A New Life For The Field Hand
30 year old slavemistress Sally-Anne, and her 65 year old husband Victor, were seated side by side on their veranda – she in her casual jeans and T shirt; he in his formal, businessman suit – sipping champagne as they surveyed the great wealth of their rubber plantation in front of them.
Both white master and black mistress were feeling aroused – he because he had just taken some Viagra; she because she had just whipped one of the lowly field hands for poor performance.
The lazy, whipped slave was suffering, meanwhile, in the so-called ‘recovery’ stocks directly below the balcony on which his masters and betters sat, the freshly-made whip-wounds glistening on his sunburnt, white back in the southern Gynarchy’s, late-evening, summer sunshine.
Master Victor laughed at the sight and sound of the still-sobbing, whipped-by-his-pretty-young-black-wife, field hand down below:
‘Ha! Ha! You certainly gave him a good working over, Sally-Anne darling! You worked his lower ribs a treat, my dear! Ha! Ha!’
Sally-Anne beamed proudly. She was always smiling, for she was a very happy and contented, young, black woman – especially in the immediate aftermath of a slave-whipping:
‘Yeah – he cut up kinda nicely, honey!’
She and her gloating husband both turned and stared lustfully into one another’s eyes, and gaily sipped a bit more sparkling champagne:
‘Of course, we’ll have to consign him to the slave-mines, after he has kissed your feet and thanked you for disciplining him first thing in the morning, my darling,’ continued master Victor. ‘He’s much too damaged to be an effective field hand anymore, so he may as well rot underground!’
Sally-Anne smirked, a little drunkenly:
‘He never was any good as a field hand, that one, darling – that’s why I had to whip him, the lazy, good-for-nothing waster!’
‘Ha! Ha! Good for the whip, my darling – he was always good-for-the-whip! Ha! Ha!’
The mixed race husband and wife team both laughed out loud, and then retired into their opulent, master bedroom to make love.
………………………………………………………………………
The whipped slave who was the source of their amusement, field hand no. 678, heard the mocking laughter, and the subsequent screams and moans of his masters’ and betters’ lovemaking, from the confinement of his rough, wooden stocks. But he was in no mood to feel aroused himself. He was much too sunburnt, whipped and sore!
He was focussing on what he must do next to make amends for his laziness and lack of industriousness as a rubber-plantation field hand – he must kiss his mistress Sally-Anne’s feet the following morning when she came to inspect her residual handiwork with the whip on his confined back in the field stocks, and promise to do better. Otherwise he might lose his job, and be despatched to the dreaded slave-mines!
Working as a slave on mistress Sally-Anne’s rubber-plantation was a doddle compared to what would await him in the underground slave-mines. I mean, he got to work out in the fresh air everyday, beneath the burning sun; what more could a humble, unskilled slave ask for?
Field hand no. 678 was, if truth be told, mortified that the mistress had seen fit to whip him, for he had been trying to work hard! It was just so damn hot in the southern Gynarchy at this time of year – and he had been so thirsty!
Still, he wasn’t denying that he had deserved to be whipped – for the rubber-plantation’s targets must be met, otherwise mistress Sally-Anne and her elderly husband won’t be able to live in the style and opulence to which they have become accustomed!
He drifted off into a painful sleep.
………………………………………………………………………………
The next morning, sure enough, the gold-digger, black mistress and her white husband came to gloat over him after their night of passionate lovemaking, and his uncomfortable night sleeping alone on his knees in the field stocks.
Mistress Sally-Anne, the one who had so expertly whipped him, was wearing the same outfit she had on yesterday – a loose-fitting, white, summery, T Shirt; tight fitting, black denim jeans; black, rubber, lace-up, low-cut, keds sneakers; and black and white checked anklesocks, though he could only observe a tiny slither of black and white sock beneath her dusty, black jean hems.
Indeed, her sneakers and socks were dusty also – dusty from the ground of the plantation on which he was kneeling in the stocks, his face now just inches from the dusty feet of his erstwhile, black whipmistress standing directly, and triumphantly, over him.
He found it humbling to think that those same dusty, black rubber, lace-up sneakers, and black and white checked socks, had been on mistress Sally-Anne’s black feet whilst she had been applying the whip to his bare, white back yesterday evening. The mistress had evidently not changed her socks from the day before – even though she must have built up a considerable footsweat on them during the vigorous punishment-whipping of the lazy, field hand yesterday evening.
