Private Tour of the Gynarchy

Day 1 – Arrival at the Airport

They say that first impressions are everything and be in no doubt that, as she entered the arrivals hall at Barbaria International Airport, 23 year old miss Miren from rural Gujarat in India was truly impressed by what she saw: the large, purple and white flag of the Gynarchy; the line of smartly-dressed, immigration officers sitting behind their raised desks in their navy blue uniforms; the very fact that the Arrivals Hall was divided into two sections – the first, a beautiful shade of lilac, for females; the second, grubby and grey, for males.

She smiled wryly to herself as she thought of how her boyfriend, Ravi, would be required to go through the grubby, unwelcoming side of the Hall if he were accompanying her on this trip to the Gynarchy – which he most definitely was not!

As she smiled, she followed the separate signs which welcomed females into the Gynarchy, and was soon standing in front of passport control desk no 18.

The immigration officer was, of course – as one would expect in a Gynarchy – female. They all were - even those dealing with male arrivals on the other, less plush and less welcoming, side of the Arrivals Hall.

Speaking of which Miren was curious to observe a coffle of semi-naked male slaves making their way in chains through the other side of the Hall, spurred on by a uniformed, female immigration officer holding a short, black leather whip! She felt a strange stirring in her loins at the sight and sound of the whip coming down sharply upon the naked back of one of the male slaves. The crack of the whip echoed around the entire Arrivals Hall.

‘Ha! Ha! Welcome to the Gynarchy, whipped slave,’ she chuckled under her breath.

What particularly impressed Miren, however, was the fact that the uniformed, female immigration officer now seated at passport control desk no. 18 in front of her appeared to be, like Miren herself, of Indian origins. That could be me, she thought to herself!

She wished it was. She already wanted to live and work in the Gynarchy, having barely touched down only 10 minutes ago!

But she was just here on a ‘Visit’ visa.

She handed over her passport to the smiling immigration officer.

‘Hello, miss. Welcome to the Gynarchy of Barbaria!’ said the pretty, Indian officer, whose smile seemed so much in contrast to her severe and authoritative-looking uniform:

‘Thank you’ replied Miren, somewhat feebly. For some reason she was quite nervous, even though the female officer was being so kind and welcoming.

Well, it was Miren’s first time outside India!

‘And how long will you be staying with us in the Gynarchy, miss?’

‘Erm, just 5 days, please. I am being winning a competition in a feminist newspaper to visit the Gynarchy and to see all the wonderful sights of your great country.’

‘Cool!’ exclaimed the female immigration officer, leafing through Miren’s passport until she reached the page with the relevant visa on it. ‘And are you travelling alone?’

‘Yes please, but I am to be being met by a tour guide here at the airport, Madam.’

Miren wasn’t quite sure what the protocols were for a female tourist when addressing a fellow-female in the Gynarchy, but she decided that a polite ‘Madam’ must surely be appropriate when addressing a uniformed female in a position of power and authority, such as the immigration officer seated before her now, even though that officer looked to be about the same age as Miren herself, and was even more slight and petite in stature than the tiny and svelte Indian visitor!

The immigration officer stamped Miren’s Indian passport, handed it back to her, and then appeared to press a button whilst glancing disparagingly down at her own feet behind the raised passport-control desk at which she was sitting:

‘Slave, greet our guest to the Gynarchy!’

A male face suddenly appeared from a hitherto unnoticed hatch at the bottom of the female immigration officer’s desk no.18, directly above Miren’s shapely, Indian feet.

To her initial shock and surprise the man then placed his lips on the toe of her right sneaker, and kissed it. Before she had time to react, he had done the same with her left sneaker.

It seemed Miren’s shoes had to be ‘endorsed’ at the same time as her passport – endorsed by a male slave’s humble kisses. Miren gasped momentarily, and then smiled.

The male head beneath her spoke:

‘Welcome to the Gynarchy, mistress. On behalf of all slavekind this dirty slave worships and blesses the mistress for gracing us with her presence!’

The head then disappeared, as quickly as it had appeared, back into the hatch under the female immigration officer’s desk.

Miren instinctively put her pretty, brown hand up to her pretty, Indian mouth in order to stifle a girlish giggle. ‘Mistress’! She had never been addressed by anyone as ‘mistress’ before. ‘Miss’ – yes! Even the female immigration officer had just politely addressed her as ‘miss’. But ‘mistress’!

Miren felt a surge of delicious power running through her feminine veins. It had all happened so quickly – her passport being authoritatively stamped and her sneakers being humbly kissed.

But she had very much liked the unfamiliar sensation of having her feet kissed; of being worshipped.

Yes – first impressions count for a lot. And Miren was decidedly impressed by her welcome, as a member of the superior sex, to the Gynarchy of Barbaria, the world’s only Femdom State.

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Public footslave no. 74390 had been employed as a ‘female-feet-greeter’ at the airport for some 7 years now. He had been permanently chained up underneath passport control desk no. 18 all that time, and had been doing his ‘job’ much longer than the probationer-immigration officer miss Heera at whose booted feet he was currently kneeling.

But, of course, miss Heera, probationer or not, was very much the one who was in charge at the desk. His role was a routine and humble one – simply to kiss the passengers’ feet on officer-mistress Heera’s command. Officer-mistress Heera herself had the much more skilful and difficult task of checking the female passengers’ visas and endorsing their passports.

Public footslave no. 74390’s specific job-description was to kneel silently and unobtrusively beneath the passport control desk, and to stare at, and admire, officer Heera’s uniform-issue, black leather, block-heeled, zip-up ankle boots as they rested on the circular metal footrest of her raised chair beneath the hems of her navy, blue, bootcut, uniform-issue trouser legs, whilst she got on with her job of interviewing the new arrivals.

The hatch in front of his kneeling face remained closed until such time as miss Heera pressed a button in order to open it, so that he would not be distracted from staring at the female immigration officer’s pretty ankleboots by the feet and footwear of the female passengers whilst they were being interviewed by the officer seated above him.

Not that public footslave no. 74390 needed any incentive to concentrate on immigration officer-mistress Heera’s black, leather ankle boots, for she was a truly outstandingly pretty young woman of Indian origins. Her booted feet were small and shapely, but, petite in stature although she may be, she nevertheless seemed to tower above him on her raised chair like an all-powerful giantess, and public footslave no. 74390 felt nothing but awe and wonder as he knelt for hours on end at officer-mistress Heera’s boots, admiring them and studying them under her desk.

He particularly liked the way the navy blue hems of her uniform trouser-legs rode up above the tops of her smart, leather, zip-up ankle boots, thanks to her seated position, thereby not only affording him a close up and humbling view of the zippers on the insides of her boots, but also of the elasticated tops of her plain black, cotton ankle socks inside her boots, and even a tiny slither of her soft, brown calfskin above the socks.

This morning he was admiring, in particular, the way the elasticated top of the sock on her right, ankle-booted foot was somewhat twisted, thereby granting him sight of even more bare, brown, female leg than usual.

How he wished he could nuzzle the top of officer-mistress Heera’s sweet, feminine ankle sock; touch the creases and folds with the sensitive tip of his footslave nose. But that was completely forbidden. His only permitted contact with the officer’s boots was to respectfully kiss them every time she sat down at, or got up from, her workstation. Anything else would have been considered an unwarranted distraction for the pretty, young, probationer immigration officer, and so he spent nearly all his time just looking at Indian girl ankle boot and sock.

Looking; and admiring; and wishing.

Of course, his job did, nevertheless, entail a lot of daily contact with female feet and footwear – for he was required, by law, to endorse the feet of each and every female passenger who was admitted to the Gynarchy through desk no. 18. He was required to kiss the female passengers’ feet on officer-mistress Heera’s command, just as soon as she had stamped their passports and pressed the electronic button to open the hatch at the bottom of her passport control desk.

On this occasion, as soon as the hatch opened, he saw a pretty pair of crisp and new-looking, female-sized, silver and white, lace-up sneakers and short, multicoloured, striped sneaker socks on what appeared to be another pair of soft and smooth, bare, brown Indian legs, this time beneath a pair of plain, white shorts.

How nice! Another Indian girl to fawn over and worship!

One of the things public footslave no. 74390 truly loved about his job was that he got to kiss the feet of young women of all different ethnicities and nationalities. It was, after all, an international airport! He, of course, treated each and every nationality of mistress with the same degree of respect – as they were each and every one his female betters, whatever their ethnic origin. But he did have a particular fondness for South Asian and Indian mistresses – perhaps because he spent so many hours each day humbly staring at the booted feet and calf muscles of the Indian immigration officer, officer-mistress Heera. He had become accustomed to the delightful, soft, light brown hue of Indian female leg-skin!

He had to take in a lot of information in a very short space of time as soon as the hatch was opened, for he was only ever permitted to kiss the feet of each female passenger once, prior to uttering his short statement of welcome to the mistress in fluent slave-speak.

To have allowed him a longer period of reflection and wonderment over each and every female traveller’s feet would have led to substantial queues building up in the Arrivals Hall, for public footslave no. 74390, left to his own, selfish, footslave-devices , would surely have spent several hours studying each, beautiful female passenger’s feet and footwear, and would happily have endorsed them with thousands of respectful kisses, so conditioned had he become to his life of total footslavery at the feet of superior women.

His footslave-brain was therefore functioning on overdrive as he quickly lowered his lips to the Indian visitor’s right sneakered-toe. Even in that split second before his lips touched her sneaker, public footslave no. 74390 had ascertained the pattern in the colours of her low-cut, stripy sneaker socks: the top stripe was red; below that yellow; below that brown; below that blue; and below that purple.

Frustratingly, he couldn’t make out the colour of the next, thin stripe further down her sock as it had disappeared beneath the rim of the young woman’s equally fetching silver and white, lace-up sneaker, but he did manage to notice that there was a tiny loose stitch at the very top of the red stripe, just below the young, Indian woman’s shapely, right anklebone.

That tiny, almost imperceptible, imperfection in the young woman’s sock somehow made his humble act of kissing her sneaker-toe all the more exciting for him, for it reminded him that he was of less importance and significance than the tiny loose stitch in the young woman’s sock. That was because she was his better and superior, and therefore her sock was better than him also, just as officer-mistress Heera’s twisted, black bootsock was his superior. Which, in turn, was why his slave-lips were now lower than their respective socks.

No sooner had his lips left the white, leather toe of the young, visiting Indian girl’s right sneaker, than they were descending onto the toe of her left sneaker; same colour pattern in the sock, but no loose, red stitch this time. Just a tiny, black hair stuck to the outside of one of the stitches in the brown stripe – the third stripe down. The left sock also appeared to be more creased inside the young woman’s sneaker.

Public footslave no. 74390 would have dearly loved to linger over that tiny, foreign hair and remove it from the young, Indian woman’s creased sneaker-sock with his mouth – but there wasn’t time. He had to just kiss her white sneaker-toe and then utter the standard footslave-greeting – as commanded by officer-mistress Heera whose black leather ankle-boots and black ankle-socks still rested on the metal footrest above him.

He therefore said his slave-speak piece, and withdrew his neck back in through the hatch, allowing miss Heera to press the button again and close the aperture.

The Indian tourist’s delightful silver and white, lace-up sneakers and short multicoloured stripy socks, with all their tiny imperfections, were now but a pleasant memory on his public footslave-lips, as he once again had to focus his slavish attention on officer-mistress Heera’s twisted, black cotton bootsock on her right, booted foot – ready for the next customer; ready for his next surprise guest.

He heard the young Indian guest thanking officer Heera as she proceeded through passport control with the traces of his slave saliva on the toes of her silver and white sneakers.

He felt proud.

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For her part miss Miren felt great and no longer nervous or apprehensive, as, having picked up her luggage in baggage reclaim, she was greeted outside the Customs Hall by her personal tour guide - a 22 year old, oriental girl called miss Nu-Ying, who was holding up a cardboard sign with Miren’s name written on it.

Nu-Ying even greeted Miren with a sisterly kiss to the side of her cheek – one Asian female welcoming another to the glorious Gynarchy!

And, once again, Miren found the toes of her sneakers being kissed in worshipful greeting, this time by a male porter-slave, on whose back her heavy suitcase, full of female attire and accoutrements, was duly attached.

This time miss Miren, or should that be ‘mistress Miren’, had the presence of mind to imperiously stretch forward each sneakered foot in front of her for kissing, so used was she already becoming to male slaves paying homage to her footwear.

Yes, she was going to very much enjoy her week long, private tour of the Gynarchy of Barbaria!

She walked in front of the crawling porter-slave as miss Nu-Ying, her tour guide, walked along side her towards the airport hotel.

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Slave Reginald, the aforementioned porter-slave, felt honoured to have the weight of the young, Indian lady’s heavy suitcase on his back, and to be crawling behind her sneakered and socked heels. He particularly admired the way the short, multicoloured, stripy sneaker sock on her right heel was slightly higher up than that on her left. He knew that because he could see an ‘extra’ purple stripe along the sock just above the rim of her right sneaker-heel.

And walking along beside the sneakers and socks of the Indian foreign visitor were the more familiar light brown, combat-style trousers and flat, brown leather, open toed, open-backed strappy sandals and bare heels of miss Nu-Ying, the professional tour guide. He had always admired miss Nu-Ying’s Chinese heels, particularly the prominent wrinkles and lines of cracked, flaky white skin near the base of her heels. She always seemed quite unabashed about the state of her bare heels, for he had noticed that she had a tendency to wear those same, open-backed, brown leather sandals on her bare feet in all weathers!

Nor did she ever seem to bother painting her fully exposed toenails at the front of her open-toed sandals. She preferred her feet to be ‘au naturel’. And slave Reginald admired the young, Chinese-female, tour guide for all that.

Don’t be under any illusions: much like his footslave-counterpart underneath the passport control desk, porter-slave Reginald adored and worshipped female socks; but he was also very appreciate of female, bare footskin, and yearned to run his nose along the horizontal skin-grooves in the backs of miss Nu-Ying’s hardened, feminine heels every bit as much as public footslave no. 74390 yearned to run his nose along the horizontal creases at the top of officer-mistress Heera’s soft, black, uniform bootsocks.

Unlike his counterpart underneath the passport control desk, however, slave Reginald did have certain distractions to deal with – notably the huge distraction of having a heavy load strapped to his aching back as he crawled dutifully and silently along the floor of the airport concourse behind his two female betters’ Asian heels as they made their way towards the hotel entrance.

He wasn’t getting any younger, and must have been at least twice the age of the girl whose luggage he was transporting on his back. Indeed, in any other society these two fit young women in front of him would probably have been helping him – the old man – with his luggage.

But this was not ‘any other society’; this was the Gynarchy of Barbaria. And male slaves like him didn’t have any luggage of their own. Just burdens; other people’s burdens; specifically women’s burdens.

For that was all he was – a beast of burden for superior women, there to facilitate the passage of visiting mistresses to their nearby luxury hotel rooms.

And he wouldn’t expect a tip either. The tip of the female whip would doubtless be his only reward, should he falter or collapse under the weight of the Indian mistress’s burdensome luggage!

He therefore girded his slave-loins, and tried his best to concentrate on the two delightful pairs of female heels in front of his sweating and crawling face – one sneakered pair and one sandalled pair – as he carried the sneakered girl’s heavy, feminine luggage to her place of temporary residence.

Poor slave Reginald! If only he could get a job under one of the passport control desks! Those lucky slaves had it easy, compared to him!




Settling in at the Hotel

Miss Nu-Ying left Miren alone in the hotel so that she could relax after her long and tiring flight all the way from India. The individual, guided tour of the Gynarchy, which Miren had won in a competition thanks to her superbly written article on the ‘Ascent of the Female over the Male in the 21st Century’, would start in earnest tomorrow.

The rest of Miren’s day was, therefore, free.

Her hotel room was just wonderful, with a stunning view overlooking the city of Barbaria in the distance. Not an airport runway in sight, despite its proximity to such a busy, international airport!

Miren was about to open her suitcase and start unpacking, when there was a tentative knock on the door.

She thought it may have been her private tour guide, miss Nu-Ying, who had maybe forgotten to tell her something about their planned rendezvous in the hotel lobby tomorrow morning, but when she opened the door there was only a semi-naked, middle-aged, male slave kneeling humbly outside, his head suitably bowed over her sneakered feet.

Indeed, when he spoke, he did not appear to be addressing Miren herself, but rather her feet – for the kneeling male slave did not dare to look the Indian girl in the eye.

Miren liked that.

‘Oh pray, mistress, God bless you mistress, and welcome to our humble hotel, mistress. Will you be requiring any assistance with your unpacking, if it would be so pleasing to you most honoured and esteemed mistress-guest?’

Miren couldn’t help but chuckle to herself. Hearing men addressing her in such humble slave-speak was a truly novel experience for her. Such uber-politeness and submissiveness! If only her boyfriend, Ravi, was so respectful when he spoke to her back home in India!

But then, Ravi wasn’t a slave. He was a free man. A hot-looking, free, Indian man from a good, high-caste family; not a pathetic, spindly-looking, pasty white, down-in-the-dirt slave, grovelling outside her hotel room door, and wearing nothing but a pair of flimsy, white slave shorts – like the middle-aged man who was now kneeling before her!

Miren felt an overwhelming sense of innate, female superiority over the pathetic, male creature at her feet.

But she undoubtedly could use a hand with her unpacking. Se was quite tired, and really just wanted to lie back and relax on the plush, double-sized bed of her opulent hotel room. And so she invited the slave in:

‘Oh, yes please. Please to be coming in!’

Almost as soon as she had said it, Miren realised that this was not an appropriate way to speak to a humble slave-man. ‘Please’! How pathetic! Had the immigration officer said ‘please’ when she had barked down her orders to the passport control slave to kiss Miren’s feet? No! Most definitely not!

Miren made a mental note to herself – must do better!

The slave – still keeping his head humbly bowed – did not appear to react to her cultural faux-pas. He was probably used to dealing with inexperienced, foreign mistress-guests, being employed at an airport next to the international airport!

He merely responded in appropriately submissive slave-speak:

‘Yes, most esteemed mistress. As the mistress commands, most esteemed and honoured guest-mistress.’

He then shuffled in through the door on his ageing hands and knees, all the while keeping his eyes fixed on Miren’s sneakered and socked feet and ankles – not because he was a foot-fetishist, but because he was a footslave, and male footslaves must always stare at a lady’s feet whenever a member of the opposite sex deigns to be in their presence.

It’s the law.

Miren closed the door behind him, and immediately resolved to give the slave his next orders in proper mistress-speak – a language she had actually made reference to several times in her erudite and insightful essay for the magazine-competition!

‘Slave, be kneeling by my suitcase over there and be opening it up and unpacking my things. Here are the keys. Do not be touching any of my clothes apart from my socks and shoes. You will be placing my socks in that drawer by the bed, and my shoes you will be placing in the bottom of the wardrobe.’

