Black Gynarchy Household
There exists, off the south coast of the mainland, an offshoot of the Gynarchy – an island satellite State, if you will, known as the ‘Black Gynarchy’.
It is populated by mainly African-Caribbean mistresses. There are a few non-black resident mistresses, and they are made to feel very welcome indeed by the Black Gynarchy authorities. Plus, of course, there are frequent non-black mistress tourists and visitors to the Black Gynarchy. But the vast majority of the ruling, female population of the Black Gynarchy are, naturally enough, black; black, and rightly proud of it!
Nearly all the free men living in the Black Gynarchy are also black and of African-Caribbean descent. They enjoy a fairly privileged lifestyle, for males, as they are regarded as second class citizens – which might sound disparaging and degrading until you remember that they are at least not third class citizens: the pitiful underclass of male slaves who inhabit the Black Gynarchy.
Those male slaves are the only truly multiethnic group in the Black Gynarchy – they can be black, white, Latino or Asian; it doesn’t matter what the colour of their skin is since they were born to serve, unlike the black free males who can even be regarded as the nominal head of a Black Gynarchy household, if the black women of the household – the real power behind the throne – are content with that!
Master Luther – the nominal head of one such happy household – is introducing the new household-footslave to his Black Gynarchy family; all four of them; all women; all black; and all beautiful, in their own ways.
The said footslave, 25 year old slave Marcus, who happens to be white, but who right now could equally be described as green about the gills, is kneeling nervously in the middle of the living room floor, waiting to be introduced to each of the four dominant-looking, black females in turn.
The master himself is a strong and powerfully-built looking man, even though he has greying hair and must be in his early sixties. He too, like the 4 black women, is specifically of Jamaican origins, and speaks with a Caribbean twang:
‘Hja! Hja! Yeah man, you is now gonna kiss the feet of each of my woman in turn, starting with my beautiful wife, Pearl. Hja! Hja! Yeah man – that’s “mistress Pearl” to you, bwoy! Hja! Hja! You kiss her feet right here and now, bwoy, for you is gonna obey she, and do her bidding at all times, you get me bwoy? She own you, bwoy! Hja! Hja! She your master. Hja! Hja! You’d better be crawlin’ forward on your hands and knees and showin’ her foot some respect right now, ‘fore I beats you, you get me slave-bwoy?’
Master Luther is fingering a black leather, single-tailed slave-whip, so slave Marcus is keen to obey his new master:
‘Yes master Luther sir. At once, master Luther sir!’
The white slaveman nervously shuffles forward on his hands and knees towards the indicated black woman, mistress Pearl, keeping his head suitably low and bowed in the presence of such all-pervading, black-female power and beauty.
Meanwhile the said mistress Pearl, who looks to be slightly younger than her husband – late fifties perhaps, though it’s hard to tell due to her obviously dyed-black, beehive hairstyle – smiles wryly to herself and stretches forward her still shapely, African-Caribbean, right leg on the living room carpet for the new family footslave to crawl forward and kiss on the foot. The other 3 black women, all younger, smile also; for they know their turn to have their feet kissed is coming soon.
Mistress Pearl is wearing a suitably modest, black cotton, knee-length skirt, with sheer, dark nylons and low-heeled, patent black leather, court shoes on her middle-aged legs and feet. The thin, nylon material on her now outstretched right foot is creased somewhat around the ankle as slave Marcus humbly lowers his face towards the toe of her shiny, black, court shoe and kisses it .
In his nervousness, his stiff upper lip inadvertently brushes against part of the dark nylon material of the Caribbean, black mistress’s black stocking. The woman’s husband notices this mistake, and immediately offers to discipline the incompetent slave:
‘Hja! Hja! Does you want me to whup him, Pearl darling? Did his dirty lip touch yoh nice, clean stocking, honey?’
