herself!
Mind you, everyone under 40 looks fit and young to me these days - I’m 55!
The fatter, younger woman is also more conservatively dressed than her milf-mother – slightly so – in that she is wearing a red T shirt; a short, white skirt which barely covers her somewhat fleshy thighs; and red and white, high-top, canvas, lace-up sneakers with a pair of delightful, matching, red and white, stripy anklesocks on her podgy, white-girl feet and ankles.
What I particularly like about the socks is that they are carelessly folded and twisted at the top, and the canvas, high-top sneakers are quite dusty and dirty – as, indeed, are all the feet of the women who deign to stop by me as the ground of the punishment arena on which they walk consists mainly of dry and parched dust and dirt!
I hear the older woman, madam Lynsey, conversing with officer-miss Kareema above me:
‘Ha! Ha! What’s he in for, honey?’
I’m quite sure that the prim and proper officer-mistress, miss Kareema, is not accustomed to being addressed as ‘honey’, but, of course, she takes it in the spirit in which it is meant by this slutty, female-tourist from the mainland – as a compliment. The female police-officer’s plain black shoes and grey socks move slightly beneath the dusty hem of her green-silken, tapered, shalwar kameez trouser-hems as she responds to the tourist’s polite enquiry :
‘Please, madam, the slave is being convicted of the heinous crime of disrespecting his mistress. He is to be confined for 4 hours in the stocks and then beaten with the stick 7 times, madam!’
I am surprised at how genuinely respectful officer-mistress Kareema sounds towards this strumpet of a female from the mainland! Perhaps that’s because she respects everything that is female; perhaps it’s because, secretly, she admires madam Lynsey’s freedom to dress however she damn well likes - something which I also have to secretly admire, for seeing so much, suntanned leg-flesh on display is something of a rarity for us maleslaves here in the Islamic-Gynarchy!
‘What did she say, ma? What time are they whippin’ him? I wanna watch!’ pipes up the younger, red-and-white-sneakered woman, whose dusty, canvas high-tops now move ominously closer into view beneath my face.
‘Shut up, Shannon, I is talkin’ to the prison-guard, yeah?’
‘God, ma, just hurry up and find out, would ya? I wanna get another ice-cream first!’
Madam Lynsey apologises to the officer-guard mistress for her daughter’s rudeness, self-indulgence and impatience:
‘Sorry, pet, I’s brought my daughter here so we can watch the caning, and that? When’s it due to take place, luv?’
‘It will be being in about one hour’s time, madam – but in the meantime please feel free to be using the slave to be kissing your feet; we are wanting him to be paying his respects most humbly to all the women of the Islamic Gynarchy, isn’t it?’
‘Ha! Ha! But we don’t live here, honey – we is just here on a visit, innit?’
‘That is being absolutely fine, madam – you are still being most welcome to be having your feet kissed by the prisoner-slave, since you are being a woman and his superior!’
‘I want him to kiss my feet, ma!’
‘Shut up, Shannon – I was first, yeah?’
‘Tch!...Whatever! Only get a move on ma, yeah? My feet are killin’ me in these sneaks!’
‘I told you not to wear ‘em today! It’s too friggin’ hot for sneakers! Ha! Ha!’
I can’t work out whether this is just friendly banter between mother and daughter, or whether they genuinely hate each other! It doesn’t help much that madam Lynsey appears to be just as youthfully petulant as her daughter!
Suddenly the former’s dusty, pink flip-flopped, tattooed, right foot is arrogantly extended onto the dusty ground beneath my kneeling face:
‘Oi you, the pafetic, male prisoner, yeah? Kiss my big toe, yeah?’
I’m not allowed to speak to my tormentresses prior to my public caning, and so my only response can be to carry out madam Lynsey’s brusquely-delivered orders with the requisite humility and respect. I lower my lips to the ‘fragrant’, outstretched foot of the scantily-clad, white woman and humbly kiss the proffered big toe.