She paused for breath. How would the slave react to her first attempt at superior mistress-speak? Would he be offended by her rather rude and brusquely-delivered commands?

Of course not!

‘Yes mistress. At once mistress. This slave hears and obeys the superior mistress.’

Miren breathed a sigh of relief. Not yet an hour inside the Gynarchy, and already she was starting to behave like a proper mistress, and earning the humble respect of its male slaves! Ha! Ha! This was going to be fun!

She sat down on the side of her comfortable double-bed and watched as the slave, still on his knobbly knees, opened the heavy, brown leather suitcase containing her holiday clothes and other accoutrements.

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Room-service slave Martin was an experienced packer and unpacker of ladies’ suitcases. He already knew not to touch the mistress-guest’s ‘clothes’, other than her footwear and hosiery. For he was a slave – and a lady’s flimsy underwear, blouses, slacks and jackets were not for the likes of him to finger and touch. Male slaves in the Gynarchy only ever had dealings with a lady’s foot-garments – since they spend their entire lives on their hands and knees serving at ladies’ feet.

And so he did not need to be told by the young, foreign mistress what he may, and may not, unpack. Nevertheless, he was glad that the young Indian woman in whose power he now found himself had seen fit to verbally assert her command and authority over him in such a delightful mixture of Indian-English and mistress-speak – for serving a strong and confident mistress who knows her own mind is always preferable to serving a timid and diffident mistress who is unsure of herself.

Uncertainty leads to confusion; confusion leads to error; and error leads to the whip! That’s why slaves like certainty. They like to know exactly where they kneel!

Having said that, in slave Martin’s humble experience, nearly all mistresses manage to become dominant in the end; but it really is a case of the sooner the better, for everyone’s sake.

Having unlocked and opened the lid of the suitcase, he was relieved to observe that the young woman’s shoes and socks were uppermost in the suitcase – almost as though she had thought ahead to this moment. It would be easy for him to extract the superior, young woman’s shoes and socks from her case without touching any of the aforementioned forbidden items.

And it was a very pleasing collection of young-woman shoes and socks to behold; most pleasing to the footslave-eye. Slave Martin saw, and unpacked:

*A fetching pair of strappy, high-heeled, open-toed and open-backed, gold-coloured sandals;
*A pair of low-heeled, brown leather, zip-up ankle boots, slightly scuff-marked along the rounded toes and the chunky heel areas;
*A pair of pale pink flip flops with, he couldn’t help noticing, some ingrained sweaty toe-prints on the surface;
*And a pair of soft, black, ballet flats with a fetching little black, string bow on each of the toe areas. The ballet flats smelt and looked a bit musty inside.

Though it was not really his place to do so, slave Martin admired the young Indian mistress’s selection of footwear, and internally complemented her on her choice. These items, together with the silver and white sneakers the young Madam currently had on, should cover every eventuality during her sojourn in the Gynarchy – whatever the weather.

And to go with the shoes and boots the Indian mistress had packed various pairs of socks. He saw and unpacked:

· Three pairs of plain, white sneaker-socks (presumably to go with the silver and white sneakers, and possibly also the plain, black ballet flats, or even inside the brown, leather, zip-up ankle boots);
· Three pairs of plain black ankle socks (presumably to go with the same items of footwear as listed for the plain, white sneaker socks);
· A fun-pair of thick, navy blue and yellow, cartoon-print, full-length ankle socks (which could, potentially, go with just about anything, apart from the pale pink flip flops. Flip flops and socks just don’t mix, in slave Martin’s humble opinion!).

7 pairs of sweet, feminine ankle-socks to wear during her 5 day visit to the Gynarchy – nothing more, nor less, than was needed. An expert footwear-packer, thought slave Martin to himself with ever-increasing respect and admiration for the young, recently-arrived, Indian woman.

Whilst he was neatly laying out the socks in the young woman’s bedside sock-drawer, and placing the various pairs of shoes, sandals and boots into the nearby wardrobe – all, of course, whilst remaining humbly and contritely on his hands and knees, with his head suitably bowed – the young Indian mistress was unpacking the rest of her stuff from the suitcase.

Slave Martin deliberately averted his gaze and concentrated on the young woman’s shoes and socks – as befits a well-trained, hotel-room-service footslave!

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With the unpacking completed, he knelt before the newly-arrived hotel guest-mistress as she once again was seated on the edge of her luxurious double-bed:

‘Will there be anything else, most esteemed and respected mistress-guest?’

Miren thought to herself for a few seconds:

‘Erm…yes, slave…my feet are being very hot and tired after my long journey from India. They are being very hot and sweaty inside my socks and sneakers. Be taking off my sneakers and socks and washing my feet.’

Miren was now well-pleased with herself. Not a ‘please’ or a ‘would you kindly’ anywhere in her orders. She was fast getting used to being a mistress dealing with male slaves.

To her delight, the much older slave responded respectfully and instantly:

‘Yes mistress. Of course mistress. At once most respected mistress. With the mistress’s permission this slave will just withdraw to the mistress’s bathroom in order to fetch a bowl of warm water and a towel for the mistress’s feet, if you would be so kind, young mistress.’

Young mistress! 23 year old Miren liked the fact that the middle-aged slave was respectful of her youth!

She merely signalled her consent to the slave’s temporary withdrawal from her superior presence by means of a dismissive wave of her delicate, Indian hand, and she then rested her two sneakered and socked feet on the floor by the side of the bed, ready and waiting for the humble manservant to return with his bowl of foot-water and a white, fluffy foot-towel.

Miren watched intently as, some 5 minutes later, the male slave was once again kneeling over her feet and was untying the white laces on her right, sneakered foot. She noticed, for the first time, how truly old and wrinkly he was – in his late forties by the looks of it. How must he feel having to untie the shoelaces, remove the dirty, stinky socks, and wash the sweaty, bare feet of a beautiful, young woman but half his age, she wondered to herself? Ha! Ha! It must be a truly humbling and degrading experience for him!

Miren didn’t care. She liked having a middle-aged, male slave to wash her dirty feet. After all, she knew from her history books that slaves had washed feet from Ancient times. It was the classic slavish task – to wash the feet of one’s masters and betters. And Miren was in no doubt that she was this slave’s master and better!

Apparently the slave was thinking just the same thing, as he began his humble ministrations to her feet by first kissing the white-leather toe-areas of each of her silver and white sneakers in turn.

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Slave Martin detected a most definite whiff of sweaty, female feet as he untied and gently slid each silver and white sneaker off the young Indian guest’s feet. But it was the sight of her inner socks that most impressed him – the reinforced toe areas of the soft, cotton, multicoloured, stripy socks were bright red – clearly delineating them from the rest of the sock, along with their much more pungent smell.

A sweaty foot-smell that was hardly unexpected, given the long distance this young woman had been travelling all the way on an aircraft from India!

Slave Martin was glad that the young mistress was correct – and that her feet were genuinely hot and sweaty – for it meant she would truly enjoy having her feet washed and refreshed.

He respectfully kissed the sweaty, damp, red-coloured, reinforced toe-ends of each of the young woman’s short sneaker-socks before gently pinching the moist toe-end of the sock on her right foot, and then pulling the short, below-the-ankle-length sock off her pretty, soft, brown Indian foot. This is the established way for a footslave to remove a superior young woman’s sock from her foot – by pulling it off from the toe-end, so that his dirty, slave hands do not risk touching her superior, feminine bare flesh unnecessarily.

Five delightful, pink-painted toenails now flashed in front of his eyes – pink, no doubt, to match the pink of the young lady’s flip flops!

He humbly and respectfully repeated the sock-removal process with the young Indian woman’s left foot, and then kissed the big toenail on each of her feet in turn, before gently lifting her dirty, perspiring feet into the lukewarm bowl of water.

Slave Martin would have liked to do more than just kiss the Indian guest-mistress’s sweaty big-toes. He would have liked to insert each and every one of her sticky toes into his slave mouth, and to have savoured the salty taste of her very individual, feminine footsweat directly inside his mouth, before washing away the sweat in the clean bowl of water.

But those were not his orders. His orders were to remove the young Indian woman’s shoes and socks and wash her feet. Perhaps a more experienced mistress would have ordered her sweaty feet to be pre-washed inside the slave’s mouth, but he couldn’t take the risk of suggesting such an intimate service to the mistress – not on a first date, so to speak!

And so he restricted himself to gently ladling the warm, clean water over the young Indian woman’s tired, hot feet with his right hand, whilst cradling and cupping each foot in his left hand, as though he regarded each, delicate, feminine foot as an object of holy worship.

Which he did.

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Miss Miren, meanwhile, felt like she was in seventh heaven. She sighed audibly with pleasure as her tired and sweaty feet were refreshed in the slave’s humble foot bowl. She watched with amusement as little pieces of coloured sock lint and debris came of her feet and began to cloud the erstwhile crystal clear water. A wicked thought occurred to her: should she make the dirty footslave drink her dirty footwater when he had finished bathing her feet?

She concluded (wrongly) that that would be a step too far.

But she did very much enjoy having her feet towelled dry by the middle-aged, down-on-his-knees footslave, and she particularly liked the way he dried the fleshy areas in between her toes ever so gently.

She had to admit that this slave was an expert foot-washer!

‘Does the mistress wish the slave to put her sneakers and socks back onto her feet?’ enquired the humble footslave of her, after he had poured her dirty footwater down the bathroom plughole (what a waste!)

Miss Miren thought about it for a brief moment:

‘Erm…No, slave. I wish to remain barefoot so that my feet can get some air.’

‘Yes mistress. The mistress is very wise, if this slave may make so bold, most esteemed, young mistress. In that case, may the slave be permitted to launder the mistress’s dirty socks for her in the hotel laundry-room?’

Miren was well aware that she was allowing the slave to, in effect, dictate events – but then, he was an experienced footslave, and it did sound like a jolly good idea. There would be absolutely no harm in having a spare, freshly laundered pair of sneaker socks available to wear, should she need them during her stay in the Gynarchy!

‘Yes slave, you may.’

‘Very good, mistress. Will that be all, most beautiful and kind mistress?’

Miren, the ‘most beautiful and kind mistress’, presumed that would be all, as she herself couldn’t think of anything else that the hotel footslave could currently do for her. She didn’t want him massaging her bare feet as she thought that would feel too ticklish!

It certainly did whenever her boyfriend Ravi playfully tickled her feet for her!

‘Yes, that will be all, dirty slave. You may be leaving now,’ she proclaimed in the most dismissive and peremptory of tones that she could muster.

Slave Martin, the ‘dirty slave’, crawled over to the crumpled, discarded, multicoloured sneaker socks and picked them up in his dirty slave-mouth, before crawling respectfully backwards out of the young woman’s hotel bedroom. He even managed to reach up behind himself from his kneeling position and open the door – for a hotel footslave is trained from day one never to turn his back on an esteemed female guest.

………………………………………………………………………………….

As he crawled into the basement laundry-room, slave Martin was confronted by the legs and feet of his supervisor-mistress, miss Olabunmi - an attractive, fat Nigerian lady in her early thirties.

She immediately spotted the multicoloured, stripy sneaker socks in his slave mouth:

‘From room 67?’ she enquired, peremptorily.

‘Yeth mithtreth Olabunmi' replied slave Martin through the socks.

It is, of course, quite rude for a slave to speak to a superior mistress with his mouth full of sock, but sometimes such rudeness just can’t be avoided. He certainly couldn’t just drop the precious cargo of dirty female socks from his mouth!

Which was the only reason why laundry-mistress Olabunmi would overlook slave Martin’s rudeness in speaking to her with his mouth full on this occasion.

‘Very well slave, I want you to take the socks over to the far corner of the room and suck them clean; then I want you to soak them in a bowl and wash them by hand. After that you I want you to scrub this dirty floor with a mouth-brush! Get on with your work, dirty slave!’

Miss Olabunmi was an imposing mistress, well-suited to the role of laundry-room taskmistress. She still spoke with a thick, West African accent, even though she had sought, and been granted, female sanctuary in the Gynarchy several years ago, and her bark was every bit as bad as the bite of her whip. She was a powerfully-built, big-boned, West African mistress, who always seemed to tower threateningly above slave Martin as he cowered feebly on the laundryroom floor at her African feet.

He was truly frightened of her. She was an impatient taskmistress – quick to whip and slow to praise, even though he was a hard-working and diligent hotel footslave. Miss Olabunmi very much saw things in black and white: she was the black mistress; and he was the white slave. She therefore brooked no disobedience.

‘Yeth mithtreth Olabunmi. God bleth you, mithtreth. Thith thlave hearth and obeyth the mithtreth.’

Ordinarily slave Martin would have lowered his lips at this point to mistress Olabunmi’s holey, broad-toed, black, lace-up keds-sneakers, and kissed them whilst admiring the tiny slither of soft, dark brown, female-African footskin that was just visible beneath the turned-up, light grey hems of her dirty, black denim jean-legs – but with his mouth full of Indian girl dirty sock he could not realistically pay his slavish respects to African-woman black ked on this occasion.

Again mistress Olabunmi forgave him, for though she may have been a harsh taskmistress, she was not totally unreasonable. She knew this slave respected and admired both her and her footwear – as he did, to be fair, kiss and worship her holey, black keds at every available opportunity throughout the day.

She therefore took it as read that he had at least mentally kissed her feet, and returned her attention to ironing some freshly laundered bed linen, albeit with her usual stern and grumpy face.

As she continued with the ironing, the thought that the stupid slave would soon be scrubbing the dirty, laundryroom floor beneath her keds-shod, African feet with a mouth-brush inserted into his ugly slave-mouth, was pleasing to her, and she almost managed a wry, supercilious grin.

He would do so after he had finished mouth and hand washing the new, Indian guest’s dirty sneaker-socks, of course!

…………………………………………………………………………………

Meanwhile, whilst her dirty, multicoloured sneaker-socks were being dutifully mouth-laundered down in the hotel laundry-room, miss Miren was lying barefoot on the top of her luxurious bed, channel-surfing.

She happened upon a curious little channel called ‘The Femdom Channel’, and was intrigued to see that they were showing what appeared to be a live broadcast of a public slave-flogging.

The hapless male slave was kneeling on a raised, wooden platform with his bare back bent over and fully exposed for all to see, whilst he was being caned on the back by two, female, uniformed police officers who were standing behind him.

It occurred to Miren that the slave must only be able to see the black, leather zip-up ankle boots of his two female-punishers standing behind his crouching back whilst he was undergoing the caning. She wondered whether he could even see the tops of their socks inside the tops of their boots as they brought down their respective canes on his back.

She also wondered, briefly, what crime the slave could possibly have committed to merit such public punishment. All the male slaves she had encountered thus far in the Gynarchy had been ultra-polite and efficient.

But she soon found herself not caring about what the slave might, or might not, have done. Judging by the roars and cheers from the mainly female crowd, the flogging was something to be enjoyed, and so Miren simply settled back on her luxury bed, relaxed, and enjoyed watching the caning on TV.

She had read about these public slave-floggings on the internet, and hoped to see one for real at some point during her upcoming private tour of the Gynarchy!

She wriggled her freshly-bathed toes in pleasure as the slave undergoing punishment for her amusement wriggled his freshly striped back in pain.




Day 2 – High Art

Miren slept soundly in her bed that night – and with a clear conscience. She dreamt of slaves being physically punished, but it was politically correct because the slaves were all male, the punishers were all female, and she was, after all, sleeping in the Gynarchy where male slavery was an accepted fact of life!

She set her alarm for 07:00 A.M. as she wanted to get down to breakfast in her hotel by 08:00. Miss Nu-Ying, her private tour guide, was due to pick Miren up in the hotel lobby at 09:00 for the first full day of her tour.

As she got dressed Miren opted for a fun, white T shirt with a picture of the stunning Taj Mahal on the front, and the words ‘I love India’ emblazoned in pink letters below it – for much as she was already falling in love with the Gynarchy of Barbaria, Miren also loved her motherland very much.

She came originally from peasant stock, but her skilfully engineered romantic association with Ravi had been good to her – given her a good education thanks to his wealthy parents’ generosity and liberal-mindedness towards their beloved son’s, ambitious and intelligent, peasant-girl fiancée; they had even helped to purchase a comfortable, if modest, home in the Gujarati countryside for her parents and sisters, a home which Miren still shared with them, although she would, of course, be moving out of the family home following her planned marriage to Ravi in just a few months’ time.

Above all, however, her beloved India had a reliably hot climate – unlike the Gynarchy! Which was one reason why Miren opted to wear black slacks with her white T shirt this morning – it was looking a bit dull and overcast outside. Certainly not very sunny, certainly not the weather for wearing a short, lightweight, summer dress or skirt!

Then again, it wasn’t exactly cold either – so slacks and a T shirt should fit the bill nicely. And to go with the black slacks – her black ballet flats and a pair of short, black sneaker socks.

Mire was just about to open the drawer of her bedside cabinet in order to take out one of the three pairs of short, black ankle socks when she suddenly stopped in her tracks. Should she be doing this? Should she be opening her hotel sock drawer, and taking out her own socks? This was the Gynarchy, after all, and she was staying in a hotel that offered the services of resident-footslaves – like the one who had so expertly bathed her tired, hot feet in a bowl of lukewarm water yesterday evening.

No – in this hotel, in this fair country, a female guest should not have to fetch her own socks and shoes and put them on her own feet. That was the job of a humble, male footslave!

Miren pressed a buzzer by the side of her bed that was marked ‘room-service’, and then sat down in a comfortable armchair opposite her bed, and waited.

She didn’t have to wait long in her bare feet, for some two minutes later there was a polite knock on the lower part of her hotel bedroom door.

‘Enter!’ she shouted.

The door opened and Miren was pleased to see that it was the same, middle-aged, downtrodden footslave who had served her feet last night who now crawled on his hands and knees into her hotel bedroom with his balding head kept respectfully bowed to the floor.

This room-service slave must never be off duty, she thought to herself, and the thought that he was permanently on call and at work, whilst she was relaxing on holiday, tickled miss Miren’s fancy.

The stupid slave crawled right over to where she was seated, looking only at her bare, brown Indian feet, as befits a well-trained footslave in the presence of an honoured, female guest:

‘You rang, my lady?’

Ha! Ha! Miren thought it was funny that the down-on-his-knees footslave was apparently trying to sound like a butler! Ha! Ha! He would never be good enough to be a butler – to wait on his female betters hand and foot. In Miren’s opinion this dirty slave would only ever be good enough to wait on her feet alone!

She cleared her throat!

‘Ahem…erm…yes, slave. Be fetching me a pair of my black socks, and my black ballet flats, and be putting them on my feet.’