The terrifying-looking, black leather, household slave-whip is unfurled and made ready for action. Slave Marcus readies himself for pain. But mistress Pearl, it seems, is a merciful woman – conscious of the natural nervousness of a new slave-boy being introduced to his all-powerful, black mistress for the first time:
‘Hja! Hja! It’s alright, Luther…let the bwoy be. He’ll soon learn. Hja! Hja! There’ll be plenty of times for you to cut him up good with the whup!’
All the black women in the room snigger, although master Luther appears somewhat disappointed as he recoils the whip in his elderly, wizened hands.
Meanwhile his wife, the true head of this Black Gynarchy household, has just replaced her right foot with her left beneath the new footslave’s kneeling nose. He doesn’t need any verbal instruction this time to pay homage to the middle-aged black woman’s imperiously outstretched foot – for he genuinely feels slavish gratitude towards her. She has, after all, spared him the agonizing sting of the whip with her pearl of wisdom!
He kisses the shiny patent leather toe of her smart, black shoe, taking great care this time not to make the same mistake of brushing his upper lip against the forbidden nylon stocking. For mistress Pearl’s indulgence and mercy must surely be limited. He was allowed one mistake, but that allowance is now utilised. Any further mistakes will most assuredly be met with the sting of master Luther’s eager whip!
Slave Marcus notices that yet again the mistress’s finest-denier, dark nylon stocking is ever so slightly creased, in three places this time, all around her shapely Caribbean anklebone due to the peremptorily outstretched positioning of her foot. It is a humbling sight, unremarked by the free human-beings in the room – his five, black masters.
Having had both her shoes, and part of one of her stockings, submissively kissed, mistress Pearl withdraws her feet from the footslave’s presence, and master Luther steers him by means of a sharp kick to his backside towards the next female in the black family hierarchy – a younger woman in her early to mid forties. She too has jet-black hair, but straight and shoulder-length, and apparently undyed. Like the older woman before her she looks extremely fit for her age – slim; tall; pretty. She is casually dressed in a white T shirt, blue denim jeans, and plain, black ballet flats on her otherwise bare, black feet:
‘Hja! Hja! And this be my daughter-in-law, miss Donna, slave-bwoy. You be she slave also. Hja! Hja! Kiss her feet, bwoy; kiss she on the shoe!’
As slave Marcus, the slave of black feet, obediently lowers his lips to the outstretched, right foot of the next generation of black female in the family, he observes a couple of prominent veins running along the top of the beautiful, forty-something, black woman’s foot. The veins seem to twitch in eager anticipation of his act of self-deprecating homage towards the black-female foot, but slave Marcus is ultra-careful not to let his upper lip inadvertently stray onto bare, black footflesh.
Kissing black-female, nylon stocking without permission is one thing; but allowing one’s lips to brush against bare, black skin without permission would be quite another. It would be sure to earn him his stripes! He therefore studiously ensures that both his lips make exclusive contact with the somewhat musty-smelling, soft and creased, black leather of the rounded toe-area of the younger mistress’s ballet-flat shoe.
He hears a little whimper of black, feminine pride and satisfaction at his act of humble obeisance as mistress Donna then promptly withdraws her musty-smelling, soft-shoe leather from beneath his nose, only to replace it with her left shoe.
Slave Marcus repeats his act of slavish respect for the newly-introduced, black woman’s ballet shoe.
‘Is you satisfied, my dear?’ asks master Luther of his daughter-in-law, once again fingering his whip, seemingly ever-anxious to employ it across the keeling slave’s naked back.
‘Hmm…it’ll do for now,’ responds the mistress Donna.
Slave Marcus breathes another sigh of relief. But his relief can only be temporary, for there are two other superior, black women in this room, waiting impatiently to have their feet kissed by the new family footslave!
Master Luther next introduces him to the feet and footwear of the older of the two remaining girls – who looks to be in her early twenties:
‘Hja! Hja! And this here is my beloved granddaughter, miss Cantrice, slave-bwoy. Man, you is gonna show she some respect, or I is gonna cut open your back wit’ this whup! You hear me, bwoy?’