The aforementioned ‘fragrance’ consists of natural, womanly footsweat mixed in with cheap, plastic and rubbery flip-flop. The red toenail varnish is, sadly, odourless.
I do like the way madam Lynsey’s foot veins twitch in a pleasurable reaction to my humble footkiss! I can’t wait to observe her daughter, miss Shannon’s, stripy, red and white sock-tops creasing and folding in a, hopefully, equally libidinous, female-dominant reaction to my forthcoming, humble ministrations to her red-and-white-sneakered feet!
But first there is the small matter of madam Lynsey’s left, flip-flop-surrounded, big toe, which swiftly replaces her right beneath my kneeling and confined-in-wood face. She inadvertently, or perhaps advertently, kicks some dust into my eyes as she changes pink-flip-flopped feet on the ground beneath me, causing my eyes to sting and water (no stylish sunglasses to protect my eyes from the dust, or, indeed, sun cream to protect my peeling back from the vicious rays of the sun!).
I hope my stinging eyes clear again in time for me get a good view of her self-centred daughter’s socks as I kiss her impatient sneakers!
‘Ha! Ha! His mouth tickles, and that! Told you, Shannon – that’s another reason why you should’ve worn your flip-flops like me, yeah? Ha! Ha!’
‘I don’t even care, ma! Move over, will ya? It’s my turn now!’
Dainty, shapely, bare, flip-flopped foot is suddenly replaced by chunky, high-top sneakered, podgy foot – and stripy, red and white anklesock:
‘Kiss the toe of my sneaker, w**ker!’
Really! Such un-young-ladylike language in such a hallowed place of public punishment! I’m quite sure that, whatever curses and ill-will the various Muslim women were directing towards me earlier in their respective tongues, none of them were resorting to such foul and abusive language! For they are all demure and virtuous, practising-Muslim ladies – not godless sluts like miss Shannon in whose power and at whose mercy I find myself now!
Sexy socks or not, I begin to take a dislike for this arrogant and imperious, over-indulged, young western woman and her flighty, red and white sneakers and socks. Give me the much more modest plain, black shoes and plain, grey towelling socks of my soon-to-be-whipper, miss Kareema, any day! Her socks are worn out of female purity and modesty – to cover her bare footflesh, as she is exceptionally devout and religious; not as a slutty fashion-statement, designed to actually highlight her foot and ankle flesh!
And yet, I am in no position to deny our extremely rude, foreign guest her impolite ‘request’. On the contrary, I must show some proper respect for her superior, female personage and kiss the dusty, street-soiled, white-rubber sneaker toe of her red-canvas, lace-up, high-top sneaker – especially since it was showing a lack of respect for the superior female which got me here in the first place (If you’re interested, my specific crime was to turn my slave-nose up at a globule of mud stuck to my Islamic mistress’s spiked ankleboot-heel beneath her black burka-hem!)
Miss Shannon’s canvas sneaker smells warm and rubbery as I place my lips on the dusty, rounded toe-area. I’m pleased to say that, as I had anticipated, her stripy, red and white anklesock-top creases and folds somewhat in a pleasurable reaction to my humble, male kiss to her dirty, feminine sneaker-toe.
I wonder if her toenails are painted red like her mother’s – only inside her warm and sweaty shoes and socks? If so, that toenail paint must surely be starting to run in the heat of her sneakers and socks?
Intrigued by the, relatively unusual, sight of a white, non-Islamic Gynarchy-girl having her flirty, red and white high-tops kissed by a low-down, public prisoner a number of lascivious, local, free men are gathering round and taking pictures of miss Shannon’s chubby, bare legs with their cellphones. She strikes a pose for them – given that her ambition is to be a model – coquettishly raising her flat, high-top-sneakered, white-rubbery heel up off the ground and twisting her foot around to one side beneath my face:
The men, who are mainly Arab, shout encouraging words at her:
‘ها! ها! هذا صحيح ، حبيبي! تبين لنا رجليك!’
This time it’s the overtly leering tone which conveys the import of the words!