Miren, who was fast becoming used to giving orders to male slaves – well, to this particular hotel footslave at any rate – knew that she didn’t need to inform the slave where her socks and shoes were located, since he had been the one to unpack them yesterday evening for her.

Surely even a slave as dumb and stupid-looking as this one would remember where he had put them?

Luckily for him, slave Martin did remember, and he instantly obeyed the young, Indian mistress in room no. 67 (one of the rooms on the sixth floor corridor he was personally responsible for, 24/7; 365 days a year) by crawling over to her bedside cabinet and withdrawing one neatly rolled-up pair of the girly, short, black sneaker socks, prior to crawling over to the nearby wardrobe where he had earlier placed the equally delightful pair of young-woman, soft, black ballet flats with their matching, black, string-lace bows on the rounded toes.

He respectfully crawled back towards the seated, Indian mistress with the socks in his mouth and the shoes in his left hand – a slightly awkward crawling position, but one he was well used to.
Having placed the items of footwear on the carpet next to the young, Indian woman’s resting feet, he then respectfully kissed the soft, brown big toes on each of her feet just once – by way of signifying to the mistress, in the traditional footslave way, that he was now ready and prepared to serve the mistress, and to place the socks and shoes onto her superior, feminine feet, if it would be so pleasing to the mistress.

For her part, miss Miren was really starting to get into the role of the demanding, visiting, foot-mistress diva from abroad, and consequently wanted some pre-sock-donning checks to be made by the humble hotel-footslave in her power:

‘Slave, I am not being sure that those socks are being totally clean. Be unfurling them, and sniffing them with your nose in front of me, in order to be making sure that they are not dirty or sweaty, and are being fit for my feet!’

This was a lie on miss Miren’s part. She was totally sure that the neatly rolled-up pair of short, black sneaker socks were clean because, before leaving India, she personally had taken them out of the tumble dryer after the wash and had rolled them up with her own, feminine hands prior to packing them neatly into her suitcase. They had not been worn since, so they were definitely still clean and fresh. But somehow, making the humble and powerless male slave who was kneeling at her feet check their freshness with his nose, was an empowering and thrilling situation for her.
He was her slave – forced to risk his sense of smell on her socks! Miren liked that thought – and so she made him sniff her clean socks out loud in front of her.

Slave Martin carefully unfurled the rolled-up pair of black, feminine, sneaker socks and duly obeyed the owner of the socks by ostentatiously sniffing them from top to bottom.

Mercifully, he smelt nothing but soft, black cotton:

‘Oh pray mistress, if it pleases you mistress, this slave is pleased to confirm to the mistress that her black socks are indeed clean and fresh-smelling, and are fit to grace the mistress’s divine feet, should it be so pleasing to the superior and all-powerful most beautiful young mistress.’

Miren, the aforementioned superior and all-powerful most beautiful young mistress, was so pleased:

‘Very well then, slave, you may be placing the socks on my feet,’ and with that she positioned her right foot slightly in front of her left, and raised it slightly off the ground by way of indicating to the stupid slave that he was to start with her right foot.

Miren watched intently at the hotel foot-servant’s head as the latter, as ever on his knees, looked intently at her short, black cotton sock whilst he rolled it up in his hands, and then deftly stretched it over the toes on her now slightly-raised-in-the-air right foot, prior to then rolling the sock up over her shapely, brown-skinned foot as far as her protruding, brown, young Indian woman ankle bone.

The elasticated top of the short, black sock only just covered the lower half of Miren’s anklebone, giving the top of the sock a nice, stretched shape on the young woman’s foot beneath the hem of her black trouser-leg.

The slave then did the same with miss Miren’s helpfully proffered left foot. She had considered keeping both her feet firmly on the carpet in order to make the stupid footslave’s life that bit more difficult as he struggled to roll her short, black ankle socks onto her superior, feminine feet, but she decided that she couldn’t waste too much time tormenting him as she did need to get down to breakfast fairly sharpish.

The slave kissed her socked toes once on each foot after he had donned the socks onto her feet – a nice little touch, Miren thought to herself. The slave is acknowledging that my socks are his betters!

‘Goddess’ Miren continued to observe from ‘on high’, seated in her position of absolute power and authority over the kneeling foot-attendant in her comfortable armchair-throne, as he then gently slipped her soft, black ballet flats onto her freshly-socked feet – again kissing the laced toes of each shoe with the utmost slavish respect after he had successfully positioned the shoes onto his guest-mistress’s pretty feet.

Slave Martin then knelt back to allow miss Miren to stand up. When she did so, he was delighted to observe that the hems of the young Indian woman’s boot-cut slacks did not fully cover her black socks. A slim slither of fetching, black, cotton sock was still just visible above the rounded toe areas of her black ballet flats – something which slave Martin, like all the footslaves who would serve mistress Miren that day during her tour of the Gynarchy, could enjoy looking at; a glimpse of plain, black girlsock inside her soft, girly, black leather ballet flats!

Miren too noticed that her socks were just visible underneath her trouser-hems, and stretched out her right foot imperiously in front of her as she was standing up, just to see how much of her sock would be visible whenever she was disposed to present her foot for kissing – for she anticipated that several different footslaves wold be required to kiss her feet this coming day. She was pleased to note that even the elasticated top of her plain, black, cotton sneaker-sock became partially visible when she stretched forward her right foot. There was even a hint of her soft, brown Indian ankle-skin above the sock.

She smiled to herself. Yes, the pathetic, male slaves would like that – judging by the open-mouthed expression of awe and admiration on the gormless hotel-footslave’s face right now – struck dumb by the sight of beautiful young woman black sock inside beautiful young woman black ballet-flat!

And truly it was a sight for sore footslave-eyes! Slave Martin found himself having to resist the perfectly natural footslave-instinct to run his nose along the exposed, elasticated top of the young Indian woman’s sock. And he was finding it hard to resist.

But resist he must, for he had not been ordered to nose pretty, black sock, more’s the pity!


…………………………………………………………………………………..

During breakfast Miren was pleased to avail herself of the services of yet another hotel-footslave – a human footrest beneath her feet under the breakfast table.

This lucky slave got to observe Miren’s shoes and socks even more closely than the room-service footslave, slave Martin, had done as the young Indian woman tucked into her cereal and toast. Although – unlike slave Martin – it was a case of look but don’t touch. The footrest wasn’t even permitted to kiss the shoes or socks of the young Indian woman seated above him, with the sole of her right foot resting on his upturned left cheek whilst he lay on his stomach staring at the side of the sock and black leather ballet flat on her left foot.

At least slave Martin had been able to respectfully kiss the shoes and socks after putting them onto miss Miren’s feet, even if he had been denied the honour of nosing her socks!

Still, it was nice for the breakfast-table footrest to be able to observe all the tiny creases and folds in the young woman’s left sock as she subconsciously flexed her foot muscles whilst eating her healthy and nourishing breakfast above him. He particularly liked the way the elasticated top of the short, black sock only partially covered a tiny, black mole on the side of the young Indian woman’s soft, brown foot. Such details he found truly humbling.

…………………………………………………………………………………….

Miren met up with miss Nu-Ying at 09:00 in the hotel lobby as arranged. The latter was wearing the same flat, strappy, brown leather, open-toed and open backed sandals, and indeed what appeared to be the same light-brown, combat-style trousers, as the day before. Unlike miss Miren’s Indian ankles, however, miss Nu-Ying’s Chinese anklebones were fully exposed to the footslave world – as her trousers only just came down to the tops of her shapely, Chinese ankles.

The two young women headed off for the private minibus which miss Nu-Ying had hired to take them to miss Miren’s first sight of interest in the capital city of the Gynarchy – the Art Gallery. Or the ‘Gallery of Superior Feminine Art and Culture’ to give it its full title.

It was a half-hour drive into the city from the airport hotel with miss Nu-Ying at the wheel, and so Miren sat back and relaxed as she observed the sights of the capital city outside the minibus window. She was particularly struck by the abundance of soft, pastel colours in the buildings; lots of pink, lilac and pale blue low-rise buildings, as opposed to the nondescript, grey, high-rise buildings one tends to see in male cities. The city very much gave the impression of being feminine to its core – hardly surprising, perhaps, given that it was the capital city of the world’s only Gynarchy!

She was also struck by the large number of shops selling all the accoutrements of male slavery – their window displays full of chains and whips and gags. They looked very much like the western sex-shops she had read about on the internet, but they were actually all about slavery; not sex!

Miren also enjoyed the sight of numerous, male footslaves crawling humbly on their hands and knees along the dirty pavements behind their respective mistresses’ heels – many of them attached to their mistress’s waist by means of a chain secured around the slave’s scrawny neck.

She even noticed that a few slaves appeared to be lying, on their stomachs, on low-level, wooden carts directly behind their mistresses’ heels - carts which were also attached to the mistresses’ waists by means of a chain, thereby enabling the footslave to be pulled along by the sheer power of the mistress as she walked along the pavement.

Miren was intrigued, and asked her tour guide, miss Nu-Ying, who was seated in the driver’s seat of the bus in front of her, about these ‘go-kart’ like contraptions. Miss Nu-Ying was happy to enlighten her in her broken English, spoken with a strong oriental accent:

‘Ha! Ha! These carts are new trend in Gynarchy, miss! Only in capital Barbaria you see them! They very modern – allow mistress walk fast and still have slave follow behind her heels, without holding up mistress. You like, miss Miren?’

Miren wasn’t sure whether she did like the idea of a slave not having to physically exert himself, and crawl through the dirt of the streets behind his mistress on his increasingly sore hands and knees. It was almost like the go-karts gave the slaves a free ride under their mistresses’ own steam!

On further reflection, however, she could see the pros and cons of both methods. So she gave a well-balanced and considered response to her Chinese tour guide’s question:

‘Ha! Ha! I am thinking that it is good only if it is suitable for the mistress – if she is being in a hurry, for example. Otherwise the slave should have to be damn well crawling on his filthy hands and knees through the dirt, in my opinion. What is being your view, Nu-Ying?’

‘Ha! Ha! Nu-Ying agree with Miren! Dirty slaves must not be allowed to slack – unless mistress wishes it!’

The two young women laughed.

Another human-footrest - this time lying on the floor of the minibus beneath Miren’s ballet-flated feet, was also in agreement with the two mistresses seated on the coach, had they bothered to ask his opinion. But they had not – for his face was just a footrest for the passenger on the bus; it wasn’t something you had a conversation with.

He therefore just lay there on the dirty, dusty floor of the minibus and admired the young Indian woman’s left sock whilst she admired all the wonderful and intriguing sights of the Gynarchy through the minibus window.

It was an awesome sight for him – fit for a humble footrest. But nothing like as awesome as the sight which greeted miss Miren outside the entrance to the central Art Gallery of Barbaria – a huge, golden statue of ‘The Goddess’, the legendary founder of the Gynarchy, standing with golden whip in hand and her golden-sandalled, right foot resting on the head of a vanquished, male foe.

On the golden plinth were inscribed the following words:

‘Let there be good. Let there be female,
that the male dirt may be crushed underfoot!’

The golden statue was truly a spectacular symbol of everything the Gynarchy stood for – supreme and absolute female power! It was quite breathtaking, and miss Miren just had to stop and film it with her digital camcorder (paid for by Ravi’s parents!) before entering the Art Gallery building itself.

In the lobby of the Art Gallery she waited patiently to one side whilst her tour guide, miss Nu-Ying, secured their entrance tickets. As Miren looked around her, she couldn’t help but notice a footslave whose dayglo-green, masked face was protruding from one of the inner walls inside the lobby. A group of giggling Japanese tourist-girls were surrounding the masked face, their kneesocks towering above his head as they stood by the wall and laughed at him, taking pictures and occasionally placing their sneakered feet beneath his kneeling face for him to humbly kiss.

Miren decided to go over and see for herself what all the fuss was about, just as the gaggle of giggling Japanese girls moved off.

The hapless footslave was wearing a luminous-green, rubbery mask that totally covered his head and face, apart from some slits for his nose, eyes, mouth and ears. The slits, however, had been deliberately made to look all wonky and misshapen, and had brightly-coloured, garish and mismatched borders, which only served to add to the slave’s ridiculous look.

To add to his public humiliation, a series of tiny little, miniature rubbery models of various items of feminine footwear, in various colours, hung down from the surface of his mask – Miren could see, for example, a pair of tiny, rubbery yellow-coloured stiletto-shoes (they reminded her a bit of her own, golden-coloured, strappy high-heel sandals back in her hotel wardrobe); and next to them, a tiny pair of rubbery, black, tights.

And she spotted some tiny little silver bells on the mask also, bells which tinkled when his head moved like the bells attached to the necks of cows.

To complete the rubber-mask ensemble, the green rubbery facemask was emblazoned with various footslavery-related words in bold, black capitals. Words such as :

‘SOCKS; STINK; WHIP; TOEJAM; FOOT-FLUNKEY.’

On the wall directly above his protruding head was what appeared to be a quotation from a work of female-domination literature:

‘The fool must kiss the feet of his female masters and betters.’

Miss Nu-Ying eventually came over and joined Miren, having sorted out the tickets:

Miren was curious:

‘Please, what is being the story with this fellow, Nu-Ying?’ she asked her tour guide innocently.

‘Ha! Ha! This a footfool, miss. He a low-down, dirty slave; he dumb; not very bright. He good only to kiss feet of female guests to Female Art Gallery. He made to wear mask – look like fool, because he a dumb-ass. He a nothing. …You make him kiss your feet, like quote say, if you want, miss. You his female master!’

Miren did very much like the idea of being a female master, and of having her feet kissed by a lowlife, ‘dumb-ass’ nothing of a stupid, dayglo-green footslave. The thought occurred to her that he must be especially thick and stupid if he is forced to wear such a humiliating and degrading footfool mask, and had to spend his entire life kissing women’s feet in the lobby entrance to the public Art Gallery – feet like those of the giggling Japanese girls who had been surrounding him and teasing him just a few moments earlier.

She therefore happily stepped forward, and positioned her right foot directly underneath the footfool’s protruding, green, rubbery-masked face.

………………………………………………………………………………………….

The said public footfool (I’m afraid nobody can remember his slave-name, so long has he been incarcerated in the wall of the Art Gallery lobby, though it is rumoured that he was a professor of Philosophy prior to his enslavement) was mightily impressed by the sight of the young Indian woman’s short, black cotton, sneaker sock and soft, black ballet flat now positioned underneath his protruding face. Such a nice contrast to the clumpy, white, high-top sneakers and thick, black, ribbed, woollen kneesocks of the young Japanese woman whose feet he had been obliged to kiss just a few minutes previously.

And it was precisely that variety in sweet, feminine footwear that kept the footfool’s interest alive in his humble, otherwise mundane and monotonous task, of kissing female feet, day in and day out.

He was literally dumb - unable thanks to a tongue-strap inside his slave-mouth to speak to the superior mistresses he served – so he had to let his lips do the talking for him, as he expressed his respect and admiration for the superior women’s footwear through his reverential kisses to their pretty shoes, boots, sandals, stockings and socks.

The dumb footfool therefore always made a point of kissing each and every part of a lady’s feet and footwear that his lips could reach, confident in the knowledge that his kind and magnanimous female customers would indulge him in his presumptuousness – as they would realise that it was the only way he could truly express his submission and adoration towards them. Besides, by moving his slave lips over every part of their feet and footwear, he caused the tiny little bells attached to his rubbery footfool facemask to tinkle – something which always tickled the fancies of his superior female-customers.

The footfool therefore wasted no time in applying his lips to the musty-smelling, leather toe of the bright, Indian tourist-girl’s outstretched, soft, black leather ballet flat with it’s lacy bow, as well as the soft, black, cotton material of her exposed sneaker-sock inside her musty-smelling shoe, his face-bells tinkling as he did so.

The sound of the bells and the feel of his humble lips on her shoes and socks had the desired effect on Miren.

Like the Japanese girls with the towering, knee-high socks before her she laughed and giggled:

‘Ha! Ha! What a fool and an idiot he is being, Nu-Ying! Ha! Ha! He is tickling my foot with his lips! I am feeling his lips through the material of my sock! Ha! Ha!’

Miss Nu-Ying was laughing too:

‘Ha! Ha! Yes. He a lamebrain! He a dork! He fit only to kiss young women shoe and sock! Ha! Ha! Nu-Ying enjoy laugh at him too! Ha! Ha! You hear bells tinkle while he kiss your sock?’

‘Ha! Ha! Yes – I am hearing them, Nu-Ying! Please to be filming him for me while he is kissing my black sock!’

And with that miss Miren handed over her state-of-the-art digital camcorder to her Chinese tour guide, who was only too happy to oblige her guest. The video would make a nice souvenir for Miren to show to her family and friends back home in India – a dramatic symbol of male humiliation and of female power and superiority; a snapshot in time of a humble and pathetic, rubbery-masked male footfool kissing the short, black sneaker sock of a superior, young, Indian woman whilst she was still wearing the sock on her foot inside her shoe.

And kissing it with bells on!

……………………………………………………………………………………

Miren very much enjoyed her visit to the Gallery of Superior Feminine Art and Culture, with its various depictions of male bondage and servitude, and female supremacy, conveyed in the many different paintings and sculptures made by the Gynarchy’s most talented female artists over the centuries.

But, somewhat ironically, it was the image of the green-rubbery-masked footfool kissing her short, black cotton sneaker socks which would be the most poignant reminder for her of her trip to the Gynarchy’s Art Gallery- the lowest of the low in the cathedral to high feminine art!

How ironic is that?!




Barbaria Central Square

Miren and her private tour guide, miss Nu-Ying, enjoyed a snack lunch in an outdoor cafeteria located just outside the Art Gallery, before Nu-Ying explained what was on their sightseeing agenda for the afternoon – a visit to the bustling, central town square of Barbaria, followed by the chance to do some shopping!

In between chomping on her tuna sandwich, Nu-Ying also informed Miren in more detail in her cute, Chinese accent exactly what the trip to the town square would entail:

‘Ha! Ha! Nu-Ying sure Miren like town square! You have opportunity have shoes cleaned by dirty, public shoelick. Then watch public flogging of slaves in centre of town square. Ha! Ha! Today many slaves due to be whipped at 3.00 P.M. You like watch, Miren, yes?’

Miren, already inspired by what she had seen of Barbarian public floggings on TV in her hotel room, did ‘like watch’. Very much so! But she was equally enamoured by the idea of having her black, ballet flats licked clean in full, public view by a public ‘shoelick’, as her guide Nu-Ying had referred to him.

The footslaves she had encountered thus far in the Gynarchy of Barbaria, including those at the airport, in the hotel, and even the humble ‘footfool’ in the lobby entrance to the Female Art Gallery, had all been required to pay slavish homage to her feet and footwear by kissing them. But to actually have a dirty, male slave lick clean her street-soiled footwear – now that did sound exciting!