But that was mistress Sally-Anne’s perfect right – to change, or not to change her socks. She was, after all, a free, young, beautiful, black woman!
The ever beaming mistress Sally-Anne imperiously projected forward her right leg so that her right-sneakered foot was now resting in the dust directly below the kneeling and penitent field hand’s confined-in-wood face, the dusty hem of her tight, black denim jean-leg riding up as she did so to reveal yet more of her black and white chequered anklesock to the imprisoned slave:
‘Kiss my wife’s foot, dirty slave. Kiss her on the sock, and praise and bless her for whipping you!’ demanded the nearby master Victor, condescendingly.
‘Yes master sir! At once master sir!’
Field hand no. 678 promptly lowered his lips to the awaiting, young-woman sock and duly kissed it whilst praising and blessing his elderly, white master’s young, black wife:
‘Oh pray mistress Sally-Anne…kiss…kiss… God bless you mistress Sally-Anne… kiss…kiss… and thank you for whipping me in such a lovely way, goddess-mistress Sally-Anne…kiss…kiss... Truly this lazy, incompetent slave deserved the whip, mistress…kiss…kiss…’
Not the most eloquent of penitent speeches, but then field hand no. 678 was just that – an uneducated field hand, and a fool.
He could smell the rubber of her black, lace-up sneaker as he kissed her exposed, black and white patterned anklesock, and felt the plantation dust-particles coming off the sock and onto his lips. The thought occurred to him that the rubber to make her sneakers may well have come from this very plantation – perhaps as a result of his very own labour, however inadequate that may sometimes be!
Mistress Sally-Anne laughed at his abject apology, and duly switched keds-sneakered feet on the dusty ground beneath his gormless face.
This time, as his mouth went down on her left, chequered sock, field hand no. 678 caught a fleeting glimpse of the mistress’s precious, bare, black legflesh thanks to a tiny twist in the elasticated top of her sock. The black legskin looked ever so soft and smooth, but he knew he wasn’t worthy to kiss his plantation-mistress’s bare flesh – not even her bare ankleskin.
So he restricted himself, as he had been ordered to do by the master, to sock.
Mistress Sally-Anne giggled, and turned to her beloved, elderly husband;
‘You know, honey, this fool kisses sock quite well! I think I might keep him as my personal footslave, rather than consign him to the mines! What do you think, darling?’
Field hand no. 678 kissed the black girl’s sock all the more vigorously on hearing her last remark, for anything – anything – would be better than having to labour in the underground slave-mines; even cringing and fawning to the young, black mistress’s smelly, unwashed, two-day-old socks would be better than that!
Fortunately for field hand no. 678 master Victor could never deny his pretty, young wife any of her heart’s desires. He doted on her:
‘Ha! Ha! Whatever you wish, my darling – he’s all yours to do with as you will!’
Mistress Sally-Anne gave her elderly husband a great big kiss, and then clapped her hands twice in quick succession in order to summon over a nearby slave-overseer:
‘Release this piece of garbage from the stocks and bring him up to my bedroom; he is now to be my personal footslave, and can make a start by examining the contents of my sock-drawer and getting to know all my socks!’
‘Yes madam!’ responded the overseer – a semi-slave himself, but with some rights; such as the right not to be whipped.
……………………………………………………………………………
An hour later former-field hand no. 678, now known as ‘mistress Sally-Anne’s personal footslave’, found himself still on his hands and knees, still with an aching and sore back, but kneeling on soft carpet instead of dusty earth, and surrounded by his mistress’s soft socks – socks he had been ordered to arrange in pairs, and to kiss individually 1000 times each, as a mark of respect for his new, black footmistress and her most intimate footwear.
After that, he had already been informed, he would be required to do the same with her many pairs of boots, shoes, sandals and sneakers – for a personal footslave must get to know and respect his mistress’s outer footwear, as well as her inner footwear, and, ultimately, her bare feet.
The bare feet, he was informed, would come last – once the mistress knew she could trust him to respect her feet and footwear, and not to take advantage of them or show any disloyalty towards them.
