Kiss...Walk...Whip!
We male prisoners of the Gynarchy call it the ‘Kiss...Walk...Whip!’ punishment – for obvious reasons: we are confined in our isolation cells, tethered barefoot to our individual treadmills, and forced to intermittently kiss the toecaps of our warden-mistresses’ pretty shoes or boots – in between turning the treadmill with our own, bare feet – whilst they sit above us in a comfortable, padded chair, their female feet resting on a metal footplate directly at our exhausted face-level as they crack a thin and painful, leather horse-whip down across our naked and exposed back.
And we must do it every day – for 18 long hours a day!
I’ve been walking the punishment treadmill for nigh-on 25 years now. I am officially detained at my former mistress Suzanna’s pleasure – in other words indefinitely, until such time as she deems me to have been sufficiently punished for my crime of placing mismatched socks on her pretty feet all those unfortunate years ago.
But, to be perfectly honest, I rather think my erstwhile mistress has forgotten all about me by now; she hasn’t bothered to visit me and gloat over me in my abject state of bondage and hard labour in the Gynarchy’s dungeons in over 12 years now – so I fully anticipate spending the rest of my unnatural life walking the treadmill and kissing my female guards’ black boots.
My own bare feet are shot to pieces after 25 years of the ‘Kiss...Walk...Whip!’ Even my lips are raw and chapped, thanks to the amount of female boot and shoe kissing I must undertake every day. And that’s to say nothing of my poor, whip-scarred back, of course!
Please feel free to stay and enjoy watching me hard at work, and I think you’ll understand why this is a place you probably would not wish to end up in, unless you are an inveterate, male masochist like me!
The heavy, metal door to my solitary-confinement, windowless cell creaks open at 06.00 A.M sharp every morning, and the female guard entering the cell will immediately switch on the light. I am already chained up to the treadmill ready to start work, since I must sleep in a standing up position at the treadmill. Just think, I haven’t had a lie down in over twenty years – I eat, drink, sleep, work and get whipped all whilst tethered to my cruel treadmill; and I shall be doing so for the next twenty years (if I live that long), all because my mistress Suzanna has moved on with her superior, female life and forgotten all about me!
Still, I should have been more careful whilst sorting out her socks.
Monotony and routine, as you can imagine, dominate my miserable life down here in this subterranean, hellhole-dungeon. The first thing that will happen of a morning is that I shall be fed, by means of a dollop of tasteless, bland slave-gruel being dumped by a stony-faced, uniformed, female prison-wardress onto the treadmill’s metal footrest on which my seated, female supervisors rest their feet directly in front of my face throughout the long, working day.
It means, of course, that my one meal of the day shall be soiled by the dirt from the soles of my mistress-supervisors’ dirty shoes and boots from the day before, but I’m actually grateful for that – for at least their sweet, feminine bootsole-dirt adds some much needed flavour to the otherwise bland fare.
The main thing is that I must lap up every last morsel of the cruel gruel, as my warden-mistresses won’t want any dirty, maleslave leftovers sullying the soles of their superior, female boots throughout the coming day. Common-or-garden streetdirt they can abide on the bottoms of their boots and shoes – but not leftover, maleslave-gruel!
After I’ve eaten, I get to wash down the bootdirt-flavoured gruel with a cup of stagnant water, held up to my lips by the first warden-mistress of the morning since my own hands and arms are tethered to the sides of the treadmill. I cannot move them – even my neck has limited movement – so the mistress must tip the cup at an angle and effectively pour the stagnant water into my mouth.
It’s normally at this stage that I get to recognise who my first supervisor-mistress of the day actually is. We don’t get to know any of our mistress-wardens very well, since we are forbidden to speak to them, and they to us – apart from some set orders and commands which I’ll come on to in a minute – but we do, of course, get to recognise our female supervisors by sight and by smell, particularly the sight and smell of their individual footwear choices.
They are all uniformed, naturally enough, in Gynarchy, navy-blue, prison officer trouser suits or skirts, but their footwear is optional – providing it is sober and dark in colour, and not too garish; which is a pity since we prisoners could do with a few feminine pastel shades in our female supervisors’ footwear to brighten up our otherwise dreary existences in these dank and dingy isolation cells.