Miss Shannon, who I’m quite convinced will also not understand a word of Arabic, nevertheless appears encouraged by all the freemale-Arab attention:
‘Ha! Ha! Now kiss me all along the instep, dirty slave, yeah? An’ do it, like, real slowly, yeah? I wanna feel your mout’ on the sides of my sneaks, yeah?’
I am now, actually, quite enamoured by her again, and honoured to obey miss Shannon – largely because the seductively showing-off, turned-up positioning of her right, sneakered foot is now causing her exciting, red and white stripy anklesock-top to crease and fold most dramatically in front of my mesmerized, if still somewhat dust-smartened, eyes. That, coupled with her black accent, make her a most alluring and intriguing, selfish young white woman!
I think realising that I am smitten by her, she leans down to taunt me further – all part of the impromptu spectacle she is now self-consciously putting on for her, mainly male, Arab audience:
‘Ha! Ha! You is gonna be well whipped, slave, in front of all these foreigners, though, innit? Ha! Ha! What a loser! What a tosser!’ she declares with undisguised glee as she sensuously switches sneakered-feet below me – again, like her mother, (in)advertently kicking up warm, Futurosan dust into my face.
I also notice that she has bad breath; mustn’t have cleaned her teeth properly this morning!
This podgy, young, foul-mouthed, white woman with the halitosis, who appears not to realise that she is, in fact, the exotic foreigner on this Island, is clearly getting over-excited, and needs to cool down. Go and get her that ice-cream, madam Lynsey, whilst I continue to make a public spectacle of myself by attending with my dry and parched lips to your fat, 18 year old daughter’s gloating, sneakered feet!
A raspberry ripple would be nice – to match her rippled, red and white, stripy socks; and the future state of my poor, soon-to-be-caned back!
The End
Good Better Best
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 scuffmarked, rounded toes of her modest, plain black, flat-heeled, slip on shoes and a slither of pale grey towelling-sock below the green, silken, tapered hems of her Islamic Female Police uniform which consists of a dark green, shalwar kameez trouser-suit and matching, green, dupatta-style headscarf.
I have already kissed those Pakistani-girl shoes and socks – in the hope of eliciting some clemency, but as I nervously eye up the tip of the dreaded rattan cane as it dangles from officer-mistress Kareema’s police-officer belt, I don’t rate my chances of receiving any mercy that highly; this particular, diligent and ambitious, young officer-mistress has a reputation for wielding the cane with fortitude across the bare backbones of her male prisoners!
Despite my fear and trembling, or, indeed, perhaps because of it, there is a festival atmosphere all around me, with the Islamic mistresses of Futurosa and their freemale, Islamic partners enjoying refreshing ice-creams as they stroll about happily in the sun, protected from its burning rays by their Islamic dress, and eagerly anticipating the forthcoming spectacle of the convicted, male slave being caned in public.
A number of the more fundamentalist, fully-veiled ladies stop in front of me, with the full blessing of my female guard, officer-miss Kareema, in order to raise the hems of their black burkas and stretch forth their sandaled feet for kissing. Although I can’t see the expressions on their veiled faces, I can sense their joy as they curse me in Arabic:
‘ها! ها! وقريبا سوف يكون جلد لكم ، العبد الكافر!’
‘! سوف ها ها الألم سرعان ما وضعت في مكانها الخاص، الرقيق -- ألم
السوط!’
‘ها! ها! الخاسر! معتوه! جلد القذارة!’
I’m ashamed to say I don’t speak Arabic, but I can tell from the sneering tone of their female voices that these are indeed unfriendly and veiled threats – not compliments!
Other, more liberally attired, Muslim mistresses stop by to present me with their dusty, white or black ballet flats to kiss beneath the hems of their blue-denim jean-legs. Even they, however, choose to wear modest headscarves around their pretty, superciliously smiling, Indonesian, Malaysian or Pakistani faces.
Again the multilingual insults are directed towards me – incomprehensible to me, even if their derisory tone is clear:
‘Ha! Ha! Tidak lama kemudian anda akan belajar patuh wanita, hamba kotor!’