In between noisily slurping on her refreshing, thick milkshake through a straw, she therefore confirmed her agreement and enthusiasm for her tour guide’s proposed afternoon activities:

‘Ha! Ha! Yes thank you, Nu-Ying. I am liking this idea very much. I am seeing these floggings before on TV, and I am wanting to be taking my own footage on my camera. Plus my shoes are becoming rather dirty and dusty, and could be doing with a good lick and a shine! Ha! Ha!’

She examined her soft, black ballet flats on her pretty, Indian feet under the outdoor café table. They certainly had begun to accumulate a few areas of street dust and dirt, although she did think that it was a pity that her ballet flats weren’t even dirtier; she would have liked to observe the ‘public shoelick’ having to lick lots of caked-on mud and dirt off her, pretty, soft, black leather shoes, especially in and around the black, lace-bow on the rounded toe area.

Nevertheless she was gratified to observe that there were even one or two little, grey dust marks on the sides of her short, plain black, cotton, ‘sneaker’ socks – especially along the socked instep of her right foot. She would have the public slave in the town square – whoever he was – suck the street-dust directly off her soft, black cotton socks as well as tongue-shine her soft, black ballet flats. She would do so because it was her perfect right to do so – because she was already beginning to think and act as a superior, free woman living in the Gynarchy. She was already beginning to feel quite at home here!

Nu-Ying went on to explain how they could easily get to the town square from the café near the Art Gallery:

‘Town Square not far from here – just one street. We not need take minibus. Bus stay here. I walk to town square, but you use slave-cart if you like. Slave-cart free of charge and good fun. Here many slave-carts parked – look, over there!’

Miren glanced over in the direction of the popular slave-cart stand nearby. She had read about the slave-carts in her research for this trip – proper wooden carts on which a lady can sit in comfort whilst a crawling, male slave secured to the cart beneath her feet pushes her along the street (quite unlike the flat ‘go-karts’ Miren had witnessed earlier attached to various mistresses’ waists).

The slave-carts were an extremely arrogant and imperious way to travel – under the steam of another, lesser human-being. And Miren therefore liked the idea very much!

The two young women finished their meals and Nu-Ying escorted Miren over to the slave-cart stand where she politely assisted her giggling tour member up into one of the many wooden/human carts. She then bade temporary farewell to Miren, confirming that she would meet up with her again in about 10 minutes time next to the whipping-podium in the very heart of the town square.

If truth be told, the whipping-podium was the very heart of the Gynarchy itself – a central stage devoted to the power and grace of the female whip!

Miren, with a huge and happy smile on her pretty, Indian face, made herself comfortable in the chair above the male-slavecart’s back, before uttering her fluent, mistress-speak instructions to the slave who was on all fours beneath her, staring at his latest customer’s pretty, Indian ankle bones and heels as her feet rested on the wooden footplate directly in front of his face:

‘Slave – be taking me to the whipping-podium in the central town square.’

‘Yes mistress. At once mistress.’

Gosh! It speaks! Not like the dumb footfool then!

Still a fool though – a fool beneath her feet, required to carry her as a dumbass beast of burden would do!

Miren laughed, and then emitted a little, feminine squeal of delight as the male slave-cart moved off, carrying its Indian princess.

………………………………………………………………………………………….

Slave Arturo very much enjoyed his humble life as a slave-cart. He got to be of service to many, beautiful and superior young women every day; foreign tourists mainly, but therefore, by definition, young women from many different ethnic backgrounds and creeds. And he felt that he provided a genuinely useful service to them, carrying them on his constantly aching slavecart-back so that they didn’t have to sully the pretty soles of their superior, female shoes and boots on the dirty streets.

What’s more, he got a delicious close-up view of the backs of his female passengers’ feet and shoes as he pushed them along. His only regret was that he did not get much opportunity to actually kiss his customers’ feet or footwear – to touch them with his permanently dry and parched, slavecart lips. A few of his passengers every day would thoughtfully present their feet for him to respectfully kiss - either before they mounted him, or after they had dismounted the human slave-cart - but most, like this young Indian woman now seated haughtily above him, just climbed up onto the leather slavecart-seat and impatiently barked their directions down at him.

Nevertheless, the sheer fact that his female customers’ feet and footwear were so near and yet so far only made him admire and respect their items of footwear all the more. He was imbued with that male-slavish respect for the unattainable, and was content just to admire from ‘anear’. He consoled himself with the pathetic thought that free men, who walked upright, could not get as close to their female superiors’ feet as a permanently crawling, down-on-his-hands-and-knees footslave such as him.

As he began the short journey on his sore and chapped hands and knees down the main thoroughfare that led to the central square, slave Arturo therefore made a conscious effort of mentally admiring and worshipping the pretty pair of soft, black ballet flats and short, black sneaker-style socks on the equally soft-looking brown-skinned ankle bones and heels of the superior, young Indian woman who was now his female rider and master – seated above him; seated on top of him; on top of a stupid beast of burden like him!

Slave Arturo was particularly struck by the shapeliness of the young, Indian passenger’s tendons at the back of her brown heels. Her short, black, cotton socks barely made an appearance above the upper rims at the backs of her black, leather ballet-flats beneath the raised hems of her black, boot-cut slacks, thereby leaving her bare tendons and shapely, brown ankle bones almost fully exposed to his gaze as he propelled his mistress along.

They weren’t the shortest socks he had ever seen – not by a long stretch! Just the other day it had been his privilege to convey a young, white woman who had been wearing the tiniest pair of black, cotton socks inside her court shoes – socks which literally only covered her toe area and therefore were just visible above the upper, front rims of her shiny, black, leather court shoes.

Toe-socks they were called! Slave Arturo was still wondering why the young, white mistress had bothered to wear such a ridiculously short pair of black socks inside her court shoes – effectively only covering her toes and no other part of her soft, bare white foot.

To absorb her toe sweat and stinky toe-jam, he presumed!

However, getting back to his current customer, this young Indian woman’s sneaker-style socks were positively full-length by that standard! Mercifully, they did stretch all the way to the backs of her heels, and by shifting his head ever so slightly to one side as he crawled along, he could also get a fairly good view of the sides of her socks.

He was particularly enamoured by the sight of some dusty, grey marks along the young Indian woman’s right, black-socked instep.

Oh how he longed to suck that dust off the instep of the superior young mistress’s sock for her! Slave Arturo was truly a frustrated sock-sucker! But fate had decreed that he live his slave-life as a cart, and so he had to make do with just looking and fantasising.

As so many of us must do!

About half way through the short, but painful, journey on his hands and knees towards the central town square, slavecart-Arturo became fixated on a tiny scuff mark right at the base of the heel on the young Indian woman’s left ballet flat. It transfixed him because it indicated that these ballet flats were quite well worn – a favourite pair that must have graced their beautiful, Indian-female owner’s socked or bare feet on many previous occasions.

Slave Arturo liked that thought, for if he were ever to become a public shoe and sock licker, he would want to lick and kiss well-worn, feminine footwear; footwear that smelt and tasted of the very essence of its female wearers’ feet. Brand new, fresh smelling, previously unworn footwear would be of much less interest to an inveterate footslave such as slave Arturo, because Arturo, like so many beasts of burden, positively wallowed in dirt – specifically in women’s shoe and foot dirt; in his mind if not so much in reality!

…………………………………………………………………………………….

Mien relaxed and enjoyed her short ride to the central town square. As her cart entered the large and impressive central square of the capital, she admired the architecture of the surrounding buildings and the bright colours of the many shopfronts – just as slavecart Arturo was admiring the scuff marks on the backs of her heels and the dust marks on the sides of her short, black ankle-socks.

Each to their own!

The cart stopped directly in front of the whipping-podium in the very centre of the town square – just as she had ordered it to – and Miren quickly and gracefully dismounted.

She said nothing to the humble slave-cart as it crawled off back towards its main pitch outside the central Art Gallery. What was there to say? It had done its job. It was no longer of any use to her.

It could therefore sod off!

Pretty Miren’s attention was now focussed on the whipping-podium and the evident preparations that were already going on for the forthcoming 3 o’clock public whippings. There was no sign of any frightened and cowering males who were about to be whipped, but an all-female TV crew were conducting sound and lighting checks, and one or two uniformed, female police officers - in crisp, white blouses; navy blue neck-scarves; short, navy blue uniform-skirts; and regulation black leather, zip-up, knee-length boots were testing out some swishy whips and canes.

The sound of the whips being tested through the air thrilled Miren right through to her feminine core! All that was missing was the sound of a male gasp of shock and pain at the end of each swish!

Miren couldn’t wait for the fun to begin!

Nu-Ying arrived shortly afterwards, having walked from the Art Gallery to the square:

‘Ha! Ha! Miren enjoy slave-cart ride? Enjoy make slave carry her along through busy streets?’

‘Ha! Ha! Yes thank you, Nu-Ying. That was being a most enjoyable experience and was being a good idea on your part. I am feeling most relaxed and refreshed and am looking forward to watching the slave-whippings, isn’t it?’

Nu-Ying’s pretty Chinese features lit up with a big, oriental smile. It always pleased her when her guests were enjoying their private tour of her beloved, adopted capital city, and all it had to offer:

‘Ha! Ha! Whippings start in about a half an hour. You like first have public footslave refresh your shoes and socks also? Here are many dirty footslaves in town square, but I take you to very polite one; very good; very humble!’

A public footslave that comes with a personal recommendation! How quaint, thought Miren to herself!

She indicated that she was more than happy for Nu-Ying to lead the way to this ‘very polite, very humble’ public footslave.

……………………………………………………………………………………..

Slave Alistair was indeed very polite and humble towards all his superior, female customers in the town square. He had to be, for if he wasn’t his minder, miss Li-Ying, would have no compunction about beating him and whipping him at the end of the day.

His female minder, like most public-footslave minders, was an overseas student at the ‘Young Ladies’ Central College of Barbaria’, whose part-time job was to feed and water him before and after his long, hard day on his knees in the central town square, licking and kissing the dirty feet and footwear of his female betters and superiors.

Each customer was invited to award his humble work on their footwear marks out of 10 on a clipboard that hung on the wall behind him, and he would be sorely whipped each evening with one hard lash for every point he had failed to reach the maximum number of points by.

No customer had ever yet, as far as he could remember, given him the full 10 out of 10, despite his strenuous and ultra-respectful efforts always to give his female customers complete and utter foot and shoe-cleaning satisfaction, and so he was guaranteed at leat three dozen lashes across his kneeling back every evening at the fair Chinese hands of miss Li-Ying – a girl who truly knew how to whip!

As he knelt in the mid afternoon sunshine at his footslave-pitch on the western side of the town square, he suddenly spotted a familiar pair of flat, brown strappy, leather sandals beneath a pair of fawn-coloured, ankle-length, combat-style trousers approaching his ‘step-up’ shoelick-stand. The unmistakable sandals and unpainted, Chinese toenails of his minder’s sister, miss Nu-Ying.

He knew that miss Nu-Ying was a full-time tour guide by profession, as she often brought her tour groups, or her individual tourists, over to his shoelick-stand (or rather her sister’s shoelick-stand as miss Nu-Ying correctly saw it – since her sister effectively ‘owned’ slave Alistair).

He braced himself for some serious foot-servitude – for he knew one thing for certain; if he failed to satisfy miss Nu-Ying’s guest, her student-sister, miss Li-Ying, would be sure to soundly whip him that evening with many strokes of the female whip. For miss Nu-Ying always marked his efforts on behalf of her clients – and she was a tough marker!

As her Chinese feet, legs and combat-trousers approached him he could see from his humble kneeling position down on the dirty ground that she was accompanied this afternoon by a single ‘guest’ – a pretty, slightly-built, young dark-haired Indian woman, who was wearing a bright, white T shirt, black, boot-cut slacks, short black ankle socks and black ballet flats.

Already he was thinking ahead to his likely tasks – licking clean the young Indian woman’s dusty, black ballet flats, no doubt; but possibly also nosing her socks. Miss Nu-Ying often made him nose her female clients’ socks, jus because she knew they would like the strange sensation of having a male slave’s nose running along the stitching of their soft socks!

He lowered his gaze to the top of the darkened and well-worn, wooden footblock beneath his kneeling face as the two superior young, Asian women approached him.

The aforementioned wooden footblock was darkened and well-worn because it had been in use in this same spot in the town square for over 25 years – as had public shoelick Alistair.

Slave Alistair always made a point of verbally greeting his female customers – especially his regulars whose names he knew – prior to serving their dirty footwear with his tongue. Not all public footslaves dare to do so. It takes a lot of slave-confidence to initiate a conversation with a superior mistress - for it is just as likely to invoke a whipping for perceived ‘insolence’, as it is to be welcomed.

But slave Alastair knew that miss Nu-Ying positively appreciated his polite, slave-speak greetings both to her and to her clients, and so he immediately launched into a tirade of gushing sycophantic praise of the two superior females now standing in front of him:

‘Oh pray, mistress Nu-Ying. God bless you, mistress Nu-Ying. This humble footslave is truly blessed by your gracious, feminine presence, if it is so pleasing to you most respected mistress Nu-Ying, and also by the presence of your most beautiful and respected guest, if it is so pleasing to you both, most feared and admired superior mistresses!’

Mistress Nu-Ying just placed her sandalled, unpedicured, right foot onto the wooden footblock beneath the gushing slave’s face, hitched up the hem of her right, combat-style trouser leg in order to afford him an even better view of her shapely, Chinese, bare anklebone, and brusquely ordered him to pay his slavish respects to her superior, unpedicured, feminine foot:

‘You kiss Nu-Ying big toe, slave! You worship Nu-Ying foot. You nothing but dirty foot-faggot!’

Miren was impressed with the way her Chinese tour guide spoke down to male slaves. She wished that she too could be so curt and dominant towards them. She resolved to try her best to follow Nu-Ying’s excellent example!

Slave Alistair, for his humble part, was only too happy to kiss the unvarnished, unpainted big toenail on miss Nu-Ying’s small and feminine, arrogantly-outstretched, Chinese foot, and he truly relished the familiar, musty aroma of her brown, leather sandal-straps as he did so. He could not recall ever seeing miss Nu-Ying’s petite feet clad in anything other than these same brown leather sandals – and she was also always barefoot – even in winter.

Barbarian winters tended to be relatively mild, but even so it was most unusual for a young woman not to wear some sort of more protective footwear on her feet in the wintertime – or at least to wear a pair of tights or socks with her strappy sandals! His minder, for example, miss Nu-Ying’s sister – miss Li-Ying – frequently wore sneakers and socks, or even ankle boots and socks, on her equally pretty oriental feet and ankles.

But miss Nu-Ying herself – always elected to wear these same brown leather sandals on her unpedicured bare feet. As was her perfect right! Slave Alistair fully respected a superior woman’s right to choose. Miss Nu-Ying was, after all, his infinite superior and better, and much more intelligent than him – being female – and her footwear choice was therefore fully deserving of his slavish admiration and respect.

And besides, it was currently the summertime, and as a consequence miss Nu-Ying’s brown leather sandals positively reeked of her very personal footsweat – accumulated over many hours of being worn on her soft, bare, Chinese feet.

Hence their pleasingly musty smell!

Something else slave Alistair knew about his minder’s sister, miss Nu-Ying: she always favoured just one respectful kiss to each of her big toenails. He knew too from bitter experience not to alow his slave-lips to stray inadvertently onto her Chinese toe-skin. He had only ever made that mistake once, as he had subsequently been awarded 1 out of 10 (and therefore 9 stinging lashes) on that highly regrettable occasion!

Just as soon as he had paid his respects to miss Nu-Ying’s second big toenail, he therefore turned his pathetic, slavish attention towards the waiting feet of her beautifully petite Indian guest.

He heard miss Nu-Ying guiding her Indian guest through the public-footslave process (as befits a conscientious and professional tour guide!)

‘Ha! Ha! Now you make dirty shoelick clean your shoes, Miren. Remember, he nothing but a piece of filth. He a dog. He here to lick clean superior women feet and shoe! You place foot on footblock beneath dirty shoelick face, and tell slave what to do. You make him lick shoe however you want. You his master. You better than him. Ha! Ha! He a nothing! He a foot-faggot! Ha! Ha!’

As Miren stood in front of and above the kneeling public shoelick, with his balding, bowed head hovering over her dusty feet, she had to agree with her well-informed tour guide. The slave was a ‘nothing; she was self-evidently his superior and better. She was the female master, and she would have him lick the dirt and dust off her pretty, black shoes and socks!

With a wicked smile on her pretty, Indian features, Miren lifted up her right leg and placed her right foot down onto the wooden footblock beneath the kneeling slave’s face as her new friend and guide, Nu-Ying, stepped to one side and watched gleefully.

‘You down there, the dirty shoelick. You are being hearing my friend. I am being your master and better, filthy dog, so be cleaning my shoes this instant with your tongue. Be licking off all the dirt, and do not be stopping licking until I am telling you to be doing so, you dirty piece of filth!’

Miss Nu-Ying clearly approved of Miren’s attitude:

‘Ha! Ha! That right, Miren. You talk down to slave. He have no choice but to obey – otherwise we have him whip! Ha! Ha! He look frightened! You a winner, Miren! You a good slave-mistress!’

It was perhaps the highest compliment a mistress of the Gynarchy could give another woman – telling her that she was a good slave-mistress!

Miren was thrilled and flattered!

For his humble part, slave Alistair had to agree with miss Nu-Ying’s assessment of her Indian tourist-guest, but he now expressed that agreement not through obsequious words, but through his obsequious actions, as he immediately and obediently began to lick the accumulated street dust from the town square off his Indian-female superior’s soft, black leather ballet flat.

He was absolutely delighted to witness a couple of small creases forming along the black-socked instep of the young Indian woman’s foot as she subconsciously flexed her foot muscles inside her sock in reaction to his tongue’s humble ministrations to her outer footwear.

Moreover, as she towered so masterfully above him, hands on hips, it was almost as if his female Indian master could read his pathetic, sock-obsessed mind:

‘Ha! Ha! Dirty slave, do not be touching my sock with your tongue. You must be concentrating only on my shoe until I am telling you that you may be touching my sock!’

Slave Alistair interrupted his vigorous shoe-licking only to acknowledge the young Indian mistress’s deliciously arrogant commands:

‘Yes mistress. This dirty slave hears and obeys the mistress.’

And then he continued to tongue-shine the side of miss Miren’s right shoe in public – whilst she was still wearing it, standing over him with her right foot imperiously outstretched in front of her, both her pretty Indian hands resting haughtily on her shapely Indian hipbones.

An Indian goddess, having her dirty shoe worshipped by a much lesser being!