As the former, whipped field hand no. 678 was in the middle of paying his respects to a pair of his mistress Sally-Anne’s plain, white sneaker-socks from her sock-drawer of delights, he was suddenly interrupted by the sight of her sister’s slutty, black, high-heeled pumps and slovenly, navy-blue and red patterned, scrunched up anklesocks entering the bedroom.
This was his mistress Sally-Anne’s younger sibling – 25 year old miss Abigail; a stunningly beautiful, black girl who, unlike her scruffy-jeans-wearing sister, always dressed to impress in ultra-short miniskirts and bare, black legs. Former field hand no. 678 recognised her from her shoes and socks as she often visited the fields to watch the slaves hard at work.
‘Ha! Ha! I heard about you, dirty whipped slave! Becoming my big sister’s personal footslave! Ha! Ha! Aren’t you the lucky one? Haven’t you fallen on your feet, boy? Or should I say on my big sister’s feet? Ha! Ha!’
Mistress Sally-Anne’s new footslave didn’t know whether or not it was appropriate for a slave to laugh at a mistress’s witty pun about his falling on her big sister’s feet, as slaves are, generally speaking, prohibited from showing any joy or contentment on their stupid, male faces.
He therefore erred on the side of caution, and merely acknowledged his undeserved, but undeniable, good fortune:
‘Yes mistress Abigail; if it pleases you mistress Abigail; thank you mistress Abigail!’
‘Ha! Ha! My sister tells me she employed you as her personal footslave because you kiss good sock…’
Miss Abby then shoved her own, right foot forwards on the carpeted floor until it wobbled, outstretched, in its black leather, stiletto-heeled pump, directly beneath the kneeling slave’s face:
‘Show me how good you are, black-girls’ sock-kisser! Kiss my sock!’
Right then – right at that particular moment in time – there was nothing that former field hand no. 678 wanted to do more than kiss an arrogant and beautiful, young black woman’s anklesocks on her bare, black legs. I mean, kissing mistress Sally-Anne’s socks from her sock drawer was all well and good, but she wasn’t wearing them at the time, and they were all clean and laundered. It is so much more degrading and humiliating to have to kiss a girl’s sweaty sock whilst she is still wearing it on her pretty, black foot – and especially when it is being worn inside such a sexy, high-heeled shoe! That’s even sexier than having to kiss a black girl’s sock inside her plain, black, lace-up rubber sneakers, isn’t it?
Even though he felt a slight twinge of disloyalty to his new mistress Sally-Anne, he promptly lowered his lips to the scrunched up, red and blue patterned anklesock of her feisty, younger sister:
‘Yes mistress Abigail. At once miss Abigail!’
The young, black woman’s ankle muscles twitched inside her sock as his lips made their electrifying contact with her scrunched-up sock. He could feel the soft, red and navy-blue patterned, cotton material of the female anklesock creasing and folding even more beneath his parched lips, and admired the sight of miss Abigail’s long, bare, black leg towering above him in his peripheral vision.
This was footslave-heaven!
But it soon turned to hell, as miss Abigail suddenly withdrew her high-heeled foot, screamed, and called out her sister’s name:
‘Sal! Sal! Come here! You were right – he did kiss me on the sock, even though you ordered him to concentrate on kissing all of your socks! Ha! Ha! What are you going to do with him, sis?’
To the slave’s dismay, his mistress Sally-Anne then entered the room, her face, for once, no longer beaming happily, but instead looking like black thunder!
She stormed over and kicked the disobedient, disloyal footslave in his whipped ribs with the rounded, rubbery toe of her black, lace-up, keds sneaker:
‘I’ll tell you exactly what I’m gonna do with him, Abbs!’
And with that, mistress Sally-Anne once again clapped her pretty, black hands in order to summon the overseer:
‘Take this wretch to the mines – and see to it that he never sees the light of day again!’
‘Yes madam. At once madam!’
Miss Abigail now clapped her own pretty, black hands – with delight:
‘Ha! Ha! Stupid slave! You screwed up big time! You failed the test! Ha! Ha! Now you can go rot in hell! Ha! Ha! I hope the taste of my stinky sock was worth it, loser!’
Former field hand no. 678 knew it had all been too good to be true. A sad loser like him – becoming a bright and clever, young black woman’s personal footslave? Ha! Ha!
He never stood a chance!
