Countdown to a Whipping…

I count myself exceptionally lucky to be the personal footslave of a beautiful, if somewhat flat-chested and skinny, 22 year old, brunette mistress – mistress Anne (‘Annie’ to her friends, but most definitely ‘mistress Anne’ to me).

I count myself lucky for the following reasons:

· My mistress Anne always wears nice boots and socks beneath her black, bootcut, officewear slacks; she may only be an office junior, but she sure does dress to impress, as evidenced by the way she turns freemale heads wherever we go, despite her skinniness and lack of ample bosoms;

· Although her black, office anklesocks are, for the most part, hidden throughout the day, she permits – indeed requires – me to perpetually think about her socks; to imagine what they must be looking and smelling like inside her warm and hot, chunky-heeled, round-toed, black leather, zipped-up, office ankleboots as she goes about her daily business – the gathering creases in the black cotton sock material ; the gathering sweat in the pores of the socks; the concomitant stink – all of which will, of course, become abundantly evident to me when she eventually imposes her sweaty-socked feet on my face at the end of the long, working day in the privacy of her own home (today, for what it’s worth, my mistress Anne is wearing a highly fetching pair of black cotton anklesocks with distinctive, red trims – red, reinforced toe areas; red reinforced heel areas; and narrow, red elasticated tops – inside her ubiquitous, plain black ankleboots);

· Although she is softly spoken, she is suitably demanding and dominant, with the right attitude towards me for a slave-mistress – namely a ‘devil may care’ attitude; she cares not if I am frustrated; or frightened; or ill – my role is to serve her, and her boots and socks, throughout the day, mentally when not literally, and she doesn’t much care if such servitude is humiliating and degrading for me, since, in her pretty, but narrow, eyes, I am just a raggedy-assed footslave.

So – nice footwear; permission to obsess about femsock; and a disdainful, uncaring attitude towards me; like I said, I am a very lucky, personal footslave!

Indeed, my mistress Anne’s only flaw (if, indeed, it is a flaw – for many would prefer to see it as a quality) is her innate cruelty when it comes to the punishment of her personal footslave. Not only does my mistress Anne freely utilise the stinging, single-tailed, black leather, female whip, she also likes to ‘drag out’ my punishment by slowly counting down to a whipping – hour by hour; then minute by minute; and finally second by second. She does so because she knows that such cruel, feminine countdowns wreak havoc on my about-to-be-whipped, cowardly, maleslave nerves, and add immensely to my sense of fear and trembling as I await female punishment for my male offence, whatever it may have been!

On the plus side, of course, this tends to mean that she never whips me in anger, since punishment is never immediate or instantaneous. On the other hand she will always be inclined to whip me with genuine, female vehemence, largely because she enjoys applying the whip so much! It makes her feel big and strong, when she is actually quite small and fragile.

So I have every right to be afraid – to be very afraid – when my mistress Anne pronounces punishment, and the countdown to a whipping begins!

Presently, we are three hours into an eight hour countdown. I upset my anorexic mistress this morning by not smoothing out the red, elasticated top of one of those black, ankle-length bootsocks prior to zipping up her chunky, black leather ankleboots. It was extremely negligent and careless of me – and I fully deserve my impending punishment, but already I am getting anxious and forgetful as the deadline for the application of the female whip to my bare back starts to loom ever closer; forgetful of sock, that is – since it is increasingly difficult to think about my mistress’s out-of-sight socks inside her boots, as I am required to do by law (for my mistress desires it) when all one can think about is the impending pain of the female whip!

My mistress Anne mischievously reminds me every hour – on the hour – of how many pain-free hours I have left, regardless of where she is or what she is doing at the time.

Today, for example, is a work day, and so she is currently seated at her office desk with me humbly kneeling on the floor beside her with my head bowed and staring at the sides of her black leather ankleboots (supposedly thinking about her socks inside the boots, as commanded, but actually worrying about my whipping!). It is 12 o’clock, and my whipping is due to take place in the back yard of her terraced house at 5 o’clock precisely. My mistress is nothing if not a good timekeeper, and so I know she will finish work early today – at 3 o’clock – in order to make sure she is home in time for 4 o’clock, when she can start to make preparations for the whipping – secure me in the wooden whipping stocks; rub my bare back with her skinny hands in order to stimulate the nerve endings and make them even more receptive to pain; oil the female whip etc.

Sure enough, at 12 o’clock precisely my mistress quietly leans down towards me from her office swivel chair and gloatingly reminds me of my impending doom:

‘5 hours to go until your whipping, slave! Ha! Ha!’

I can smell her stale breath – for I think her own excitement at the forthcoming punishment-delivery makes her mouth go dry; plus she is a smoker, and that always makes her precious, female breath smell stale.

It is such a softly delivered threat, or ‘promise’, you would almost think that a punishment whipping at the fragile hands of my brunette mistress Anne was something for a slave to look forward to! But I can assure you it is not! I always receive a minimum of 20 harsh lashes – every one of them well laid-on – and today, because of the seriousness of my offence (twisting a mistress’s sock around her slender anklebone) I am to receive a full 25 lashes!

Those 5 extra lashes will really hurt – believe me, every female lash counts!

For my part, I am obliged to confirm my fear and trembling to the mistress, and my gratitude for her altering her schedule in order to carry out the whipping, using only the very humblest of about-to-be-whipped slavespeak, of course:

‘Oh pray, goddess-mistress Anne. Thank you for reminding me of my impending doom, goddess-mistress Anne. Truly this slave is thankful to the mistress for taking the time to chastise and discipline him, and awaits his righteous punishment under the stinging, female whip with male fear and trembling, mistress! Oh pray have mercy on me, sweet and kind mistress Anne! Oh pray, mistress! Oh pray!’