Poor old slave Alastair had to tongue-shine her left shoe also, before, at last, mistress Miren placed her right foot once again onto the footblock and finally acceded to his slave-mouth touching her soft, black sock:

‘Now be sucking the dust off the side of my sock, dirty slave. Make damn sure you are not being spreading the dirt with your tongue. You must be removing the dirt from my sock by sucking it straight up into your filthy, sock-faggot mouth!’

Miss Nu-Ying couldn’t resist reinforcing her client’s orders and reminding the public slave of the dire and painful consequences of any failure to please on his part:

‘Ha! Ha! You hear miss Miren and obey, dirty footdog! You suck dirt off side of miss Miren sock. Suck dust off sock. Make sock nice and black – or we whip!’

Fortunately for slave Alistair, the dust mark was right in the middle of the creased area of miss Miren’s right sock – right along her shapely, Indian instep – so he got to suck on his favourite part of her sock.

The female sock felt nice and soft under his lips.

He heard the Indian mistress laughing down at him as he audibly sucked the Gynarchy’s street-dust off the side of her short, black, below-the-ankle sock – but it was laughter that was suddenly interrupted by the sound of an announcement over the tannoy from the centre of the town square.

It was, of course, a female voice:

‘Ladies and gentlemen, please take your seats for the public slave-whippings. The entertainment will begin in approximately 5 minutes’ time!’

Slave Alistair’s Indian-girl sock-sucking was now rudely interrupted as miss Miren, in her excitement at hearing the announcement, suddenly withdrew her right foot from the footblock and walked off towards the podium together with her Chinese tour guide, without so much as a ‘by your leave’!

Normally he could have expected to have to straighten out the newly-formed creases in the side of the young, Indian woman’s sock with his slave-nose – something miss Nu-Ying invariably made him do for her sock-wearing, female clients. But no – it seemed that for this particular young, Indian woman the prospect of witnessing a live, public slave flogging was much more exciting than the sensation of having a public footslave nosing her sock!

Slave Alistair almost felt cheated! Cheated by another male slave who had somehow earned himself a public whipping. Slave Alistair almost wished that he could be the one to be tied up to the whipping post in the centre of the podium and whipped for miss Miren’s pleasure.

He would think about the creases along the instep of her short, black ankle sock whilst he was being whipped, if he were to ever be in such a privileged position of being whipped for superior miss Miren’s female delight and pleasure.

Actually, later on that very evening, he effectively was in such a position, as miss Nu-Ying, it transpired, had awarded him just 4 out of 10 for his efforts in cleaning her Indian guest’s black ballet flats and socks! And miss Nu-Ying’s sister, miss Li-Ying, had beaten him across the bare back accordingly.



Day 3 – The Themepark

Every female visitor to the Gynarchy simply has to visit the ‘Footslave Themepark’. It’s a ‘must-see’ – at least, that was the viewpoint of miss Nu-Ying, Miren’s private tour guide.

And so at the start of day 3 of her grand tour of the Gynarchy, the 23 year old Indian girl miss Miren found herself sitting on the edge of her bed in her hotel room once again trying to decide what to wear on her pretty feet prior to her morning visit to the themepark.

She opted this time for her white, lace-up sneakers with the silver stripes down the sides, and another pair of short, black sneaker-socks.

As before, she summoned the hotel footslave to put her socks and shoes onto her feet. Miren was becoming quite lazy with regard to dressing and undressing her feet. She hadn’t even bothered to slip off her soft, black ballet flats from her pretty, socked feet the night before, preferring instead to summon the hotel footslave to perform that service for her as well, before demanding that he take her dirty socks away and wash them in his footslave-mouth down in the hotel laundry-room.

Miren would now have been quite happy never to have to put on or take off her shoes or socks herself ever again. It was so nice to have a male slave to perform such menial tasks for you! And she was now of the opinion that it was a privilege and an honour for a lowly male slave to taste her socksweat inside his mouth. She was, therefore, not the least bit embarrassed about ordering the hotel footslave to wash her dirty socks inside his mouth.

She was fast adapting to the ways of the Gynarchy!

Miren decided she wanted to wear a pair of white shorts on her otherwise bare legs today, along with a black T shirt with a red logo on the front.

Fully dressed and breakfasted, she was now ready to be driven to the ‘Footslave Themepark’ by her ever punctual Chinese tour guide, miss Nu-Ying.

Nu-Ying, as ever, was wearing her favourite pair of fawn-coloured, combat-style trousers and strappy, flat, brown-leather sandals on her bare, unpedicured Chinese feet.

At least Nu-Ying’s regular footslaves know what to expect every day, thought Mirren to herself!

Having arrived at the Themepark, Miren and Nu-Ying wasted no time in utilising all the various footslave-exhibits: the shoeshine-footslave (in the case of Miren); the pedicurist-footslave (in the case of Nu- Ying – but only to have her dirty, bare, Chinese toes sucked clean as she had not showered that morning); the sockslave (in the case of Miren); the human-trampoline (in the case of Nu-Ying).

But the greatest attraction, of course, was footslave-attraction no. 34 – the so-called ‘Grindstone’.

It was located right in the very centre of the park – the undoubted heart of the world-famous visitor attraction. There was always a huge queue of women waiting to ride on it, but Nu-Ying had contacts in the themepark, and had managed to secure a ‘privilege’ ticket for her tour member, miss Miren. A ‘privilege ticket’ effectively allowed Miren to jump the queue – and so the latter soon found herself next in line for a ride on the infamous grindstone-footslave.

She stood awestruck by the side of the attraction as she watched footslave no. 34 pushing a young black woman around his agonising grindstone circuit on his knees. This grindstone-slave was quite unlike any other male footslave she had hitherto encountered in the Gynarchy. All the male slaves she had seen thus far and who had served at her pretty, Indian feet had been, for want of a better word, ‘wusses’ – weak, spindly-looking creatures whom a lady naturally just wanted to walk all over.

But this guy – he was something else. A veritable Adonis with long, golden locks – stripped to the waist, with bulging biceps and rippling muscles, his magnificent, bronzed torso pleasingly criss-crossed with angry, red welts from the female riding- whip!

Miren felt quite aroused! A slave that a woman could actually fancy! Ha! Ha! Having such brutish, masculine power under one’s feminine command! It must surely feel quite wonderful – surely the only circumstance in the Gynarchy where a woman can legitimately take pleasure in being ‘pushed around’ by a muscular male slave!

For that is footslave no. 34’s job – day in and day out – to push his female betters around the punishing grindstone circuit on his sore and chapped knees, whilst they sit imperiously in front and above him – their dainty, feminine feet resting on a metal footrest directly in front of his sweating face.

Female betters just like the young black woman who was currently enjoying the ride. She looked West African, and sounded it too as she suddenly cracked her riding-crop whip down onto the grindstone-slave’s sunburnt and heaving torso beneath her:

‘I said move faster, slave! Obey your mistress Abimbola or I will flay the skin off your back!’

The grindstone, unsurprisingly, did start to move faster – spurred on by the young African woman’s sharp words and the even sharper sting of her whip! Miren admired the fresh, red stripe that now appeared across the muscular slave’s bare, left shoulder blade. Ha! Ha! Yet another symbol of the power of the delicate female over the brutish male!

For the young African woman was but a slightly built girl – young; early twenties; certainly no more than Miren’s age, and with a rather tatty-looking pair of black and white, high-top sneakers on what appeared to be her bare African feet beneath her bright red, lightweight summer dress.

Miren couldn’t help noticing that one of the African girl’s sneaker-laces was partially undone as her feet rested just inches away from the grindstone-footslave’s contorted-with-pain face. How must he feel, she wondered, to be so close to such a tatty pair of canvas sneakers; sneakers which are clearly unkempt and uncared for; African-girl, high-top, dirty, canvas sneakers which he must surely be able to smell, so close are they to his nose and face as he pushes his superior young African mistress around and around the monotonous grindstone circuit.

And yet, however tatty and scruffy those sneakers may be, he must respect and admire them as he pushes their wearer along – for they are the sneakers of his female master and better; they are the scruffy, old, dirt-encrusted sneakers of the young black woman in whose absolute female power he now finds himself.

Ha! Ha! Miren wondered whether the young, black woman would make the grindstone-slave tie her loose shoelace with his teeth before she dismounted from him. Ha! Ha! Wouldn’t that be a sight worth seeing – the exhausted, brutish slave trying to perform the intricate task of tying another human being’s dirty, white shoelace with his teeth – all whilst he is gasping for breath having just finished yet another session on the heavy grindstone circuit?!

Miren hoped the young African woman would make him tie her lace, for he would be sure to botch it up and consequently would be made to feel further sting from the young African woman’s biting, female riding-crop whip!

Miren resolved that when it was her turn she too would make good use of the whippy-looking, black leather, riding crop on the grindstone-slave’s rippling torso. She would tame his bronzed flesh with her whip; subdue the beast within him; break him to her superior, feminine will!

…………………………………………………………………………………..

Footslave no. 34 was, in actual fact, already broken-in. He may have looked strong and powerful, but he was every bit as much a wimp as the rest of the male slave population in the Gynarchy. He truly feared his female masters and betters as they towered above and in front of him on their seat of power on the grindstone, their pretty, feminine feet resting in front of his gormless footslave-face.

He feared them because they held the whip-hand, and he feared the female whip. Indeed, his whole focus in life was to endeavour to please his mistresses - those who so arrogantly and cruelly rode him - in order to avoid the sting of their whip.

But, of course, he had little success in this regard, for we all know that the more a man exhibits fear of the whip, the more a woman is inclined to whip him.

At least, that’s the way things are in the Gynarchy where women are free to be themselves.

As the young black woman with the tatty and grubby, high-top, black and white converse sneakers stepped down from the seat above him, the pathetic grindstone-footslave breathed a sigh of some considerable relief. Though, in his humble experience, all mistresses like to whip, few mistress-customers were quite so trigger-happy with the biting, stinging riding-crop as this haughty African girl had been, and few were quite so demanding with regard to the speed of his circuits. He had even wondered at one point if this African girl in the bright, red dress wasn’t making him go so fast that she might not end up feeling a bit queasy or sick!

But no, it seemed that the young African miss liked the thrill of the human horsepower that propelled her along, as well as the thrill of having her sharp, leather riding-crop whip cracking almost constantly across the grindstone-slave’s naked back and shoulders.

It was the one thing she didn’t like about his long, blond hair: it sometimes seemed to offer his shoulders some undeserved protection from the sting of the riding-crop!

Thankfully, from the grindstone-footslave’s point of view, on completion of her ride the African mistress had been satisfied with just two respectful kisses to her sneakered, African feet – one on the dirty, mud-stained, white toe-area of each rubbery-canvas sneaker. Footslave no. 34 had also been worried that the young African goddess might require him to tie up her lace on her left sneaker with his mouth – something he wasn’t trained for or any good at, for he was really nothing more than an unskilled beast of burden.

And that would be sure to mean she would whip him, for this young African woman clearly brooked no incompetence on a slave’s part!

But no – mercifully, the haughty young African woman was not in the least bit concerned, it seemed, with the perilous state of her shoelace!

Still, what can you expect from a young woman who doesn’t wear any socks inside her sneakers? For, be in no doubt, footslave no. 34 had had a good look down inside the young, black woman’s high-top sneakers as he had kissed them, just out of slavish curiosity of course! Definitely no socks – just shapely, West African ankle bone. Bare flesh sweating directly onto the inner lining of the mistress’s tatty, black and white canvas sneakers. They will make a nice aroma for the pedicure-slave later on in the day if the young woman chooses to use him!

No sooner had the scruffy, black and white sneakers left his restricted field of vision, however, than a fetching pair of much cleaner-looking, much better kept, silver and white, low-top, lace-up, leather sneakers were suddenly positioning themselves on the metal footrest in front of his still-sweating face.

And socks! This time he could clearly see the elasticated tops of a pair of short, black sneaker socks inside the white sneakers! Footslave no. 34 found the contrast between the black of the socks and the white of the sneakers most fetching, especially as the socks blended in so nicely with the young woman’s soft, brown, Indian ankle-skin.

He particularly admired how the socks were slightly uneven on the young woman’s feet – the sock on her left foot having almost completely disappeared down inside her instep, whereas the whole of the elasticated top of the sock on her right foot was still clearly visible.

Even in feminine perfection there are flaws!

Footslave no. 34 always noticed such small details in his female customers’ footwear. He didn’t have much choice – since his customers’ feet were only ever inches away from his confined, sweaty face.

The young Indian woman adjusted herself into the wooden seat above him, making herself comfortable without a second thought for the evident, physical discomfort of the slave kneeling beneath her. The latter could instantly tell that his new, Indian customer was, like her African predecessor, slightly built. Not a heavy customer at all – thankfully. For fat girls are, naturally, much harder to push around the grindstone circuit than fit girls.

Not that such a shapely pair of Indian ankles could ever possibly belong to a fat mistress!

Footslave no. 34, the gentle giant, stole himself and waited for the customary presentation of the new customer’s feet for kissing. Sure enough the young Indian woman moved forward her right foot first, the one with the fully straightened sock, onto the metal footrest for kissing.

He submissively lowered his lips to the white toe of her right sneaker – so much cleaner and whiter than the toe of the African girl’s nominally white converse sneaker-toe had been.

Nevertheless, close up, there were still traces of dirt – invisible, no doubt to the female wearer’s eye from her lofty viewpoint, but detectable to the eye of a humble, down-in-the-dirt footslave whose face is so much closer to the footwear than that of the sneaker-wearer herself.

Footslave no. 34 thought he could feel the young Indian woman’s toes wriggling with pleasure inside her sneaker in reaction to his respectful, introductory kiss to her white, rubbery sneaker-toe. Certainly the slight movement in the elasticated top of her short, black sneaker-sock indicated a slight flexing in the young Indian woman’s soft, brown foot muscles.

The right sneaker, along with its black sock, was soon withdrawn from his lips only to be ceremoniously replaced by the equally smart-looking left sneaker, but this being the one with the somewhat crooked sock. Footslave no. 34 wished he possessed the footslavish skill to straighten the sock with his teeth, for the crooked sock did somewhat detract from the overall beauty of the smart, white sneaker. He decided that it was the silver-coloured, diagonal stripes down the sides of the young woman’s sneaker that gave it that extra touch of class.

And in this regard footslave no. 34 was something of an expert – for he seemed to spend much of his life studying and admiring young women’s sneakers!

Thankfully, the young Indian woman’s sneaker-laces appeared to be well done-up. No danger of being required to tie up laces with his teeth this time!

A sharp streak of pain across his bare, right shoulder soon dispelled any creeping complacency from his footslave-mind, however:

‘Slave, be moving off now!’ shouted a shrill Indian female voice from above him.

The smart sneakers had spoken with the smart of the whip! So this latest customer was also a ‘whipper’ – one who liked to employ the whip!

Why was it always the slightly built girls who made copious use of the riding-crop whip? Was it something to do with ‘small-woman syndrome’? Did they feel a constant need to demonstrate their power and authority over the physically stronger male by means of the female whip? To remind him who was boss?

Footslave no. 34 grunted with pain as he duly ‘moved off’. Oh if only this superior young, Indian woman would spare him the sting of the whip! For his part, he was in no doubt as to who was boss! Had he not just kissed her feet? What more potent symbol could there possibly be of his male impotence and her female potency?

But precisely because she is the boss, this young, Indian woman is the one who can decide whether and when to bring the stinging whip down onto his sunburnt and striped back. And so he bit his tongue and pushed the grindstone.

He received many lashes from the young, Indian woman during her 15 minute ride, for each and every order from her was accompanied by a cut of the riding crop.

And there were many orders – all delivered in her cute Indian accent:

‘Slave, be moving faster!’

‘Slave be concentrating on the top of my sock!’

‘Do not be breathing heavily over my sock, slave! Be keeping your dirty, stinking slave-breath to yourself!’

‘Now stop, slave. Be kissing the top of my sock, and then licking the side of my shoe!’

‘Now be running your nose down the vein on the side of my anklebone.’

‘Slave, be licking the dirt and filth out of the treads on my soles!’

‘Now be moving again, slave. Be moving slowly this time, and be kissing my shoes continuously while you are moving!’

By the end of his fifteen minute session with the arrogant, young Indian woman, footslave no. 34 was mentally and physically exhausted. Despite her stipulations, he couldn’t help but ‘breathe over’ the young, Indian woman’s socks as he gasped for breath over her sneakered feet which were still resting daintily, side-by-side, on the metal footrest in front of his face.

He heard her laughing down at him:

‘Ha! Ha! Slave, you are disobeying me! I was telling you that you are not to be breathing your stinking breath over my nice, clean socks! I am therefore going to be reporting you to your owners, and demanding that you are being severely whipped! Ha! Ha! Who is the master, slave? Me or you?’

Footslave no. 34, along with everybody else who was surrounding the grindstone exhibit and observing his humiliation, knew exactly what the answer to that question was. It barely merited a reply – so obvious was the answer.

And yet everyone – especially the women present – wanted to hear him say it through his fatigued and laboured gasps for breath:

‘Oh pray…mistress…if it pleases you mistress…you…are the master, most powerful and merciful, Indian mistress.’

‘Ha! Ha! That’s right, slave. And whose power are you in right now?’

‘Oh… p…pray…mistress…I am in your power, sweet and kind, Indian mistress…oh pray, mistress…oh pray…please have mercy on this wretched, whipped slave, mistress….’

At this precise moment a globule of male sweat dripped off the exhausted footslave no. 34’s forehead and landed on the otherwise (reasonably) pristine toe of Mien’s left sneaker. It did not endear the grindstone-slave to miss Miren. She reached down and slapped him across the face, prior to wiping the sweat stain off her sneaker in his long, blond hair:

‘Stupid slave! Idiot! Now look what you’ve done to my nice, clean sneakers! I am most definitely having you whipped for this, you stupid oaf!’

When she had finished wiping her soiled sneaker toe in his hair, footslave no. 34 licked clean the top of the Indian mistress’s sneaker by way of an apology. Such insolence had been unforgivable on his part – soiling the precious footwear of his Indian customer with his dirty, facial sweat! Almost as bad as breathing over her precious, feminine sock!

Secretly, however, Miren was pleased to have her sneaker soiled by such a male hunk’s sweat. It eloquently demonstrated his stress and fatigue in her service!

And Miren was fast getting to enjoy making male slaves sweat!



Back to College

The afternoon programme today involved one of the highlights of Miren’s private tour of the Gynarchy. Miss Nu-Ying conveyed her in the minibus to the ‘Young Ladies’ College of Central Barbaria’ (YLCCB) – located in one of the suburbs of the capital city – for an investiture ceremony.