The blonde cracker!
Anyway, this morning as I am force-fed my insipid slave-gruel and tepid water I can see that I am being attended to by beautiful warden-mistress Olga – one of the most popular wardens (amongst her fellow, female wardens, that is, since she never has a bad word to say about anybody – apart from the prisoner-slaves whom she, quite rightly, despises).
Much respected warden-mistress Olga is in her late twenties; slim; blonde-ponytailed; always wearing her smart, navy-blue uniform trousers (never a skirt) and with a fetching pair of black leather, block-heeled, square-toed, lace-up ankle boots.
I am excited by the familiar sight of warden-mistress Olga’s slightly scuffmarked and unkempt, black leather ankleboots, for I know that she can be a bit naughty and rebellious when it comes to the uniform regulations, and she sometimes wears a pair of dark, blue socks with multicoloured polka dots on them! Oh how I love looking at the tops of those non-uniform-regulation, flamboyant, female socks as I am walking the treadmill! They really do brighten up my life, pathetic though that is!
Oh I do hope the rebellious warden-mistress Olga is wearing her bright, spotty socks inside her matt, black ankleboots this morning – but I won’t know for sure, of course, until she climbs up into the seat of supervision above me and hitches up her navy-blue, uniform trouser hems as she rests her anklebooted feet on the metal footrest-cum-dinner-plate in front of my face!
Warden-mistress Olga will sometimes even cheekily reach down and pull up her spotty socks directly in front of my confined, prisoner-face in order to hide her precious, bare, pasty-white legskin from me. How I love watching her do that – especially as I get to see more of the coloured polka-dots on her fully pulled-up socks!
I can hardly bear the anticipation as warden-mistress Olga empties the last remnants of the stale drinking water down my throat and climbs up into the seat of female power above me.
Now is the moment of truth – spotty socks? Or not spotty socks? That is the question!
It’s…SPOTTY SOCKS! YES! You’ve come here on a good day! Spotty, feminine ankle socks first thing in the morning, and just listen to the soft, cotton sock material brushing against mistress Olga’s equally soft and smooth, bare upper ankle skin as she teasingly pulls up her socks in front of my hypnotized face above her black leather, ankleboot rims – just as I had predicted she would!
I firmly believe that warden-mistress Olga would be a fun, personal mistress to serve on the outside! Who knows what outlandish footwear she may sport on her days off? But down here, in the confines of the
Sock-rebel though she may be, blonde-ponytailed, warden-mistress Olga is actually a consummate professional when it comes to prisoner-slave driving at the treadmill, as you shall soon see!
She begins by taking the prisoner-whip out of its overnight socket. It is a long, thin, riding-crop style, brown leather whip designed to inflict maximum pain on the treadmill-slave’s bare back and shoulders – the pain which the Female Law decrees must accompany every female command and order.
Those commands themselves are strictly prescribed by the prison rules, and are as follows:
‘Kiss shoe, prisoner-slave!’ (or ‘Kiss Boot, prisoner-slave!’)
‘Stop kissing shoe (or boot), prisoner-slave!’
‘Walk, prisoner-slave!’
‘Faster, prisoner-slave!’
‘Stop walking, prisoner-slave!’
That’s it – that’s all our warden-mistresses are officially allowed to say to us; and we prisoner-slaves are completely forbidden from verbally responding! We are to remain dumb at all times under pain of the whip – even whilst we are being whipped!
No wonder we fail to strike up any kind of meaningful relationship with our supervisor warden-mistresses; they must see us as purely dumb animals!
But it’s the law in this place of male punishment – the Female Law!
Each of our warden’s limited commands, remember, is accompanied by a truly stinging cut of the thin and narrow driving-whip, and that’s why warden-mistress Olga is as deeply respected amongst we prisoner-slaves as she is popular amongst her warden-mistress peers – her whip-cuts are always particularly sharp and to the point; truly unbearable, yet having to be borne! She is, in short, an expert whip-mistress!