‘Ha! Ha! Aku akan menikmati menonton Anda dicambuk, budak!’
‘ہا!ہا!کیا آپ آپ کی ننگی پیٹھ، غلام پر رتن حاصل کرنے کے لئے انتظار کر رہے ہیں؟’
A number of these more liberally-minded, Muslim girls choose to spit on me from on high, as their faces are unencumbered by veils like those of their Arab sisters. To be honest, I’m quite glad of their cooling, Asian-girl spit running down my heavily perspiring face, so perhaps they’re doing it as an act of sweet feminine mercy and compassion?
What is for sure is that none of the expectant or expectorating ladies are wearing socks on this bright, summer’s day in Futurosa and, as a consequence, I have been kissing a lot of sweaty, hot feet this morning inside their Muslim sandals or ballet flats – yet another reminder of the stifling heat which only serves to increase my discomfort and the agony in my bent-over and sunburnt back!
It’s not just the Islamic residents of the Gynarchy-Island who are milling around, however. There are some female tourists from the mainland also – women in non-Islamic, not to say completely immodest, western-style clothing. Two such women, both with bleached-blonde hair and sunglasses, are approaching my wooden, kneeling stocks now.
They appear to be mother and daughter, judging by their impatient conversation, which thankfully is in English, with one another, though the older woman can only be in her mid thirties, and her leg-skin is still delightfully smooth and soft-looking; and there is plenty of her white, but gloriously suntanned, thirty-something flesh, on display! She is wearing a very skimpy, pink and sparkly, almost bikini-like top; ultra-short, white hot-pants; and flat, pink flip-flops on her bare, pedicured feet.
The sluttily-dressed older woman’s toenails are also painted bright red, and she has a tattoo of a red heart with the words ‘Lynsey luvs Darren’ emblazoned on her outer, right anklebone.
I notice all these details purely because of my kneeling position in the stocks, which forces me to stare at and admire the feet of my many, female visitors as they lord it over me!
The younger woman, who is considerably podgier than her slim and svelte mother, looks to be 18 or 19 (she must, by law, be at least 18 to gain access to the public, punishment grounds!). All I can say is that madam ‘Lynsey’ must have been very young when she gave birth to her, for she’s still a very fit-looking, youngish woman herself!
Mind you, everyone under 40 looks fit and young to me these days - I’m 55!
The fatter, younger woman is also more conservatively dressed than her milf-mother – slightly so – in that she is wearing a red T shirt; a short, white skirt which barely covers her somewhat fleshy thighs; and red and white, high-top, canvas, lace-up sneakers with a pair of delightful, matching, red and white, stripy anklesocks on her podgy, white-girl feet and ankles.
What I particularly like about the socks is that they are carelessly folded and twisted at the top, and the canvas, high-top sneakers are quite dusty and dirty – as, indeed, are all the feet of the women who deign to stop by me as the ground of the punishment arena on which they walk consists mainly of dry and parched dust and dirt!
I hear the older woman, madam Lynsey, conversing with officer-miss Kareema above me:
‘Ha! Ha! What’s he in for, honey?’
I’m quite sure that the prim and proper officer-mistress, miss Kareema, is not accustomed to being addressed as ‘honey’, but, of course, she takes it in the spirit in which it is meant by this slutty, female-tourist from the mainland – as a compliment. The female police-officer’s plain black shoes and grey socks move slightly beneath the dusty hem of her green-silken, tapered, shalwar kameez trouser-hems as she responds to the tourist’s polite enquiry :
‘Please, madam, the slave is being convicted of the heinous crime of disrespecting his mistress. He is to be confined for 4 hours in the stocks and then beaten with the stick 7 times, madam!’
I am surprised at how genuinely respectful officer-mistress Kareema sounds towards this strumpet of a female from the mainland! Perhaps that’s because she respects everything that is female; perhaps it’s because, secretly, she admires madam Lynsey’s freedom to dress however she damn well likes - something which I also have to secretly admire, for seeing so much, suntanned leg-flesh on display is something of a rarity for us maleslaves here in the Islamic-Gynarchy!