Miren had won her trip to the Gynarchy by entering a competition. She had written an essay entitled ‘Gynarchial principles of good government and how they may be applied to the emerging democracies of South East Asia’. The competition had been run by the Female Students’ Union of the YLCCB, and today, as part of her trip, Miren was to receive an honorary degree from the head of the Students' Union who had personally marked all the essays and awarded Miren the top prize of an all-expenses trip to the Gynarchy.

If truth be told, the head of the Female Students' Union – miss Rangita – had been somewhat biased in favour of Miren’s entry, as she was a fellow-Indian girl. But that’s not to say that Miren’s efforts had been completely without merit! She had, after all, had to cut and paste the essay from the internet using the computer paid for by her fiancé Ravi’s parents.

Miss Miren is no fool!

Unlike the college doormat at the imposing entrance to the college, on whom miss Miren was cordially invited to scrape the thick soles of her fetching silver and white sneakers by her welcoming host – miss Rangita.

As she scraped the beige-coloured soles of her silver and white sneakers over the college doormat-slave’s upturned face, Miren thought it was funny that his frightened and gormless-looking face was already permanently marked with zigzagged lines from numerous female college-students’ sneaker treads.

She chuckled to herself. The hapless doormat-slave must spend a large part of his life looking up at girls’ sneaker-treads – since sneakers are such a ubiquitous form of footwear on any female college campus! Ha! Ha! Even her host, miss Rangita, was wearing a pretty pair of very girly-looking pink and white, lace-up sneakers along with white ankle socks beneath the hems of her blue denim, student-girl jeans.

Miren was glad that she herself was dressed appropriately for college in her black T shirt, white shorts, silver and white sneakers and short, black sneaker-socks. She would blend in nicely with the other students around the campus.

Nu-Ying was happy enough to leave Miren in the capable hands of her college host, miss Rangita, for the afternoon, whilst she herself had the afternoon off to do some much needed shopping. It was, after all, Miren’s big moment – receiving her honorary degree – but it was to be a private, low-key ceremony, and Nu-Ying knew her tourist-guest would be well looked after by her college host and fellow-countrywoman, miss Rangita. She therefore arranged to come back and pick up Miren in the minibus at 4 PM.

Having left her sneaker dirt behind her on the doormat-footslave’s face, Miren happily followed her host, miss Rangita, into the grounds of the college proper. It was the summer vacation, so most of the young ladies of the YLCCB were currently away from the campus staying with their families for the summer holidays. Nevertheless, Miren was gratified to see a number of humble, male collegiate footslaves crawling after various college girls’ sneakers, ankle boots, ballet flats, and strappy, leather sandals.

Mmm…not just sneakers on campus after all then, thought Miren to herself. She wondered, therefore, whether some of the treadmarks on the doormat-footslave’s face were actually caused by female boots and sandals?

But that was the last thought she gave to the doormat-footslave.

Miren liked this place – the whole ambience of the Female College. It was particularly nice to see that in this female-dominated college males were kept well and truly in their rightful place – at the feet of their female superiors – for one of the main tenets of Miren’s plagiarised essay had been that females were superior to males in every way – intellectually; physically; emotionally – and were therefore the natural leaders in society, deserving of male obedience and respect.

And what better way for an inferior male to show respect for a superior woman than by crawling behind her through the dirt to heel?

It was very much how Miren saw herself in the future – as a natural born leader, with a personal male footservant in tow. That was why she had had no compunction whatsoever about wiping her dirty feet on a male footslave’s upturned, sneaker-pockmarked face!

Miren’s host, Rangita, explained to her that she had been studying computing at YLCCB on a scholarship paid for by the Indian Government, and that she was now about to embark upon her third and final year of study in the Gynarchy, following which she would return to India in order to utilise her skills. She had been elected president of the Female Students’ Union last year.

Rangita began Miren’s visit to YLCCB by giving her a quick guided tour of the college. She took her first of all to her own college dormitory-room, just to show Miren what the college accommodation was like. As Miren entered Rangita’s room she was greeted – in the traditional collegiate-footslave fashion (i.e. by having her sneakered feet worshipped and kissed) – by a middle-aged man whom Rangita explained was her, and her room-mates’, personal dormitory footslave – slave Victor.

Miren was now well-used to having her feet kissed by male slaves – and instinctively, almost unthinkingly, presented her sweet, Indian sneakered and socked foot for kissing by the slave. She had noticed as she had entered the room that he had been busy tongue-polishing a pair of brown-leather, zip up ankle boots. She wondered if they belonged to her host, miss Rangita – although Rangita had already explained that she shared her dormitory room with 3 other girls: misses Olya (now a postgraduate student), Taneesha and Sang-Mi.

Sadly, all of the other girls were out somewhere in the town, so Miren would not get to meet them during her brief visit to the college.

However, once the hard-working dormitory slave, slave Victor, had finished praising, blessing and worshipping Miren’s sneakered and socked Indian feet with his footslave-lips, Rangita took her fellow-Indian guest on a quick tour of the rest of the college – including the college laundry room.

Rangita found it highly amusing to witness the college laundryroom-sockslave on his hands and knees and up to his eyeballs in a pile of female college-students’ dirty, smelly socks and tights, sucking on the stinky toe ends of each individual foot-garment as he attempted to pre-wash them in his mouth prior to hand washing each individual item of feminine hosiery in a basin. The laundryroom smelt strongly of dirty socks, and Miren had to hold her nose as her host showed her around.

That laundryroom-sockslave must have a strong stomach, thought Miren to herself!

She was very glad to escape the stinky, sweaty stench of the oppressive laundryroom, though she was gratified to know that there was no immediate escape from the stench for the laundryroom-slave. Indeed she took malicious pleasure in the thought that for the hapless college sockslave there would be no escape from the stink until he had sucked away, and swallowed, the source of the stench – the female foot perspiration contained in all the various dirty feminine socks and tights.

Next Miren was taken to see the college library, where she was shown many learned books written by female writers. Rangita explained to the guest that there were no books written by males in the library of the YLCCB – apart from some collections of slave narratives; accounts by male slaves of various aspects of their humble lives at the feet of their superior mistresses. The college librarian- mistress even had a surprise gift for Miren. She presented her with a complimentary copy of one such humble tome, entitled ‘Footslaves’ Tales Volume 1’.

After the visit to the college library, however, it was time for Miren’s investiture, and the low-key, but nonetheless very flattering, honorary degree ceremony. Rangita explained that it was to take place in the centre of the college grounds at the so called ‘seat of learning’

As they approached the ‘seat of learning’ Miren quickly realised that it was nothing more than a set of low, wooden stocks in which a collegiate footslave was confined on his knees. He looked forlorn and desolate – and in some considerable discomfort – as Miren and Rangita approached the kneeling and confined wretch.

Miren laughed out loud at the sight of him.

Rangita explained exactly why the slave was being made to suffer in the college stocks:

‘Ha! Ha! This is being slave Ewan. He is being one of the college dormitory slaves, but is being upsetting one of his room-mistresses by actually losing one of the poor girl’s socks! He is therefore being punished for 4 days in the seat of learning, before he will be being required to sniff out the missing sock. Ha! Ha!’

Miren smiled. Four whole days confined in such an awkward and back-breaking kneeling position in the stocks! Ha! Ha! Serves the careless footslave right!

But she was curious:

‘And please, what will be happening with this fool if he is still being unable to locate his mistress’s missing sock?’

Rangita laughed:

‘Then he will be being formally charged with neglect, and will be sent to prison. Will you be visiting the male slave-prison during your stay in the Gynarchy, Miren? I can thoroughly recommend it! Many of the college girls like to be going there and tormenting the slaves. It is really a most enlightening and entertaining place!’

‘Oh yes – Nu-Ying has informed me that we shall be visiting the prison at Femina all day tomorrow!’

‘Excellent! I have not been to that particular prison myself, but I believe it is being a high-security prison. That means they will be punishing the most hardened of footslave-criminals, and breaking them to our female will. Make sure they are showing you one of their punishment cells! Ha! Ha! Believe me Miren, this wretched fellow will be praying for the comfort of the stocks after just one day working on the punishment treadmill in the local prison down the road from here! Ha! Ha! I am sure they must be having a similar treadmill in the high-security Male Prison at Femina!’

The ‘punishment treadmill’! Miren liked the sound of that. She was very much looking forward to her visit to the State Prison at Femina tomorrow!

But for now – she had an honorary degree certificate to receive.

……………………………………………………………………………………….

36 year old slave Ewan was in pain. His shoulders and neck ached as he knelt with his head and arms helplessly confined through the holes in the heavy wooden crossbeam of the set of college stocks known, ironically, as the ‘seat of learning.’

It was thus called because the thick, wooden crossbeam had been designed so that the college girls could, if they so wished, sit on it, tucking their pretty feet and legs underneath the slave’s kneeling face and chin, thereby forcing the male miscreant to look at the tops of their socks, and their boots or shoes, whilst his arm and neck muscles tightened and tautened still further throughout the days of his confinement.

It was day 3 of slave Ewan’s 4 day confinement in the stocks.

The seat of learning was in fact, a popular place for the female college students to enjoy their lunch breaks. What better way could there possibly be for a young, free woman to spend her lunch-hour than by sitting atop a male miscreant-slave in the stocks, enjoying her fresh and nutritious sandwich whilst the slave below her starved? Starved and stared – stared at her shapely lower legs and feet?

However it was now mid afternoon, during a college vacation period, and, apart from a few discarded sandwich wrappers scattered deliberately on the grass around him by some of the remaining overseas students (to remind him of his own hunger pangs), there had been no sign of any college students around the seat of learning for some time.

Then slave Ewan suddenly saw and heard two pairs of female legs approaching him. The first pair he recognised instantly – from the sneakers. They were the familiar pink and white sneakers of miss Rangita – the Students’ Union leader.

She had actually sat on top of him yesterday lunchtime, and he had very much admired her sweet, white ankle socks inside her pink and white sneakers whilst she had eaten her microwaveable meal of curried chicken. The delicious aroma of her hot meal had wafted down towards him, making him incredibly hungry - but of course he was being punished and was not to be fed for the entire 4 days of his confinement in the seat of learning.

And so he had done the only thing he could do to try and take his mind off his empty stomach – he had studied the patterns in the stitching of student-leader miss Rangita’s white, cotton ankle socks inside her pink and white sneakers and beneath the frayed hems of her blue denim jeans as she had sat on his wooden crossbeam, gaily swinging her Indian feet below his confined face.

The plain white ankle socks had reminded him that it was a similar white sock belonging to one of his own dormitory-mistresses, miss Chantelle, that had gone missing. Oh if only he could remember what he had done with it! Where on earth had he left it after stupidly taking it from miss Chantelle’s sock-drawer in order to furtively sniff it without the female owner’s permission?

As he knelt in the stocks he resolved that he would never sneak off with one of miss Chantelle’s dirty socks ever again. Such pathetic, furtive sock-sniffing just wasn’t worth it - not if you subsequently misplaced the sock and were facing a possible prison sentence as a result!

In the worst case scenario he might even be charged with female sock-theft and sentenced to life in the foothole-dungeons!

He shivered at the thought, but was then brought back to his current, painful reality by a sharp twinge in his lower neck muscle, and by the humbling thought that miss Rangita may well be wearing the same pair of plain, white ankle socks inside her pink and white sneakers for two days in a row, as he now observed little flashes of similar, plain white sock beneath her blue, denim jean hems as she now walked towards him today.

College girls! Hah! Why did they have to torment the college footslaves by wearing the same socks for two or more days in a row? They must know that the smell of dirty, sweaty female socks drives men wild!

Well, it drives male footslaves like slave Ewan wild at any rate! And, of course, let’s remember that he was only able to speculate about miss Rangita’s sock-hygiene habits. For all he knew they might well be a completely fresh pair of plain white socks on her feet today. Only her dormitory-footslave, slave Victor, knew the answer to that!

Miss Rangita’s pink and white sneakers and white socks were accompanied this afternoon by an even more fetching pair of silver and white sneakers and short, black sneaker socks on bare, brown legs. They were quite obviously the legs of another Indian girl – a girl white wearing shorts and a black T shirt. Not a student-girl that slave Ewan recognised as having seen before – and he never forgot a pair of sweet, feminine socks and sneakers!

As the second pair of Indian-girl sneakers and socks stepped up in front of him all was revealed by miss Rangita:

‘You down there – the slave in the stocks – this is being miss Miren from India, winner of the Student Union’s international essay competition. She is to be receiving an honorary degree here at the seat of learning for her excellent work in composing her essay, and so you, the slave, must now be humbly kissing her feet, and praising and blessing her, for her fine work in winning her degree! Be kissing miss Miren’s sneakers and socks this instant, but do not be touching her bare flesh, for she is a high-caste Indian girl like me and is therefore being very much your better, slave!’

Miren giggled to herself. Her family were not, actually, as high-caste as Rangita’s evidently were. But compared to the lowly, male footslave in the stocks she was of course, in a caste of her own!

Compared to him she was a veritable goddess!

Miren happily kicked aside a discarded sandwich wrapper, and positioned her slender, right, sneakered foot in the grass directly beneath the punished footslave’s kneeling and confined-in-wood face, and watched as he somewhat gingerly (presumably because of the pain in his neck and shoulder muscles) lowered his lips to her now grass-stained, white rubbery sneaker toe.

As he had been ordered to do by miss Rangita, slave Ewan praised and blessed and congratulated miss Miren from India on her honorary degree, whilst he kissed her imperiously outstretched, South Asian, sneakered foot:

‘Oh pray, mistress Miren, God bless you mistress Miren. Please accept this lowly footslave’s congratulations on your much-deserved degree award. This slave praises and blesses the mistress’s superior female intellect, and regards it as an honour and privilege to kiss the feet of one so clever and erudite as the young mistress, if it is so pleasing to you mistress Miren.’

It certainly was so pleasing to miss Miren! This was the first time she had ever won anything! And to think that she had got away with plagiarising her essay from the internet! Ha! Ha!

Slave Ewan had now moved his lips onto the top of the young Indian woman’s short, black, cotton sneaker sock. He found it quite hard to keep his lips off the young Indian woman’s bare, brown ankle skin – and not just because her skin looked so soft, feminine and inviting, but also because his whole head was shaking with the strain of having to kiss Indian girl, short, black sneaker-sock through wooden stocks!

At this point the familiar shiny, black leather stilettos and tan-coloured, finest-denier, nylon stockings beneath a black miniskirt belonging to the college’s administrative officer, 20 year old miss Wendy, appeared alongside the two Indian girls’ respective sneakers. Miss Wendy had brought over a black mortar board and the honorary degree certificate for miss Rangita to present to the Indian guest.

The ceremony was all very simple and low-key. Miss Rangita said a few words, congratulating Miren once again on her erudite and insightful work, and she then invited Miren to sit on top of the seat of learning in order to have her picture taken whilst wearing the black mortar board and with her degree certificate in her hands.

Miren was only too happy to sit on top of slave Ewan in the stocks, and was gratified to hear him let out a little groan of slavish discomfort caused by the extra weight of her slightly-built, young-womanly body sitting on the wooden crossbeam above his confined and sore neck.

For his part, slave Ewan considered that the extra weight on his neck and shoulders was worth it, for he now had a close-up and uninterrupted view of the elasticated tops of the young Indian woman’s short, black sneaker socks, fetchingly stretched out over the middles of her shapely, Indian ankle bones, as she coquettishly tucked her soft, brown, flawlessly feminine calf-muscles around the sides of his confined and contorted, male face.

He noticed for the first time that her left sock was slightly more crooked inside her sneaker than the matching, black sock on her right foot, but such imperfection only served to heighten his sense of slavish admiration for the pretty, young, intellectually-superior Indian woman in her ultra-feminine sneakers and socks.

Moreover, the pleasant feel of miss Miren’s soft, Indian legs enveloping his cheeks almost made slave Ewan proud to be confined in the stocks, for he knew they were the legs and calf-muscles of a highly clever and intelligent young woman who was self-evidently a winner and therefore his better – since he was self-evidently such a loser.

A loser of socks stuck in the stocks!

Momentarily, the loser-slave Ewan forgot all his troubles, and his fully justified aches and pains, and just admired the view of his female better’s soft, brown, calf skin, short black ankle socks, and grass-stained, silver and white sneakers.



Day 4 – Go To Jail!

The following day Miren thought long and hard about what sort of footwear to wear for her visit to the male prison just outside ‘Femina’ – the Gynarchy’s second city.

She eventually decided on her low-heeled, round-toed, zip-up, brown leather ankle boots – in part because she figured that such domineering footwear was the most appropriate footwear she had for prison-wear (it would show the male prisoners that she was tough, and not to be messed with!); and in part also because the brown, leather ankle boots were the most well-worn and scuff-marked items of footwear that she had brought with her from India.

Miren felt it only appropriate that she should inflict her scruffiest, dirtiest footwear on the humble male prisoners. After all, she didn’t want to be giving them a cheap thrill – they were there to be punished! Therefore her strappy gold, high-heeled sandals, for example, would have been completely inappropriate!

Besides, she fully anticipated having to climb down steep and gloomy stairwells, and possibly up onto the so-called ‘treadmill’ device that her new friend, miss Rangita, had told her about during her investiture-visit to the YLCCB, and so the low-heeled, brown leather boots would be the most practical footwear to have on inside the prison.

To go with the boots there was only one pair of socks Miren thought suitable - her thick, navy-blue and yellow, cartoon-print, ankle-length bootsocks. Of course, she had worn her short black or white sneaker-socks with the boots in the past, but they could not be sen deep down inside her ankleboots, and she somehow thought it would be more appropriate for the male prisoners to be able to see the tops of her socks inside her boots. She wanted them to know that that she was better than them, and what better way than to force them to lower their heads below the highly-visible elasticated tops of her navy blue, cartoon-print bootsocks as they humbly and respectfully kissed the scuff-marked toes of her brown, leather ankleboots?

Miren was, admittedly, a little bit concerned that the bright, yellow cartoon-print of a smiling duck on the sides of her socks might send the wrong message to the prisoners. They were a ‘fun’ pair of lighthearted socks – not, perhaps, entirely suitable for the sombre environment of a dirty and gloomy male prison!

On the other hand, Miren quite liked the idea of displaying to the male prisoners through her choice of sock that she was a free, young, happy-go-lucky Indian woman, living a life of fun and frivolity, whilst they were languishing in the Gynarchy’s dungeons – dark; miserable; claustrophobic; with no fun or enjoyment in their miserable, male-prisoner lives!

Miren already knew from her research for her competition-winning essay that life for a male prisoner in the Gynarchy was no bed of roses! There were no cushy jails in the Gynarchy – apart from the female prisons, of course, which were all open prisons with comfortable beds, ensuite facilities, satellite TV, swimming pools, jacuzzis and health spas – all for the use of the benign, female prisoners.