I anxiously await her first whip-cut and verbal command, which I know from experience of serving under her will be the order to kiss boot, since warden-mistress Olga always begins by having her boots kissed. Not all the warden-mistresses do – some prefer their prisoner-charges to get straight down to the onerous business of walking the heavy treadmill; but warden-mistress Olga, I sense, always likes having her dirty boots kissed first thing in the morning.
Whip!
Sure enough my sudden pain is accompanied by warden-mistress Olga’s command from on high in her squeaky-clean, and smug, feminine voice:
‘Kiss boot, prisoner-slave!’
She doesn’t move her boots at this point – not a flinch; only my poor back and shoulder muscles flinch – flinch with the sudden, sharp pain of the blonde-ponytailed warden-mistress’s expertly-delivered whip-cut!
Instinctively I want to cry out in pain, and thank warden-mistress Olga for ordering my lips onto her square-shaped, dusty boot-toecaps, but, of course, I can’t – for, as I have already explained, I am condemned to a life of abject submission and silence.
I must literally suffer in silence!
You ask what would happen if I inadvertently broke my vow of silence? I don’t know! No-one does – for it has never happened. No prisoner-slave has ever dared to find out!
I therefore bite, and then lower, my obedient and compliant prisoner-slave lips to the square-shaped toecap of warden-mistress Olga’s right, black leather ankleboot, and respectfully kiss it. My bootkiss is awash with respect precisely because of the terrible, stinging pain across my right shoulder blade; and also, of course, out of respect for her rebellious, polka-dotted socks which now seem to tower resplendently above me!
I must then immediately move my head and lips over to the adjacent toecap on her equally dungeon-dusty-and-dirty, left ankleboot, and kiss that too.
Then back to the right toecap; and then the left again – and so on until I feel the next sting of the whip accompanied by the female words:
Whip!
‘Stop kissing boot, prisoner-slave!’
Words which are quickly be followed by another streak of back and shoulder pain, and the curt command:
‘Walk, prisoner-slave!’
The words always follow a split second or so after the whip, like thunder after lightning. And like thunder, they often roar with anger!
Getting the heavy, wooden treadmill started first thing in the morning is always difficult – particularly the first few steps, for the punishment treadmill is designed to be cumbersome and difficult to manoeuvre. This is ‘hard labour’ after all; it’s supposed to be difficult and unpleasant work.
Gradually, however, the treadmill gets off to a grinding start, and warden-mistress Olga’s black boot-laces swing across the uppers of her ankleboots in tandem with the vibrations of the slave-powered machinery.
Needless to say, mistress Olga is perfectly at liberty to whip me, and to verbally exhort me to walk ‘Faster, slave!’, at any time in the process, but, being such a kind and merciful warden-mistress she lets me off with my slow and languorous start. I think she realises I’m not as young as I used to be – and certainly not as young and strong as her. I’m in my mid fifties now; old enough to be her father, but lowly enough to be her hardworking prisoner-slave!
I ignore the perma-pain in my bruised and blistered feet and try to focus in on the still fresh whip-pain across my back and shoulders, for I can, hopefully, do something to alleviate that – by walking as hard and as fast as I can, thereby avoiding any need for the entirely reasonable and just warden-mistress Olga to spur me on to ever greater efforts with her ever ready riding-whip.
I must confess however, that is it is now – whilst I am walking and sweating – that I find the multicoloured, spotty tops of her non-regulation, navy-blue socks the most distracting! Whilst I had been respectfully kissing her dusty toecaps I was only vaguely aware of her pretty anklesocks towering above me, but now, whilst I am walking, the blonde-girl, spotty sock-tops seem to loom large in my prisoner-slave consciousness!
Perhaps that’s because I am, like any male prisoner would be in my humble position, yearning to kiss them – to pay homage to them; spot by spot; the fully pulled-up, polka-dotted socks of my female better, whilst she is wearing them inside her pretty, black leather, laced-up ankleboots.
But I can’t! I have work to do! I must walk!
Not that my walking gets me anywhere – nor does it convey warden-mistress Olga anywhere! This is not even a grindstone – simply going round and round! It is an entirely stationary object, like myself. My walking is completely nugatory work – designed purely to exhaust and punish me.