‘What did she say, ma? What time are they whippin’ him? I wanna watch!’ pipes up the younger, red-and-white-sneakered woman, whose dusty, canvas high-tops now move ominously closer into view beneath my face.
‘Shut up, Shannon, I is talkin’ to the prison-guard, yeah?’
‘God, ma, just hurry up and find out, would ya? I wanna get another ice-cream first!’
Madam Lynsey apologises to the officer-guard mistress for her daughter’s rudeness, self-indulgence and impatience:
‘Sorry, pet, I’s brought my daughter here so we can watch the caning, and that? When’s it due to take place, luv?’
‘It will be being in about one hour’s time, madam – but in the meantime please feel free to be using the slave to be kissing your feet; we are wanting him to be paying his respects most humbly to all the women of the Islamic Gynarchy, isn’t it?’
‘Ha! Ha! But we don’t live here, honey – we is just here on a visit, innit?’
‘That is being absolutely fine, madam – you are still being most welcome to be having your feet kissed by the prisoner-slave, since you are being a woman and his superior!’
‘I want him to kiss my feet, ma!’
‘Shut up, Shannon – I was first, yeah?’
‘Tch!...Whatever! Only get a move on ma, yeah? My feet are killin’ me in these sneaks!’
‘I told you not to wear ‘em today! It’s too friggin’ hot for sneakers! Ha! Ha!’
I can’t work out whether this is just friendly banter between mother and daughter, or whether they genuinely hate each other! It doesn’t help much that madam Lynsey appears to be just as youthfully petulant as her daughter!
Suddenly the former’s dusty, pink flip-flopped, tattooed, right foot is arrogantly extended onto the dusty ground beneath my kneeling face:
‘Oi you, the pafetic, male prisoner, yeah? Kiss my big toe, yeah?’
I’m not allowed to speak to my tormentresses prior to my public caning, and so my only response can be to carry out madam Lynsey’s brusquely-delivered orders with the requisite humility and respect. I lower my lips to the ‘fragrant’, outstretched foot of the scantily-clad, white woman and humbly kiss the proffered big toe.
The aforementioned ‘fragrance’ consists of natural, womanly footsweat mixed in with cheap, plastic and rubbery flip-flop. The red toenail varnish is, sadly, odourless.
I do like the way madam Lynsey’s foot veins twitch in a pleasurable reaction to my humble footkiss! I can’t wait to observe her daughter, miss Shannon’s, stripy, red and white sock-tops creasing and folding in a, hopefully, equally libidinous, female-dominant reaction to my forthcoming, humble ministrations to her red-and-white-sneakered feet!
But first there is the small matter of madam Lynsey’s left, flip-flop-surrounded, big toe, which swiftly replaces her right beneath my kneeling and confined-in-wood face. She inadvertently, or perhaps advertently, kicks some dust into my eyes as she changes pink-flip-flopped feet on the ground beneath me, causing my eyes to sting and water (no stylish sunglasses to protect my eyes from the dust, or, indeed, sun cream to protect my peeling back from the vicious rays of the sun!).
I hope my stinging eyes clear again in time for me get a good view of her self-centred daughter’s socks as I kiss her impatient sneakers!
‘Ha! Ha! His mouth tickles, and that! Told you, Shannon – that’s another reason why you should’ve worn your flip-flops like me, yeah? Ha! Ha!’
‘I don’t even care, ma! Move over, will ya? It’s my turn now!’
Dainty, shapely, bare, flip-flopped foot is suddenly replaced by chunky, high-top sneakered, podgy foot – and stripy, red and white anklesock:
‘Kiss the toe of my sneaker, w**ker!’
Really! Such un-young-ladylike language in such a hallowed place of public punishment! I’m quite sure that, whatever curses and ill-will the various Muslim women were directing towards me earlier in their respective tongues, none of them were resorting to such foul and abusive language! For they are all demure and virtuous, practising-Muslim ladies – not godless sluts like miss Shannon in whose power and at whose mercy I find myself now!