Miren was reassured to note, in any case - as she sat, once again, imperiously on the edge of her bed with the hotel footslave zipping up her brown leather ankle boots onto her navy-blue and yellow socked feet - that the yellow cartoon duck on the sides of her fun socks was hidden inside the boots. Only the plain, navy-blue elasticated tops of her thick, cotton bootsocks were actually on public display above the tops of her brown, leather ankleboots – so if the worst came to the worst she could pass them off to the prisoners as a plain pair of sombre, navy-blue bootsocks; the sort of socks, she imagined, the male prisoners’ female guards might wear inside their knee-length uniform boots.

To complete her outfit for the happy day, Miren was wearing another tight-fitting T shirt – yellow and navy blue to match her socks – and some calf-hugging, black, cotton leggings which came down to an inch or so above the tops of her navy-blue bootsocks, thereby revealing a tantalizing little slither of her soft, brown bare calf-skin above the tops of her ankle boots and socks - something just to tease the helpless male prisoners with, who must surely be starved of soft, feminine skin in their dirty, male cells?

Yes Miren was now ready – ready for her jolly day out in the sombre male prison!

Nu-Ying – as ever dressed in her fawn-coloured, combat style trousers and brown, strappy ‘moses’ sandals on bare, unpedicured feet – picked Miren up from the hotel in the familiar, private minibus. It was a 4 hour drive to the town of Femina, and so Nu-Ying had arranged for them to stop for refreshments at a village called ‘Pastela’ along the route.

The village was so-called because of the pretty, pink-pastel shades of all its female buildings. Very gynarchial – very feminine. They stopped at a female pub in the village which had a ‘countryside bootscraper’ positioned in the beer-garden outside.

Miren was intrigued, and so, after they had finished their non-alcoholic drinks, Nu-Ying accompanied her tourist-guest over to the bootscraper – a maleslave’s face buried upwards in the ground – and covered in mud scrapings from the dirty soles of previous female patrons’ boots and shoes:

‘Ha! Ha! This a bootscraper – you use slave face to scrape mud and dirt off bottom of boots!’ explained Nu-Ying, gleefully, to her protégé. She then pointed at the confined-in-the-ground slave’s upturned face and laughed:

‘Ha! Ha! Look at marks on slave’s face! Ha! Ha! His face covered in tread marks from soles of ladies’ boots! Ha! Ha! He look like fool – his face look like leathery bootsole itself! Ha! Ha!’

Miren had to laugh also. It was true – the human bootscraper’s upturned face, after presumably what must be years of having women’s boots and shoes scraped across it, did now resemble a lady’s leathery bootsole – what with all the permanently ingrained treadmarks on it! Ha! Ha! Some of the marks looked so deep, they would probably never disappear from his gormless, footslave face! Ha! Ha! Some ladies must really apply a lot of pressure on his face whilst they are using it to scrape the mud off the soles of their dirty boots!

Miren, naturally, wanted to try it out for herself – seeing as how her own bootsoles were now somewhat dirty and muddy from having walked across the dewy grass of the beer garden. Smilingly and unpityingly, she looked down upon the upturned, buried face of the countryside bootscraper so securely and permanently confined in the ground, and then momentarily raised the sole of her right boot before bringing it down onto his already treadmarked and dirty face.


……………………………………………………………………………………..

Slave Patrick was impressed – he observed that the slightly built, young, Indian woman who now towered above him in her bright blue and yellow T shirt had beautiful eyes and beautiful, dark features framed by her dark, shoulder length hair, just before his view was obscured by the rapidly descending dark brown, muddy sole of her zip-up, block-heeled, brown-leather ankle boot.

A small globule of sticky, brown mud fell off the descending sole and onto his face – right onto his upper lip - and when the leather bootsole itself finally made its cold, wet contact with his face he felt the wet globule of freshly fallen mud squelch and spread all over his upper lip.

He felt truly honoured – for, even though the mud was local, the boot clearly belonged to an exotic, foreign, female visitor from a faraway land.

He had just managed to notice also that the young, Indian woman was wearing what appeared to be a plain pair of navy-blue, ankle-length bootsocks inside her block-heeled, brown leather, zip-up ankle boots. And speaking of zips, he particularly admired the way the dark, metal zip on the inner side of the young woman’s boot flapped about in harmony with the scraping movement of her boot across his upturned face.

The young woman was leaning quite hard – applying considerable pressure on his face with her dirty, brown-leather bootsole, apparently determined to, quite literally, make a lasting impression upon him. He wasn’t shocked or surprised at the vigour of her bootscraping. Many of his female customers, who looked like butter wouldn’t melt in their mouths, actually seemed to like the thought of leaving their superior, feminine bootmarks on his humble, male face – a kind of primeval female desire to mark their territory, as it were. A way of saying ‘I was here!’

He caught the occasional glimpse of soft, brown, Indian shin beneath the elasticated hem of the young, dark-haired woman’s calf-length, black cotton legging as the sole of her clumpy, brown ankle boot was dragged ceremoniously across his upturned face. The young Indian woman was laughing at him, and commenting to her friend, who appeared to be a sweet, Chinese girl wearing strappy, brown leather sandals:

‘Ha! Ha! I am feeling his nose squashing underneath my boot! Ha! Ha! I am wondering if my boot is hurting him?’

‘Ha! Ha! We not care – he just a slave. Your boot more important than his face! Ha! Ha! You have womanly right to clean boot on his face – his face just a thing. You a human being!’ responded the Chinese girl in a heavy, but incredibly cute, oriental accent.

The Chinese mistress speaks the truth, thought slave Patrick to himself. He hoped the Chinese girl would also avail herself of his bootscraping services, for he didn’t just scrape boots with his face. He scraped the soles of female shoes and sandals also – if it was so pleasing to his mistresses.

But, sadly for slave Patrick, the Chinese girl appeared to be in a hurry to move on. He guessed the two young women were probably on their way to visit the prison at Femina – in order to gloat over the male prisoners just as they had been gloating over him. Practically every female who stopped off at the pub in ‘Pastela’ was on their way to the male prison. It was considered a fun day out - for a female!

Slave Patrick sometimes wished he was in prison. Then he realised that, effectively, he was – for he was imprisoned in the ground, and would remain so even after his death. Ashes to ashes; dirt to dirt.

In any case, he had no choice in the matter! Like it or lump it, just as soon as the Indian goddess-mistress had scraped the sole of her other boot clean on his face, the two visiting, young Asian women headed off on their travels again – leaving him with only the bittersweet taste of the Indian girl’s boot mud in his slave mouth, and perhaps the imprint of her leather bootsoles on his slave face, as souvenirs for him to remember them both by.

……………………………………………………………………………………

The entrance to the male prison just outside ‘Femina’ looked suitably foreboding! No pink pastel colours here! The building was black – a fitting colour for a place of unremitting male misery and punishment.

Miren had already decided she would have no sympathy for the male prisoners confined in their gloomy dungeon cells within the prison walls, many of them for life. They were males, after all, who must have broken the Female Laws of the Gynarchy. They therefore deserved to be punished!

In fact, Miren was positively looking forward to witnessing the imprisoned males being punished, and was hoping that she would be able to contribute something, however small, to their pain and suffering.

The prison governess – a stunning, young black woman in her mid thirties – who greeted the two female visitors to her prison with a warm smile – fulfilled Miren’s dreams of prisoner-punishment-participation within 5 minutes of her arrival at the prison!

The black governess happily explained how Miren could help to enforce discipline on the male prisoners:

‘Miss Miren, I see that you are wearing socks inside your ankle boots. We have a particularly pathetic male prisoner in here known as the ‘sock-nonce’. He was convicted over 10 years’ ago of stealing women’s socks from their clotheslines, and was sentenced to ‘life imprisonment with sock denial’. Ha! Ha! That means he is to be teased with the sight of the objects of his pathetic desire – women’s socks – but is never to be permitted to touch them – not even with his lips! Ha! Ha! Miss Miren, would you like to tease the dirty socknonce-prisoner with your socks? It is simply a case of me opening the hatch in his cell door and you placing your booted foot directly in front of the hatch outside his cell – so that he can see your sock. Ha! Ha! It will drive him crazy – but he will not be able to touch your sock. I can assure you of that!’

Miren was totally up for this! She was so glad she had decided to wear her thick, cotton, navy blue ankle socks inside her brown, leather ankle boots – given what the black prison-governess was now asking her to do. But she had one niggling concern:

‘Ha! Ha! Yes certainly, governess. I would be being most honoured to be assisting you with the tormenting of this thieving prisoner-sockslave. But there is just one thing I am being worried about – the socks which I am wearing inside my boots are having a silly, brightly-coloured cartoon on the side. Will the prisoner-slave be needing to be seeing the cartoon, or would you be preferring that he only be seeing the plain, navy-blue tops of my socks?’

The prison governess laughed:

‘Ha! Ha! Perfect! The brighter your socks – the better, miss! We want him to be seeing as wide a variety of female socks as possible, not just dark-coloured, plain socks. Ha! Ha! I am sure the cartoon on the side of your socks will drive him crazy, if you would be prepared to show it to him, miss!’

Miren relaxed and smiled. So the silly cartoon socks not only met with the prison governess’s explicit approval – they were, apparently, ideal for teasing and tormenting the male sockslave-prisoner, for, being very girly socks, they would cruelly remind him of what he was missing on the outside: brightly-coloured girlsock!

The governess lead both Miren and her escort, miss Nu-Ying, down into the bowels of the prison and towards the heavy metal door of one deep cell in particular. The cell door had a hatch at the bottom – at ground level – which could clearly only be opened from the outside. The prison-governess had the key.

As soon as she opened the low-level hatch the balding head of a pathetic, male prisoner popped out – wide-eyed and curious at the fetching sight of Miren’s nearby brown leather ankle boots and navy-blue ankle socks.

The prison governess laughed at the pathetic male prisoner and justifiably mocked him:

‘Ha! Ha! Prisoner no. 76290 – the sock-nonce – look what I’ve brought you! Ha! Ha! An Indian girl’s navy blue bootsocks! Ha! Ha! Look can you see them peeping out over the tops of her ankleboots? Can you? Can you?’

Of course ‘sock-nonce’ could see them! He could see nothing else! He started to salivate!

He started to moan and whine when Miren, with a cruel smile on her pretty Indian face, moved over to stand even closer to his confined face and positioned her right, booted foot just an inch or so away from the prisoner’s pathetic, balding head. His eyes were now level with the tops of her socks!

‘Be sure not to let his face touch your sock, miss’ the governess reminded Miren. ‘He may look, but not touch! Ha! Ha! That is the nature of his punishment handed down by the Female Court over 10 years ago! Ha! Ha!’

……………………………………………………………………………….

Prisoner-slave no. 76290 – aka ‘sock-nonce’ - was transfixed. Such a sweet pair of dark, navy-blue bootsocks on soft, brown Indian-girl legflesh; sock that was slightly creased along its fetching, navy-blue, elasticated top; sock that was so near he was sure he could smell the fresh aroma of its soft, cotton material; sock that was so near – and yet so far!

He strained his scrawny, prisoner-neck forwards in a vain attempt to brush his imprisoned nose against Indian-girl sock.

But Miren, the wearer of the sock, merely laughed at him, for she knew he could never reach it – not unless she moved her booted foot closer to his expectant face, which she most definitely wouldn’t do; not with the prison-governess, miss Smith, present!

Instead Miren coquettishly raised her booted heel up off the ground, causing the elasticated top of her soft navy blue bootsock to crease and fold even further in front of the celibate-sockslave’s now fully dilated pupils!

He actually started sobbing. Miren had actually managed to reduce him to tears – just by showing him the creased top of her navy blue bootsock!

He positively wailed out loud, however, when the young Indian woman suddenly, and unexpectedly, reached down to unzip the side of her ankleboot and thereby revealed to him the bright yellow print of a cartoon duck on the side of her pretty, blue sock!

Oh pray mistress! Oh pray! Oh pray! Oh please let me nose the side of your cartoon-print sock! Oh pray! Oh pray!

Prisoner no. 76290, the convicted sockthief, would have liked to beg the Indian visitor for mercy in this way – but Femina was a ‘silent’ prison – male prisoners were absolutely forbidden from speaking at any time. Even his moaning and wailing would be sure to earn him punishment later – several strokes of the prison governess’s cane, no doubt.

Ironically that was the only time prisoners were allowed to moan and wail – whilst they were undergoing corporal punishment.

Miss Nu-Ying, who was also standing in the corridor enjoying the proceedings, commented gleefully on the smiling nature of the cartoon duck’s face:

‘Ha! Ha! Sock-duck laugh at sock-nonce! Ha! Ha! Quack! Quack! Ha! Ha!’

Everyone laughed – apart from prisoner no. 76290, whose tears were not of laughter, but of humiliation and frustration.

The prison governess eventually shoved prisoner no. 76290’s wailing face back into its hatch with the side of her black leather, knee-length booted foot just as soon as Miren had finished tormenting the convicted sock-nonce with the sight of her pretty, feminine, cartoon-print sock.

Miren wondered what sort of socks the black prison-governess might be wearing inside her regulation, prison-officer, black, leather uniform boots.

She was not the only one. Prisoner no. 76290, now confined in the total darkness of his dungeon-cell once again, was wondering the exact same thing, for the prison governess had gleefully told him on his first day in prison that she and her wardresses did wear socks inside their boots – but that he would never get to see them as part of his punishment. The most he could ever hope for was to look at the socks of female visitors and guests to the prison – as he had done today.

In the pitch darkness, therefore, prisoner no. 76290 was left sobbing to himself, with only the sweet memory of Miren’s pretty, yellow and blue, cartoon print socks emblazoned on his sock-obsessed mind!

He was well and truly down and out – out for a cartoon duck!

……………………………………………………………………………..

Meanwhile Miren did get her wish to go on the treadmill!

She was invited by the governess to sit in the punishment treadmill’s seat of power above a short-term prisoner-slave who had been sentenced to 5 solid days working on the treadmill for the crime of insolence towards his mistress.

Miren therefore found herself seated comfortably with her booted and socked feet resting on a metal footrest directly in front of the insolent prisoner’s face, as he was secured in a standing position to the treadmill device, awaiting Miren’s orders to ‘move off’.

Miren clapped her pretty, Indian hands with delight when she saw how difficult it was for the prisoner to make the heavy treadmill move round with her sitting on it. The sting of the nearby prison-governess’s prison whip seemed to spur him on to ever greater efforts, however!


……………………………………………………………………………….

Prisoner no. 83167, now on day 4 of his 5 day sentence at the treadmill, admired, through his laboured breaths, the scuff marks on the rounded, brown leather toes of the young Indian woman’s boot resting so arrogantly in front of his puffing and sweating, red face.

Like the ‘sock-nonce’ prisoner-slave before him, he admired too the creased tops of the young Indian woman’s navy-blue bootsocks. But if truth be told prisoner no. 83167 was more of a ‘bootman’ than a ‘sockman’ – so he was even more enraptured by the creases and folds in the dark, brown leather of the superior, young Indian woman’s evidently well-worn ankle boots.

Like sock-nonce before him, he was allowed – indeed required – to stare at the Indian female visitor’s footwear - but unlike socknonce, he was permitted to actually touch the objects of his slavish desire with his parched and boot-starved lips. Periodically he was given the order to stop walking on the treadmill and to start kissing the boots in front of him – so he tasted mistress Miren’s dark brown, scuff-marked bootleather in between his laboured gasps for breath caused by his fatigue and exhaustion in trying to make the heavy treadmill go round.

For her part Miren very much enjoyed the sight of the bootkissing, bare-backed prisoner’s rippling, whipped muscles as he laboured, futilely, below her. His labour was ‘futile’ because the treadmill didn’t do anything – other than go round and round. Nugatory work for zero pay! Ha! Ha! Unless you include the reward of getting to kiss the scuff-marked toes of a superior and very beautiful, young Indian woman’s brown, leather ankle boots?

For the already contrite and penitent prisoner no. 831267 it was indeed reward enough, for he now recognised that all mistresses were his betters, and that he must respect and admire them.

He had learnt his lesson the hard way through hard labour, and would never be insolent towards a mistress again, looking her in the eye rather than in the boot!

At least he had a chance for rehabilitation on his release, unlike the sock-nonce who would be spending the rest of his unnatural life in his sock-level, dungeon cell.



Day 5 - The Games People Play!

Miss Miren was not, of course in prison for life. She was only there for the day, as an esteemed guest of the Gynarchy.

And so the following day – the final day of her all-expenses paid, private tour of the Gynarchy – was to be the highlight of her holiday in the Female State, as she was to be a guest of honour at the Gynarchy’s famous ‘Games’ in the Female Colosseum back in the capital city, Barbaria!

She decided to wear her pale pink flip flops to the Games, partly because it was a baking hot, sunny day; and partly because she had been tipped off by her tour guide, miss Nu-Ying, that her participation in the Games as an honoured guest would involve her taking part in a ‘pedicure’ competition – whereby various slaves would be competing to perform the best pedicure on various guest- mistresses from around the world.

Nu-Ying had explained to Miren that the competition-slaves were all ‘lifers’ in the Gynarchy’s foothole-dungeons – convicted foot-criminals who fully deserved to rot for the rest of their days in the Gynarchy’s dirty, underground footholes. But, in celebration of the Supreme Female Ruler’s jubilee, one convicted slave – the winner of the pedicure competition – would be released back into the community; as a public footslave, of course. He would not be set free, as such. But at least he would be shown sweet, feminine mercy and would not have to spend the rest of his life licking female prison-guards’ dusty, black leather, knee-high, uniform boots through a metal hatch in his cell door!

The losers of the competition would, on the other hand, be going straight back to their foothole-cells to do just that – for all eternity. Or, at least, for the rest of their natural lives and beyond – for their foothole-cells would eventually become their coffins.

Miren hoped ‘her’ slave wouldn’t win – whoever he was!

She could, of course, have easily slipped her pink flip flops onto her own, bare, brown Indian feet as she sat in her hotel bedroom on the final morning of her stay in the Gynarchy. But it never occurred to her to do so – for she had a room-service hotel footslave to take care of such things for her. Miren was fast becoming a typically indolent and haughty Gynarchial mistress – used to having male flunkeys fussing around her feet.

As she sat imperiously on the edge of her bed in her lightweight, bright-yellow top and her pink, summery miniskirt, looking down - in every sense of the expression - on the hotel footslave who was kneeling subserviently at her bare feet and clumsily slipping the toe-thong of her right flip-flop in between the big and second toes of her pretty, right foot, Miren realised with sadness that she was going to miss such sycophantic servitude when she returned to India tomorrow.

There was just no way her boyfriend, Ravi, would ever abase himself at her feet in this way! She would have to put her own flip flops onto her feet herself again!