‘Yes master sir. I hear you master sir. Please don’t beat me master sir!’
Slave Marcus is determined to do his footslavish utmost not to fall foul of the black master’s Lutheran doctrine of the efficacy and corrective power of the whip! He does not protest, but instead anxiously shuffles forwards on his hands and knees towards the divine mistress Cantrice’s feet.
Now this African-Caribbean girl really is a stunner! She has clearly inherited all the black beauty-genes from her mother, mistress Donna. But she is also very much in her physical prime – at the peak of her young-womanly attractiveness, and she clearly knows it, for she is coyly twiddling with her shoulder-length, black permed hair, and nonchalantly chewing gum, as she languorously stretches forward her right foot onto the living room carpet directly beneath the kneeling footslave’s face.
Miss Cantrice is wearing tight fitting, light-grey, cotton leggings beneath a short, yellow skirt – leggings which are tucked into a pair of luminous-yellow, thick woollen, calf-length socks, and stylish, spike-heeled, black leather, zip-up, calf-length boots with pointy toes. The metal zipper temporarily flaps against the side of her right boot as the beautiful, young black woman steadies her fashionable boot on its spiked heel beneath the kneeling, family-footslave’s face.
It is truly an honour for slave Marcus to kiss such a boot – the boot of a stylishly-dressed and nonchalant, gum-chewing, young black woman – and he knows it. Mistress Cantrice knows it too, even though she remains silent, apart from the constant slapping noise she makes chewing on her bubble-gum.
Master Luther speaks out, however:
‘Hja! Hja! That right – slave-bwoy! Kiss my granddaughter’s boots! Hja! Hja! Show respect for she. Show respect for yoh betters! Hja! Hja!’
As he kisses the pointy toe of miss Cantrice’s other black leather boot, slave Marcus is acutely conscious of how even the young woman’s calf-length bootsock seems to tower imperiously above him – a scrunched-up, black girl’s, bright yellow bootsock towering over him above the upper rim of her boot, adorning her shapely calf-muscle, and looming large in his peripheral field of vision as he pays humble homage to her lower boot. Secretly, he has high hopes of one day getting to kiss and sniff that bright yellow, luminous bootsock, from top to bottom, if he behaves himself and is pleasing to his mistress Cantrice!
The girl, however, seems singularly unimpressed with his boot-kissing efforts:
‘Whup him, Pops! He’s not showing me enough respeck though, innit? Look how he’s a-slobberin’ all over my nice, clean boot, an’ that! He’s a disgustin’ pig though, innit?’
Master Luther, at last, has his opportunity to apply the whip! For even though he is, as we have already established, the nominal head of this Black Gynarchy household, being male he still needs explicit, female permission to apply the whip – even that of his granddaughter will do – to the bare back of a dirty slave. At least, here in the Black Gynarchy he does!
‘Hja! Hja! Yeah man! Stand back, Cantrice darling. I doesn’t want you gettin’ hurt none! Hja! Hja!’
Miss Cantrice, still chewing noisily on her gum, lazily steps away from the slave so that she won’t inadvertently get hurt by the whip which she has ordered her grandfather to bring down on the kneeling footslave’s back. She still involuntarily flinches, however, at the sound of the whip cracking painfully across the kneeling slave’s bare shoulders. It’s rare for a young black woman to be standing quite so close to the business-end of a whip here in the Black Gynarchy!
Not that the sight of the footslave’s emerging, painful red stripe unduly upsets her. Quite the opposite! Hja! Hja! She wasn’t the one getting hurt, after all – only the slave was suffering; and at her behest! Hja! Hja!