Sexy socks or not, I begin to take a dislike for this arrogant and imperious, over-indulged, young western woman and her flighty, red and white sneakers and socks. Give me the much more modest plain, black shoes and plain, grey towelling socks of my soon-to-be-whipper, miss Kareema, any day! Her socks are worn out of female purity and modesty – to cover her bare footflesh, as she is exceptionally devout and religious; not as a slutty fashion-statement, designed to actually highlight her foot and ankle flesh!
And yet, I am in no position to deny our extremely rude, foreign guest her impolite ‘request’. On the contrary, I must show some proper respect for her superior, female personage and kiss the dusty, street-soiled, white-rubber sneaker toe of her red-canvas, lace-up, high-top sneaker – especially since it was showing a lack of respect for the superior female which got me here in the first place (If you’re interested, my specific crime was to turn my slave-nose up at a globule of mud stuck to my Islamic mistress’s spiked ankleboot-heel beneath her black burka-hem!)
Miss Shannon’s canvas sneaker smells warm and rubbery as I place my lips on the dusty, rounded toe-area. I’m pleased to say that, as I had anticipated, her stripy, red and white anklesock-top creases and folds somewhat in a pleasurable reaction to my humble, male kiss to her dirty, feminine sneaker-toe.
I wonder if her toenails are painted red like her mother’s – only inside her warm and sweaty shoes and socks? If so, that toenail paint must surely be starting to run in the heat of her sneakers and socks?
Intrigued by the, relatively unusual, sight of a white, non-Islamic Gynarchy-girl having her flirty, red and white high-tops kissed by a low-down, public prisoner a number of lascivious, local, free men are gathering round and taking pictures of miss Shannon’s chubby, bare legs with their cellphones. She strikes a pose for them – given that her ambition is to be a model – coquettishly raising her flat, high-top-sneakered, white-rubbery heel up off the ground and twisting her foot around to one side beneath my face:
The men, who are mainly Arab, shout encouraging words at her:
‘ها! ها! هذا صحيح ، حبيبي! تبين لنا رجليك!’
This time it’s the overtly leering tone which conveys the import of the words!
Miss Shannon, who I’m quite convinced will also not understand a word of Arabic, nevertheless appears encouraged by all the freemale-Arab attention:
‘Ha! Ha! Now kiss me all along the instep, dirty slave, yeah? An’ do it, like, real slowly, yeah? I wanna feel your mout’ on the sides of my sneaks, yeah?’
I am now, actually, quite enamoured by her again, and honoured to obey miss Shannon – largely because the seductively showing-off, turned-up positioning of her right, sneakered foot is now causing her exciting, red and white stripy anklesock-top to crease and fold most dramatically in front of my mesmerized, if still somewhat dust-smartened, eyes. That, coupled with her black accent, make her a most alluring and intriguing, selfish young white woman!
I think realising that I am smitten by her, she leans down to taunt me further – all part of the impromptu spectacle she is now self-consciously putting on for her, mainly male, Arab audience:
‘Ha! Ha! You is gonna be well whipped, slave, in front of all these foreigners, though, innit? Ha! Ha! What a loser! What a tosser!’ she declares with undisguised glee as she sensuously switches sneakered-feet below me – again, like her mother, (in)advertently kicking up warm, Futurosan dust into my face.
I also notice that she has bad breath; mustn’t have cleaned her teeth properly this morning!
This podgy, young, foul-mouthed, white woman with the halitosis, who appears not to realise that she is, in fact, the exotic foreigner on this Island, is clearly getting over-excited, and needs to cool down. Go and get her that ice-cream, madam Lynsey, whilst I continue to make a public spectacle of myself by attending with my dry and parched lips to your fat, 18 year old daughter’s gloating, sneakered feet!
A raspberry ripple would be nice – to match her rippled, red and white, stripy socks; and the future state of my poor, soon-to-be-caned back!
The End
Good Better Best