Miren therefore made the most of the hotel footslave whilst she still could, and ordered him to lick the upper sole of her left, pink flip flop before he placed it onto her bare foot. This was, in part, because it was badly marked with her footsweat stains from the bottom of her foot; but also because she had just remembered reading an article about how dirty – and covered in germs – flip flops could become after just a few wearings. Some scientists had apparently tested worn flip flops in the laboratory, and found a whole host of foot-germs and bacteria on the surfaces of young women’s flip flops.

Miren suddenly liked the thought of the hotel footslave having to lick away her foot germs. So what if it made him ill? She wouldn’t be the one doubled up in agony with stomach cramps! Ha! Ha!

For his part, slave Martin, the hotel footslave in question, was simply enjoying the rubbery and plasticky taste of the young Indian female guest’s dirty, sweat-marked, pale pink flip flop, before he skilfully (in his view) manoeuvred it onto her unwashed, bare left foot.

Miren had deliberately not bathed her feet – or rather had the hotel footslave bathe them – that morning, as Nu-Ying had informed her it would be for the competition-footslave at the Games to wash her dirty feet as part of the public pedicure process. Female contestants were therefore encouraged to arrive with dirty feet so that the slaves had something substantive to work on.

Once her flip flops had been humbly placed on her feet, Miren, still sitting triumphantly on the edge of her luxurious hotel bed, lifted her feet off the floor and swivelled them about in front of the kneeling hotel footslave’s face. Not so much for his benefit - though no doubt he was enraptured by the creases and folds in her soft, Indian footskin as she manipulated her feet so close to his face – but so that she could see for herself the state of her bare feet.

Not bad she thought! A bit dirty and sweaty, perhaps, following the visit to the prison the day before in her heavy socks and boots. Actually, she could still see the tank tracks above her well-turned, bare ankles from the elasticated tops of her navy-blue, ankle length, cartoon print socks!

Her pretty, Indian toenails were also somewhat chipped, and now completely unpainted - with visible traces of dark toejam beneath some of the nails – especially her two big toenails. But other than that, Miren considered that her pretty 23 year old, Indian feet were in quite good nick – a little bit of hard skin at the base of her heels, but otherwise they were delightfully smooth and attractive, soft brown Indian-girl feet.

No sign of the bacteria that the scientific article had assured her was ever present on her feet and footwear. Presumably that was because most of the said bacteria was now deep inside the hotel footslave’s throat!

…………………………………………………………………………………

Nu-Ying, as ever, arrived at the hotel with the minibus bang on time, and the two Asian girls – one Chinese, one Indian – headed excitedly off towards the Female Colosseum near the centre of the Capital.

The Female Colosseum was truly an awesome sight to the female visitor from rural India. It was…erm…colossal! And there was such an expectant buzz about the place – literally thousands of ladies, many accompanied by their personal footslaves who were crawling to heel behind their all-powerful owners and mistresses.

Miren looked on with some jealousy! Why couldn’t she be a slave-owning mistress in the Gynarchy – served by her own personal footslave?!

Mind you, there were plenty of eager, public footslaves touting for business amongst the feminine throngs outside the Colosseum – most of them apparently being controlled by young gypsy-mistresses who kept them on a tight leash:

‘Fancy having your feet licked, darling?’ one such gypsy-mistress asked Miren as she and Nu-Ying made their way through the crowds towards the entrance to the Colosseum.

Miren noticed that the young gypsy-woman - who was dressed in a brightly-coloured, traditional headscarf and an equally garish and brightly-coloured, full length dress – had particularly dirty, bare feet inside her flat, brown, strappy leather sandals.

She would make an excellent contestant for the pedicure-competition, thought Miren to herself!

She then noticed how the poor, middle-aged, public footslave kneeling at the young gypsy-woman’s smelly feet - whose footslave-services were now, apparently, being offered to her – had a very raw and sore-looking, red stripe around his neck where the gypsy-woman’s chain had been continuously pulling on him.

Miren couldn’t help laughing at his discomfort and, instinctively, was about to position her pink flip-flopped, right foot under the kneeling footslave’s mouth for the beast to lick, when Nu-Ying quickly intervened to stop her.

Nu-Ying then politely explained why to the gypsy-woman:

‘No thank you – miss. Miren guest of honour at Games – she have dirty feet licked and pedicured by prisoner-slave in pedicure competition. We not want Miren feet clean before competition. Authorities say feet must be dirty!’

The young gypsy woman, though disappointed that her palm would not, on this occasion, be crossed with silver, appeared to understand. She merely smiled at Nu-Ying and Miren:

‘That’s okay, my lovelies!’, and with a sharp tug on the metal chain in her leathery-calloused, gypsy-woman hands she promptly pulled her kneeling footslave’s head away from the Indian guest of honour’s feet.

Miren laughed as the slave winced, and thanked Nu-Ying for saving her feet from his overly-eager tongue!

If the outside of the Female Colosseum was impressive, inside the arena was truly breathtaking. Row upon row of all-female seating surrounding the central stage in the middle of the vast arena – a stage consisting of a wooden platform.

As Miren and Nu-Ying entered the stadium a slave chariot-race was under way, with male slaves on their hands and knees desperately trying to carry their jockey-mistresses at full speed around the track. Miren was gratified to see at least one of the pony-slaves collapse with exhaustion under the weight of his mistress. He was then revived, and whipped, for the delectation of the unforgiving and baying, female crowd – of which Miren and Nu-Ying were now a part.

Soon afterwards, however, a female games official – a student-girl dressed in a white robe resembling a ‘stola’ worn by women in Ancient Rome – escorted Miren out of her seat and up onto the central stage in the arena. She was invited to sit on the stage alongside the other female guests of honour – all foreign women like Miren – in a row of chairs, their unwashed and as yet unpedicured feet all resting on the ground in an array of flip-flops and feminine leather sandals.

Miren received a warm round of applause from the thousands of female spectators in the stadium as she was introduced over the tannoy as ‘Miss Miren from India – winner of this year’s YLCCB international essay competition, and honorary graduate of the Gynarchy!’

She felt so proud! She had come so far from her humble roots in Gujarat!

A few minutes later the criminal slaves who would be competing for their ‘freedom’ at the honoured female guests’ feet crawled up onto the stage. Miren’s heart skipped a beat as one of the semi-naked, male prisoners was positioned by his knee-length booted, female guard on his hands and knees in front of her pretty-in-pink, flip-flopped feet.

He was an attractive looking animal! Not quite in the same league as the bronzed and muscular grindstone-slave back in the Footslave Themepark – but pleasing to the eye nonetheless; early thirties perhaps; blond hair (like the grindstone-slave!); slim torso; nice abs!

Miren instantly fell in love with him – in the sense that she wanted him as her own personal footslave!

She licked her lips.

…………………………………………………………………………….

Slave Angelos – the convicted sock-thief – was equally impressed by the Indian feet he was about to serve. Such significant and important feet in his life – the possible keys to his relative freedom!

As his head hovered humbly over the stranger Indian-girl’s feet he realised that the goddesses were with him, and that he, effectively, had a head-start! The feet he was about to clean and pedicure were already lovely – just a few little blemishes here and there; some hard skin at the back on the heels; some traces of sweet, feminine toejam beneath the dusky, Indian maiden’s feet!

Nothing he couldn’t – and wouldn’t – handle!

The mistress appeared to be nice also – and not just nice looking; he could somehow sense that she liked him. He was getting positive vibes from the young Indian woman who was seated so imperiously above him.

His heart, like hers, skipped a beat – he might actually be in with a chance of wining his freedom from the terrible foothole-dungeon. He might live to see the light of day again – and not just today!

As was customary for a competition slave, he respectfully kissed the feet of his potential female saviour, and verbally blessed and worshipped her:

‘God bless you mistress. This slave is truly honoured to serve at your superior feet, if it is so pleasing to you most beautiful and respected, Indian mistress.'

Miren giggled and blushed. Yes - this was the footslave for her!

………………………………………………………………………….

The competition proper began with the respectful removal of the ladies’ footwear by their respective prisoner-slaves (an easy task for slave Angelos given that his mistress was wearing pale pink flip flops) and the subsequent cleaning of the mistresses’ bare feet.

Each competition-slave had a bowl of water and a towel with which to publicly wash and dry his female contestant’s feet, but, of course, this being the Gynarchy, the slaves were first required to pre-clean their superior contestant-mistresses’ feet inside their slave mouths.

The sockthief Angelos had a big mouth – part of the reason he had been sentenced to life in the foothole for such a, relatively minor, first offence, as he had actually sworn at the good lady judge in court! (That was all before he had been broken and reformed by the female prison guards in the foothole dungeons, of course! He was now quite submissive and contrite in the presence of superior women.)

Be that as it may, his big mouth now served him, and Miren’s feet, very well as he was able to totally engorge Miren’s pretty feet – albeit only one at a time – inside his big, ugly, footslave mouth.

He looked funny as Miren’s toes stretched out his cheek from the inside, but the effect of being able to get her whole, admittedly petite, foot inside his mouth in one go was that he was able to give each dirty, unwashed foot a damn good sucking!

In fact, Miren’s feet had hardly needed to be washed in the bowl of water following slave Angelos’s highly effective mouth-bath for her feet. When each Indian foot emerged from his mouth most of the black toejam had already disappeared from beneath miss Miren’s Indian toenails, and her feet glistened like sparkling diamonds in the bright sunlight.

Even the hard skin on the backs of her heels felt softened.

Of course, none of this meant that slave Angelos was excused from washing the Indian mistress’s feet in the bowl of lukewarm water. Such a highly visible act of humility and contrition makes for a wonderful, public spectacle for the baying crowds of female spectators, and besides, Miren was in seventh foot-heaven as she closed her eyes and felt slave Angelos gently massaging her freshly sucked feet with his masculine fingers inside the refreshing bowl of lukewarm footwater.

He would make a truly excellent foot-masseur, she thought to herself.

In her mind, he already was her own personal, permanent foot-masseur!

Even his drying of her feet in the fluffy, white towel sent her into paroxysms of mistressly delight. He almost seemed to be making love to her feet - caressing them, protecting them!

Miren wondered what this seemingly gentle, handsome footslave had done to end up in prison for life? At that moment, she felt that she personally could forgive him just about anything – provided he submitted to her will and her feet!

The next stage of the public pedicure was the removal of any unsightly hard skin from the ladies’ feet by means of a pumice stone. Experience shows that many slaves tend to come a cropper at this stage of the proceedings – as they inadvertently hurt their mistresses’ feet by rubbing too hard!

Not slave Angelos, however. A more gentle foot-rubbing with a pumice stone had never been delivered to a superior mistress’s feet! Miren watched transfixed as ‘her’ slave first respectfully gathered up her foot-filings from the backs of her heels in his manly hands and then gallantly disposed of the little shards of dead footskin by taking them in his footslave-mouth.

He was actually swallowing her dead footskin! A part of her feet was now, effectively, inside his slave-stomach!

The thought tickled Miren’s fancy, even though slave Angelos was much too adept a footslave to inadvertently tickle his mistress’s expertly pumiced feet!

Finally, came the filing and varnishing of the competition-mistresses’ toenails.

Slave Angelos expertly nibbled at the top of each of Miren’s pretty, feminine toenails in turn – removing and swallowing any uneven pieces of Indian-girl toenail. He then gently inserted some spongy, white toe-dividers in between each of her pretty, brown toes prior to choosing and applying some pale pink toenail-varnish to each of her delicate Indian toenails using a tiny brush that he held between his teeth.

Angelos was clearly a good toenail painter and decorator – for not a single smudge of pink toenail paint ended up on Miren’s bare, brown toeskin!

As he subsequently breathed on her toenails in order to dry the pink paint with his footslave-breath, Miren thought that her pretty, Indian feet had never before looked so good.

She was pleased – so pleased that she even helped slave Angelos to slip her pale pink flip-flops back onto her feet by raising each foot, in turn, ever so slightly off the floor of the podium; something she would never have dreamt of doing for the ugly, middle-aged, hotel footslave back in her hotel bedroom.

She was genuinely impressed by slave Angelos’s efforts on her feet – and wanted to whip him. She thought his bare and exposed back was just crying out for the female whip!

Her flip-flop-clad feet now looked so beautiful! Surely she must have won the competition?

She did, and slave Angelos was informed by the female, competition judges that he would be released forthwith from his bondage in the foothole-dungeon, and installed instead as a public footslave in the central town square.

He sobbed with relief and gratitude over miss Miren’s feet.

She, for her part, was pleased for him – and yet simultaneously disappointed for herself! For although she received a commemorative gold medal in recognition of her part in winning the pedicure competition, the only prize she would really have liked would have been slave Angelos himself – as her personal footslave!

If truth be told, Angelos could hardly bare to be parted from the Indian mistress’s bare feet either. He wasn’t, actually, much of a ‘bare foot’ slaveman; he was much more of a ‘sock’ slave by nature – hence his crime of sock theft that had led to him ending up in so much trouble! But this young Indian woman’s bare feet were just so nice and so pretty, he had effectively fallen in love with them!

And besides, it had not escaped his attention that there were some delightful, tell-tale little socktracks still faintly visible above the young Indian woman’s shapely, brown ankles – a strong indication that she was not averse to wearing socks!

But of course, cruel circumstance dictated that these two young people were dreaming the impossible. Slave Angelos could never be Miren’s personal foot-servant. That would have been totally impractical – mainly because she was due to fly home to India early the following morning; but also because he would be remaining the property of the State – released from prison, yes; but still a publicly-owned footslave!

………………………………………………………………………………….

Later that same evening, and in spite of her planned early departure back to India the following morning, Miren went out clubbing in one of the Gynarchy’s nightclubs along with her tour guide, and now good friend, the Chinese girl - miss Nu-Ying.

It gave Miren, at long last, the chance to wear her strappy, high-heeled, gold-coloured sandals. How else would a girl wish to show off her freshly-pedicured feet to best effect?!

It was a Chinese-owned nightclub that came, perhaps unsurprisingly, with another personal recommendation from Nu-Ying herself, and, as she danced the night away in her golden, stiletto-heeled sandals and matching gold-coloured, sparkly party dress – Miren found herself wishing that slave Angelos could be tied up, on his hands and knees, at her feet, watching their every move and ensuring that his handiwork remained intact by quickly wiping away any build-up of sweat from her bare, pedicured feet with his eager footslave-tongue.

But he wasn’t there, of course. He was in fact, at that moment in time, in the process of being installed in his new, ‘stand-up’ public footbooth in the town square – ready for lots of other women to utilise his footslave-tongue services by positioning their dirty shoes and boots onto the wooden footblock beneath his kneeling footslave-face.

The very thought of it piqued Miren! She wanted slave Angelos all to herself; to take him back to India with her. And she sensed that he wished for the same!

Even a visit to the humble nightclub-footslave (who was – amusingly, given that he was white and not Chinese - apparently called slave ‘Shiu-Lick’!) down in the basement of the nightclub next to the female toilets, could not take Miren’s mind off her beloved slave Angelos. She felt nothing but disdain for the nightclub footslave as he dared to kiss slave Angelos’ s expert handiwork. As far as Miren was concerned only slave Angelos’s own lips should henceforth be permitted to pay homage to her feet, since he had been the one to create their current beauty!

Nu-Ying could tell that something was up – that Miren was unhappy.

She found a quiet corner of the nightclub and asked her what was wrong:

‘Miren okay? Not feel well? Want to go back to hotel?’

Miren looked wistfully at her new best friend as they sat side by side in a corner of the club, and started sobbing:

‘Oh Nu-Ying, it is just that I am no longer wishing to be leaving the Gynarchy, isn’t it? I am being feeling so much at home here now – even after only one week! I am wishing that I did not have to be going back to India tomorrow, and could be remaining here in this wonderful country!’

Nu-Ying smiled a reassuring smile and put her arm around Miren’s sobbing shoulder:

‘You not have to go back to India if not want to! Why you not do like me – and ask for female asylum here? You go to Female Police Station and ask for asylum. They give you house and money and let you stay here - for you a superior, young woman! Gynarchy need young women like you!’

Miren stopped sobbing. Of course! Female asylum! Why not? She could claim female asylum!

She knew all about it, after all. She had included a whole chapter on the subject which she had downloaded from the internet and then cut and pasted into her plagiarised, winning essay!

……………………………………………………………………………….


Epilogue

Miren did indeed go to the Female Police station in order to claim female asylum in the Gynarchy that very night.

And it was granted – that very night, for she was a beautiful, young woman and therefore qualified for asylum; no questions asked!

The next morning, instead of catching her flight back to India – and back to her Indian fiancé, Ravi – she went directly to the town square in order to find slave Angelos, the new public footslave, and tell him the good news. She would be staying in the Gynarchy and would be able to visit him every day! Who knows, she might even be able to buy him from the authorities one day, and keep him as her own, personal footslave-pet!

But she was suddenly stopped in her tracks as she entered the town square. She saw Angelos alright – but he was with another woman, gaily tongue-shining and polishing the footwear of another young woman; a blonde, wearing brown, leather, zip up ankle boots just like hers!

Slave Angelos appeared to be enjoying it too, as he was well and truly lapping up the strange girl’s boot!

Miren was fuming! How could he? He was supposed to be her slave!

As soon as the blonde girl had left, Miren – still wearing her sparkly-golden, high-heeled sandals on her pink-pedicured Indian feet, stormed over to slave Angelos’s new public footbooth.

Brimming with rage, she spat down on the top of his head and placed her pretty, sandalled foot directly onto the wooden footblock under his disloyal nose.

The startled slave Angelos instantly recognised his handiwork, but just as he was about to lower his lips to the angry, young Indian Mistress’s bare, pink-painted toes, the foot was unceremoniously withdrawn from underneath his face:

‘Take a good look at what you will be missing, dirty, worthless slave! Dirty foot-whore! Foot-pig!’ screamed the angry young Indian woman.

And with that she turned on her pretty heels and stormed off, leaving slave Angelos wondering just what he had done to upset the love of his life.

Two days later he was back in his foothole-dungeon, as Miren had informed the organisers of the Games that , on closer inspection and in all conscience, her feet had not been sufficiently well pedicured by the prisoner-slave to merit winning the competition. She gallantly and magnanimously handed back her medal, and the prize of freedom for the best pedicure-slave was awarded instead to the runner-up.

Miren never did visit slave Angelos in his foothole dungeon. She had no need to, for she was given an even better-looking personal footslave by the State authorities completely free of charge as part of her reward for claiming asylum in the Gynarchy.

She therefore forgot all about slave Angelos, and rightly so, just as she forgot all about her erstwhile fiancé Ravi back in faraway India!

For Miren had moved onwards and upwards, and by all accounts she lived happily ever after in the Gynarchy of Barbaria.

Slave Angelos, if anyone cares or is interested, lived miserably ever after, alone in his footslave dungeon, with only his female guards’ black leather boots for company.

The End