And so it is with a now stinging back that slave Marcus is introduced to the final female in the room – the youngest; she looks to be no more than 18 or 19. And somewhat incongruously she is the dowdiest-looking of all the magnificent women of colour in the room – straggly, black hair tied up in a bun; thick, black horn-rimmed glasses; baggy, beige-coloured combat trousers; and a rather tatty and scruffy-looking pair of plain black, lace-up sneakers. A typical, nerdy student-girl you might say – home from university; intelligent looking – but scruffy with it!
When she extends her best foot forward, however, slave Marcus is immediately enamoured by her, for beneath the frayed hem of her beige, combat trouser-leg he espies the elasticated rim of a fetching, low-cut, bright purple sneaker-sock. Suddenly this dowdy young woman is transformed in his pathetic footslave-eyes into a veritable sock-goddess. A black, student-girl sock goddess. And the bright purple sock contrasts so sweetly with her soft, brown, wheatish ankleskin.
‘Hja! Hja! And this be my step granddaughter, miss Libby, slave-bwoy. Man she be the apple of my eye – so you be sure an’ show her proper respect, bwoy, or you’ll soon be feelin’ more o’ this! Hja! Hja!’
And with that master Luther gleefully swishes the single-tailed, black leather whip just inches above the kneeling slave’s back so that the latter can feel the whoosh of displaced air across his still burning, freshly-made stripe.
‘Yes master sir. At once master sir!’
Slave Marcus quickly lowers his lips to the scuff-marked and flaky toe of miss Libby’s outstretched, plain black sneaker, though if truth be told he would much rather be kissing the elasticated top of that bright purple sneaker sock. Master Luther’s step-granddaughter! She certainly looks quite different from the other women of the household – conventionally plainer; paler-skinned; podgier; and yet immensely prettier to the humble, white footslave – precisely because of her choice of bright purple sockwear!
The young, bespectacled, mixed-race woman is clearly completely different in her character and personality from the other women of the household also. She shouts excitedly in a relatively plummy, English accent whilst slave Marcus kisses her scruffy, black sneakers and admires the tops of her equally mundane, purple sneaker-socks:
‘Ha! Ha! This is so cool! Our very own footslave! Ha! Ha! I bags first use of him, granddad!’
‘Erm… not so fast, sista! I think you’ll find that I needs to use him first!...’ interjects miss Cantrice, still twiddling with her permed locks. ‘…My pink wellies is still mingin' an’ that from the festival, innit? They’re, like, covered in mud, or somefink? I needs the slave-bwoy to lick them clean though, innit?’
Miss Libby, it seems, is having none of it:
‘Well, they’ll just have to wait, Cantrice! My feet are hot and sweaty and I need him to wash them for me!’
‘Erm…I think you’ll find that my wellies is more important than your stinky feet, sista! Ain’t that right, Pops?’
Master Luther, the grey-haired, Caribbean man, just laughs:
‘Hja! Hja! Now now, girls! Stop all that fightin’ and arguin’, yeah? There’ll be plenty of time for you both to use the slave-bwoy!’
‘Too right!’ adds mistress Pearl. ‘Libby – you can use him to wash yoh feet first, but then send him straight over to Cantrice so that he can tongue-shine her dirty Wellingtons too, yeah?’
‘Ha! Ha! Cool!’ exclaims miss Libby triumphantly. Miss Cantrice just holds out her black hand and moves her pretty neck from side to side in an expression of disapproval with the matriarch’s decision:
‘Whatever!’ she sneers through her gum-flavoured breath.
Slave Marcus is flattered – two young black women, one über-attractive with calf-length yellow bootsocks, and one quite plain with short, purple sneaker-socks, actually fighting over him! And the dowdier goddess with the purple socks has won! He was quite pleased with the outcome, as he was now very much looking forward to touching miss Libby’s socks as he respectfully peeled them off in order to wash her ‘hot and sweaty’ student-girl feet – though the beautiful miss Cantrice’s as yet unseen, muddy, rubber wellingtons would make for nice afters!