How boring for our supervisor-mistresses, I often think – especially for a young woman as clearly bright and bubbly as mistress Olga. No wonder she puts down her whip and starts to read. I feel proud – she trusts me; trusts me to walk my hardest, and not to allow myself to slacken off as I admire her spotty sock-tops from anear!
Now, if this were a fantasy-fetish story, and if I therefore had free rein over what happens next, I would, of course, have the delightful warden-mistress Olga defy convention, and order me to stop walking; to untie her ankleboot laces; and to sniff her spotty, polka-dotted socks whilst she rubs the bobbled and well-worn, navy blue soles of her sweaty, cotton bootsocks all over my prisoner-footslave face!
But this isn’t a fantasy – this is a real life description of real life punishment in the real-life Gynarchy!
And so warden-mistress Olga and myself, the boring prisoner-slave, continue in that same, monotonous, uneventful mode for the next three hours – she relaxing and reading her book; I marching on the wooden treadmill and admiring her socks from a respectable distance – stopping only occasionally, on the sting of her female riding-crop and the sharpness of her female voice, to deliver yet more respectful kisses to her supervisory ankleboots; all until the final, peremptory command and accompanying whipcut of her shift:
Whip!
‘Stop walking, prisoner-slave!’
Pain! She is truly a good cracker of the whip, warden-mistress Olga! I am always genuinely sorry to see her black leather ankleboots and spotty socks climbing down from the chair, for she sure knows just how to punish and humiliate a dirty, convicted prisoner-slave!
And I am especially regretful of her departure this morning when I see who her replacement is!
The angry, young whipper-snapper!
Junior warden-mistress Agata is an angry, young whipper-snapper in every sense of the term; 18 years old, and therefore too young to own a personal slave of her own (and therefore to know how to treat a slave properly and get the best out of him, unlike her predecessor, warden-mistress Olga; I can never understand why the Female State allows such immature, young women to be employed in such positions of absolute power and authority over the enslaved male, although I do understand that they have to learn their trade somewhere!)
A fiery redhead, with a nice figure, junior warden-mistress Agata is inclined to wear, as she is today, her navy-blue, uniform skirt with dark nylons and knee-high, black leather zip-up boots on her shapely, young legs (though I have, on occasion, served her youthfully-impatient feet in shiny, black leather courts during the summer months); and, above all, she possesses a fiery temper to match her fiery, flame-red hair!
Apprentice warden-mistress Agata is ever slow to please and quick to whip. I think she feels that any slacking on a prisoner-slave’s part must automatically be intended as a slight to her young-womanly authority, rather than be due to his elderly bones creaking and weakening with exhaustion at the heavy, unforgiving treadmill – hence her predisposition to apply the whip liberally all over an old man’s back like mine!
I am constantly having to bite my lip with the pain whenever she is arrogantly seated above me in the slavedriver’s chair, though I think she finds it equally difficult to keep to the script, and not to add in a few, choice expletives to her prescribed and very curt commands. She certainly applies the whip more liberally than she should (her mistressly anger is not professional and impersonal like that of warden-mistress Olga’s), and the constant note of young-womanly exasperation in her piercingly loud voice ably demonstrates her, oftentimes legitimate, frustration and dissatisfaction with my efforts as she drives me hard on the treadmill throughout her long, three hour stint.
Whip!...‘Faster, prisoner-slave!’…Whip!...Whip!...Faster!!... Whip!... Whip!... FASTER!!!... Whip!...Whip!…Whip!...
Too much walking and whipping – not enough stopping and young-woman boot-kissing, for my liking!
Still, at least I can admire the view as I puff my way along! I may no longer have spots in front of my eyes, but I do have an awesomely splendid view of shapely young, redheaded-woman calve muscles covered by skin-tight, black, leather, spike-heeled, fully zipped-up kneeboots – boots which tower dominantly above me as far as my peripheral vision will allow my humbly downcast eyes to go.