‘Follow me, slave!’ barks the bespectacled miss Libby as she exits the living room and starts climbing the stairs up towards her bedroom. Slave Marcus follows her to heel – to purple-socked, black-sneakered heel.
On arrival in her bedroom miss Libby sits down on the edge of her bed and orders the slave to kneel with his head bowed humbly over her sneakered feet:
‘My name is Libby, slave. But you can call me mistress Elizabeth, yeah?’
‘Yes, mistress Elizabeth.’
Slave Marcus was in no position to argue – being on his hands and knees with a red-striped back in front of such a well-educated and articulate, young black woman.
Mistress Libby laughed at his unquestioning obedience:
‘Ha! Ha! Good boy – now just continue to obey everything I say and I’m sure we’ll get along just fine! You’re going to start by taking off my sneakers and socks and washing my bare feet. Crawl over there to my ensuite bathroom and fetch a bowl of warm water and a towel. Come on – chop! chop!’
She claps her hands to spur the footslave on.
Slave Marcus turns away from her sneakers and socks and towards the ensuite bathroom, where he soon finds the porcelain footbowl and fills it with lukewarm water before crawling awkwardly back to his new black mistress’s feet, a white, fluffy foot-towel draped over his free arm.
‘Ha! Ha! That’s right, slave…now place the bowl of water and the towel down here on the floor beside my feet, and untie my laces.’
‘Yes mistress Elizabeth. At once, black mistress Elizabeth.’
Slave Marcus is glad the young, bespectacled, black woman has elected not to remove her own shoes and socks as he is very much looking forward to touching those soft, cotton, purple sneaker-socks with his own hands. But first he must remove the podgy black girl’s tatty, black sneakers.
She watches him intently from on high as he fumbles nervously with the laces on her right sneaker:
‘Tch! Butterfingers!’ she exclaims somewhat impatiently. ‘Haven’t you ever untied a black girl’s shoelaces before?’
It’s a wounding comment – designed to hurt. Slave Marcus is a fully qualified graduate of the Footslave Training Academy back on the mainland; not some mere college fresher like miss Libby – sorry, miss Elizabeth! Of course he has untied a black woman’s shoelaces before; indeed, he has previously untied the shoe and boot laces of many different women from various ethnic backgrounds!
It’s just that this all-powerful, young black woman’s beautiful, purple sneaker-socks are making him nervous – and he is about to see her right sock in all its purplish glory!
He is not disappointed when the scruffy, black, student-girl sneaker comes off with a whoosh of warm, stale, black-girl footair – for the sock is well-bobbled and sneaker-stained all along the instep; bobbled as a result of repeated wear on her black feet, and stained by the grey, inner lining of the young, undergraduate woman’s well-worn sneaker!
What’s more he can smell the short, purple sock – and it smells of cotton and moist girlfoot-perspiration. It will be damp to the touch! He can hardly wait! But first there is the small matter of untying, and removing her left sneaker.
The left sock, when it is revealed, looks even more enticing, as it has slipped somewhat off the end of miss Libby’s toes and now barely covers her heelbone at the back of her shapely, mixed-race foot.
She is an observant girl, through her thick, horn-rimmed spectacles, and laughs at her new footslave’s evident rapture at the sight of her humble, common-or-garden, purple sneaker socks:
‘Ha! Ha! Do you like my dirty socks, slave? Would you like to kiss them? Ha! Ha!’
‘Oh yes mistress. Oh pray mistress Elizabeth! Truly this slave would be honoured to kiss the mistress’s socks, if it would be so pleasing to you, black mistress Elizabeth?’
Mistress Elizabeth continues to laugh out loud at him – pathetic footslave that he is:
‘Ha! Ha! Well – get on with it then, slave! We haven’t got all day, and the footwater will be getting cold!’
‘Yes mistress Elizabeth! At once, black mistress Elizabeth!’
What a sweet and kind girl this is – letting him kiss her sweaty, purple sneaker-socks whilst she is still wearing them! Not at all like her elder sister, miss Cantrice, who had teased him with her bright yellow socks but then so cruelly had him whipped!
He made straight for miss Libby’s sweaty, sneaker-stained sock-instep on her right foot, and made sure to breathe in that which he was kissing – stinky, purple girlsock!
‘Ha! Ha! That tickles, slave! Stop that now, and take off my socks. I want you to wash my feet! They’ve been getting all hot and sweaty inside my sneakers.’
You’re not kidding, black mistress, thought slave Marcus to himself, though he was actually quite enjoying the pungent aroma of miss Libby’s feet through the soft, cotton material of her socks. At least the socks smelt ‘lived in’!
The short, female socks looked so crumpled and forlorn as he laid them on the floor beside the divested sneakers, but his duty was now to concentrate on miss Elizabeth’s bare, wheatish-brown feet. They felt slippy in his hands – slippy and moist with sweat. He was gratified also to note that her toenails were chipped and unpainted, and even had little black ridges of toejam beneath the cuticles. It must have been a while since she last showered or bathed her feet.
Dowdy, black girl, black toejam. Could life get any better than this?
Well – yes it could, if only mistress Elizabeth would order him to suck the toejam out of her unwashed toenails! But, sadly, she didn’t. Instead, the closest he got to her toejam was when he gently extracted it with his fingers whilst kneading her bare, brown feet inside the lukewarm water of the black girl’s footbowl. He observed how the little pieces of sweet feminine toejam floated in the increasingly cloudy footwater.
He began to feel thirsty.
But the mistress/slave footwashing session was suddenly interrupted by the piercing sound of miss Cantrice’s, Caribbean-accented voice coming violently up the stairs:
‘LIBS! LIBS! WHERE’S MY SLAVE? I NEEDS HIM RIGHT NOW, INNIT?’
Her slave? Slave Marcus felt somewhat aggrieved, though he had no business feeling aggrieved, given that he was just a slave. Nevertheless, had master Luther not made it perfectly clear that he was the shared footslave of all the black women in this household? What gave miss Cantrice the right to claim him as her own, personal footwear-slave?
Perhaps the mark of her whip on his back, so gallantly placed there on her behalf by her grandfather, master Luther, gave her such a right?
‘JUST A MINUTE, CANTRICE! WE’VE NEARLY FINISHED UP HERE. GOD, JUST BE PATIENT, CAN’T YOU?’ shouts miss Libby, equally impatiently, in reply.
She then lowers her voice to whisper to the humble slave at her feet:
‘You wanna watch my step-sister, slave. She’s a bit thick, and she can be very cruel. That whip mark on your back is just the beginning! But don’t you worry none – I’ll look out for you and protect you, so long as you do everything I say! Understood?’
‘Yes mistress Elizabeth. Thank you mistress Elizabeth. God bless you sweet and kind, black mistress Elizabeth!’
Slave Marcus was comforted by the thought that this chubby, bespectacled young woman was going to be his protector – his protector from the whip! He was to be the beneficiary of her step-sibling rivalry with the much more pretty miss Candice!
‘Ha! Ha! Very well – you may dry my feet now, slave, and then put my shoes and socks back on me. Come on! Hurry up!’
‘Yes mistress Elizabeth. At once, black mistress Elizabeth.’
Though he had been ordered to ‘hurry up’, slave Marcus disobediently took some time ensuring that miss Libby’s feet were thoroughly dried by the fluffy, white foot-towel before stretching her still-sweaty purple sneaker-socks back over her freshly-washed feet. For, as the female trainers at the Footslave Training Academy had constantly pointed out, there is nothing worse for a young lady than to experience damp, wet feet inside her socks and shoes. He therefore made damn sure miss Libby’s feet were perfectly dry, even if her purple socks were still damp!