And just above the deep, black leather of those powerfully pretty, feminine kneeboots is the shimmering horizon of dark-nylon covered, young woman knees and thighs – totally out of reach, of course, to a lowly, treadmill-tethered prisoner-slave such as myself! But at least on the rare occasions when I am ordered to ‘stop walking’ and to ‘kiss boot’, I have the slavish-satisfaction of knowing that the female boot-toes I am paying my humble respects to are in intimate contact with the sweatiest, stinkiest parts of those dark nylon-tights – the reinforced toe-areas covering junior warden-mistress Agata’s no doubt red-varnished toenails; tart-red to match her flame-coloured, shoulder-length hair.
I can sometimes even feel her dainty, feminine toes wriggling impatiently inside the bootleather, as she can’t wait to get me on my masculine toes again – walking the terrible treadmill!
Miss Agata will, unlike her spotty-socked predecessor, not be reading a book during my three-hour punishment session under her watch; I don’t think she even can read, as I understand she left school with no academic qualifications whatsoever!
She sure enough can whip, though!
Ruddy hell!
Next up is the wholesome and ruddy-faced, warden-mistress Filomena. She is definitely a country girl– in a rugged, farmer’s wife sort of way! Not really my type, if I’m honest, and if I were free to choose my supervisor-mistresses – which I most definitely am not! For I am in no position to judge a warden-mistresses physical attractiveness or otherwise; my viewpoint is, after all, strictly limited to their footwear.
But if I were a free man I probably wouldn’t turn my arrogant and lustful, male head for a second look – let’s put it that way!
Warden-mistress Filomena is in her mid to late thirties; stout; rosy-cheeked, and with shoulder-length, black curly hair; always seemingly unfit and short of breath. Even climbing up onto the ‘driving’ seat in front of me seems to take a Herculean effort on her part, and she can never plonk herself down onto the raised chair without a most unladylike groan and a grunt! Sometimes she will even shamelessly break wind with her efforts!
And why not? For it is the superior gut-wind of a plump, ruddy-faced goddess which defiles my dungeon air – a fitting addition to my punishment!
She is, I believe, a part-time warden mistress; either that, or she must take a lot of sick leave, for she hardly ever seems to be here! But, having said that, her commitment to her work of supervising the male prisoner-slaves on their respective treadmills when she is here cannot be held in any doubt – at least, not in my experience; not judging by the force and vigour of her stout-armed whip-cuts!
I suppose you could say that, if her other job is indeed working on a farm, she does, at least, know exactly how to treat dumb animals like myself – as beasts of burden!
One thing I do very much like about part-time warden-mistress Filomena is her choice of bootwear – flat-heeled, black rubber, kneehigh gumboots, always worn with her navy-blue, prison-wardress trousers tucked into the tops.
Yet another reason why I think she may be connected to a farm is the absolutely filthy state of her gumboots whenever she is regally seated in front of me – caked-on mud which tastes truly foul (or should that be fowl!) as I somewhat diffidently press my lips to her scuffmarked and mud-splattered, rounded, rubber boot-toes.
Today I am privileged to observe that ‘farmer’s-wife’ mistress Filomena is wearing a truly delightful pair of knee-high, woollen, black and white speckled hen-socks inside her gumboots, for I can just see the fetching, speckled pattern peeking out the top of her muddy, countryside-wellies. Indeed, my only regret is that I cannot see more of the speckle-patterned, female socks atop her muddy, black leather boot-rims – just the twisted, elasticated tops of her black and white socks as they stretch untidily and unevenly around her navy-blue, uniform trousers.
Warden-mistress Filomena is not like junior warden-mistress Agata; she is not one to wear stylish, sheer black nylons inside a pair of sexy, spike-heeled, knee-high boots.
Nor is she like warden-mistress Olga; she is not a streetwise city-girl, inclined to pull up or straighten her socks in front of a desperately lonely prisoner-slave, thereby giving him a cheap thrill! And by the very same token she does not permit the prisoner-slave the forbidden pleasure of listening to female sock being pulled up over soft, feminine legskin.