Those short, purple sneaker socks looked even better on her feet with her sneakers back on, since a glimpse of sock top is always much more exciting on a young woman’s foot than full-on sock. But slave Marcus was not permitted to dwell on miss Libby’s socks. He had other work to do:
‘Now you’d better crawl down the stairs towards the kitchen, slave, where my step-sister Cantrice is waiting for you to clean her muddy wellies. Remember what I told you, slave! She can be very cruel and unforgiving – so make sure you do a good job on them!’
‘Yes, mistress Elizabeth! Thank you, most sweet and kind, black mistress Elizabeth. God bless you mistress!’
Slave Marcus somewhat reluctantly left the relative comfort and security of miss Elizabeth’s bedroom, still thirsting after her dirty, student footwater, and her dirty, student socks.
It was time for him to eat however – to eat miss Cantrice’s rubber-boot mud:
‘WHERE HAS YOU BEEN, SLAVE-BWOY? I’S BEEN WAITIN’ HERE FOR AGES, INNIT?’
Miss Cantrice, of course, knows full well where he has been; he’s been washing her nerdy step-sister’s feet up in her bedroom. But he nevertheless owes miss Cantrice an abject apology for keeping her, and her Wellington boots, waiting:
‘Oh pray mistress Cantrice, if it pleases you black mistress Cantrice, this slave apologises to the mistress for his tardiness, but has been washing miss Elizabeth’s feet, if it is so pleasing to you sweet and kind mistress Cantrice. Please don’t have me beaten, black mistress Cantrice, for the whip will fairly scar my back again, mistress!’
A surly miss Cantrice just grunts dismissively, as she is wont to do:
‘Hah! Don’t you go lettin’ that step-sister of mine be exploitin’ you none, slave-bwoy! You is my slave too, remember? I mean, you’re, like, already wearing my mark on your back an’ that, innit slave-bwoy?’
‘Yes mistress Cantrice.’
Miss Cantrice was still wearing her smart, black leather, high-heeled, zip-up, designer, calf-length boots with her thick, luminous-yellow, calf-length bootsocks and grey leggings, so slave Marcus thought it an opportune moment to demonstrate his servitude and loyalty to miss Cantrice by kissing the pointy toes of each of her stylish, black boots once again.
But it was her discarded, bright pink wellies – lying in the corner of the kitchen porch – which miss Cantrice was more interested in. She clicked her teeth and kicked him in the face with the pointy toe of her right boot:
‘Tch! Stop kissin’ my boots and start lickin’ my dirty wellies, slave-bwoy! Lick off all that mud and filfth, an’ that! I wants them lookin’ as good as new, innit? And I don’t even care if you gets sick an’ that through havin’ to lick them, though! Get that sludge down your fat, ugly gob, yeah? And be quick about it, slaveman, yeah?’
‘Yes mistress, Cantrice. At once, beautiful black mistress Cantrice.’
Festival mud she had described it as earlier. Slave Marcus was slightly miffed that he was not able to lick the stale, bitter-tasting mud off miss Cantrice’s pink rubber Wellington boots whilst she was wearing them, but at least he could taste where she had been.
Master Luther, ever alert to the possibility of using his whip, came into the kitchen:
‘Everyting alright, Cantrice dear? Does you want me to whup him again for you, love?’
‘Erm… no thanks, Pops. I think we understands one another now. He seems to be lappin’ up my bootmud, innit?’
Master Luther is disappointed in his granddaughter. What’s the point of being a free man in charge of a slave-whip if you hardly ever get to use it?
The fickle and feeble slave Marcus is increasingly enamoured, however, by the delectable miss Cantrice. Perhaps her scrunched-up, calf-length yellow bootsocks would taste and smell even nicer than miss Libby’s short, purple sneaker-socks? He yearns to find out, and realises he is now spoilt for sock-choice in this footslave paradise that is the Black Gynarchy!
The End