Of course, I’m not supposed to even think about warden-mistress Filomena’s chubby, bare legflesh! I’m just a dirty, male prisoner-slave, and not worthy to contemplate any superior, young woman’s bare skin, just as I am not worthy to look her in the eye – only in the eyelets of her laced-up, leather ankleboots; or the felt zipper down the side of her spike-heeled, leather kneeboot; or the muddy rubber of her gumboot-soles!
But sometimes I just can’t stop myself from thinking about forbidden, female flesh, despite all the whip-pain! Just as I can’t help myself from admiring polka-dotted, multicoloured, spotty sock or black and white speckled-hen sock. It all helps to brighten up my laborious day – and even to dull the pain of my whip-stings – to take some time out to admire the ordinary, unglamorous and sullied, everyday civilian footwear of my superior, uniformed warden-mistresses as I languish at their all-powerful feet.
Right now, the fat, speckled socks of a ruddy-complexioned farmer’s girl as she barks her predetermined orders down at me whilst wielding her whip are all I have to look forward to – literally so, as I cannot move my head or neck to either side as I walk the treadmill.
Whip!...‘Kiss boot, prisoner-slave!’... Whip! … ‘Stop kissing boot, prisoner-slave!’…Whip! …‘Walk, prisoner-slave!’… Whip! …‘Faster, prisoner-slave!’… Whip!... ‘Stop walking, prisoner-slave!’…Whip! … ‘Kiss boot, prisoner-slave!’…Whip! … ‘Stop kissing boot, prisoner-slave!’…Whip! … ‘Walk, prisoner-slave!’…Whip! … ‘Faster, prisoner-slave!’…Whip!...
Meera-Jamna
The final warden-mistress I’ll tell you about today is warden-mistress Meera-Jamna – or ‘Mary-Jane’ as she is known by her colleagues, and not just because her Indian name is not dissimilar to the English ‘Mary-Jane’, but because she also has a tendency to wear soft, black leather, Mary-Jane style, T bar shoes on her pretty Indian feet, along with matching black socks of course!
Warden-mistress Meera-Jamna is one of the older and more experienced warden-mistresses – mid forties; with dyed-black, shoulder length hair; a slim and delicate-looking physique; and always smartly dressed in her regulation, navy-blue uniform blouse and trousers, along with her regulation dark-coloured shoes and socks.
What I particularly like about serving warden-mistress Meera-Jamna on the treadmill, however – apart from her delightful, Indian accent and the fact that I know I am in experienced, prison-wardress hands – is that she feels senior enough, and confident enough, to sometimes bend the prison rules to enable me to kiss her on the sock!
She doesn’t just add in the additional command of ‘Be kissing my sock, prisoner-slave’ for the sheer hell of it; or even to gratify me and make my miserable lifetime of bondage that bit more Indian-spicy and interesting! No, there must always be a ‘good reason’ to justify, in her power-crazed eyes, the deviation from the normal treadmill-prison rules – though warden-mistress Meera-Jamna is wonderfully adept at concocting such ‘good reasons’.
She will, for example, immediately after delivering a truly expert and stinging blow of the riding crop across my bare, right shoulder blade, point to a fleck of dust on the surface of her black sock with the business end of the same, now warm, whipping-crop – perhaps just below the T bar strap of her Mary-Jane style shoe – and then utter the unofficial sock-kiss command. Or she may point to a crease in her sock; or to a tiny tear in her sock; or to a loose piece of stitching in her sock.
In all such circumstances the ‘good reason’ for her requirement that I pay labial homage to the outer surface of her short, black, cotton sock is clear – I am to show my prisoner-slavish respect for her humble sock, and all its imperfections, by kissing it, just as I would pay oral homage to a scuffmark on a warden-mistress’s black, leather boot-toe; or to a dirt-patch on her muddy, rubber bootsole!
In other words she forces me to kiss sock because it is a demeaning and degrading act of slavish humility, and a further demonstration of her female power over me.
Yes, the punishment of the ‘Kiss...Walk...Whip!’ is a truly cruel and unusual punishment, as inflicted by the glorious and dedicated warden-mistresses of the male-treadmill prison. But, as I hope you have seen, it is not without its compensations, providing you admire pain, are prepared to work hard, and don’t try to raise your sights too high!
The End