I too am required to whisper my pleadings softly, so as not to disturb my mistress Anne’s fellow office-workers all around her – though I really don’t know why she requires me to beg for mercy at all; she never shows me any mercy, and has never once commuted a single, preannounced whip-stroke to a humble bootkiss to her pretty boots. Whenever my mistress Anne sentences me to 25 lashes, that’s what I receive; and, like I said before, each and every one of them laid on with the full female force and venom that she can muster!

At least she whips me herself and doesn’t have a professional, male whipmaster do it for her, as so many young women choose to do these days! (I sometimes fear the feminine art of whipping a man is in danger of dying out, so lazy and reluctant are young Gynarchy women to pick up a whip themselves nowadays; so much easier for them just to pay a free man to do it for them, or, even better, have their manly boyfriends whip their slave on their behalf – free of charge!)

And so, as my gaunt mistress Anne smugly resumes her work at her office computer above me, I have been cruelly reminded that my back is to enjoy a mere 5 more hours of the absence of pain. It’s funny how the closer the deadline gets, the quicker the hours tick by, isn’t it? (when you’re not looking forward to something, that is! I expect that for my mistress Anne the remaining hours will pass by painfully slowly!)

I try not to think about it – by concentrating my mental faculties once again on my mistress’s socks – hidden inside her boots; particularly, today, since it was my neglect of one of those cute, red socktops which has led to my current pre-punishment predicament. As I visually observe the various creases and folds in the outsides of my mistress’s black leather ankleboots, I speculate as to whether the inevitable creases and folds in her short, red and black, cotton anklesocks are mirroring the external bootleather creases (apart from the offending sock-twist at the top of her left sock which she has now corrected – and for which I too will soon be corrected!)

Also, as I ponder the condition of her glorious socks inside her boots, I surmise that they must be starting to get warm and sweaty by now having been on her feet and inside her fully zipped-up ankleboots for over 3 hours now! My mistress Anne’s personal foot and sock sweat always smells nice – suitably vinegary to be humiliating and unpleasant for me to have to inhale, and yet not so powerfully disgusting and overwhelming that it would make me feel sick; rather like the smell of her stale, smoker’s breath!

Again, I am very lucky in this regard – some footslaves must serve mistresses whose feet truly stink and make them feel perpetually nauseous!

An hour later and it’s lunchtime.

Again, regular as clockwork, my mistress Anne leans down from her desk with her stale, smoker’s breath to gleefully remind me that the countdown to pain is still ticking:

‘4 hours to go until your whipping, slave!’

Again, I must utter back the predesignated mantra of a fearful, about-to-be-whipped slave (I know it off by heart):

‘Oh pray, goddess-mistress Anne. Thank you for reminding me of my impending doom, goddess-mistress Anne. Truly this slave is thankful to the mistress for taking the time to chastise and discipline him, and awaits his righteous punishment under the stinging, female whip with male fear and trembling, mistress! Oh pray have mercy on me, sweet and kind mistress Anne! Oh pray, mistress! Oh pray!’

I must then, predictably (for my mistress Anne as you can probably already tell is very much a beautiful, female creature of habit) accompany her boots to heel as she makes her way to the office cafeteria, where she spends her lunch hour relaxing with her mates and enjoying a sandwich, prior to her lunchtime cigarette in the smoking area outside the office building.

No food or relaxing cigarette for me – indeed, if anything, only heightened tension and a feeling of abject fear in the pit of my stomach, as my mistress Anne kindly invites some of her friends and work-colleagues back to her place this afternoon to witness my punishment.

‘Ha! Ha! What’s he done this time, Annie?’ asks a bemused blonde girl, miss Kimberly, who is seated opposite my mistress in the cafeteria wearing a fetching pair of black leather ballet-flats and black socks with little rows of pink flowers on them. Thanks to her subliminal, cross-legged position under the table I can also see her pale, white leg skin just above her pink and black socktop and below the hem of her black, office trouser-leg on her right foot; no such luck with my own mistress Anne, whose anklebooted feet both remain firmly fixed to the floor, her black bootcut trouser hems still frustratingly hiding the tops of her boots (and thus her bare legs and socks underneath!)

My mistress’s booted feet are, however, fetchingly turned in towards one another, with the rounded toes pointing towards one another in a coquettish and girly way; the resultant newly-formed creases in her well-worn, black bootleather cause me to speculate as to possible parallel creases in her socks; such is the mind of a well-trained footslave!

And speaking of socks, my mistress gaily announces my sock-crime shame for all her surrounding lunchtime companions to hear, in response to her blonde colleague’s innocent question:

‘He failed to straighten one of my socks properly while he was putting my boots on me this morning!’

Blonde-ponytailed miss Kimberly is genuinely shocked at my footslavish negligence and incompetence (as, indeed, am I when I hear my crime put so starkly by my longsuffering sock-mistress!):

‘Well, in that case you bet I’ll be there to witness his punishment! What a fool! What a lazy footslave-cluck!’ she gleefully exclaims, her own personal footslave smiling wryly as he kneels behind her pleasant, soft leather, black ballet-flats – no doubt relieved that he has not been found guilty of such serious sock-neglect towards his pretty mistress’s feet and ankles (to give him his due, I must say miss Kimberly’s pink and black socks do look nice and neat on her shapely, pale white feet and ankles!)

Another office girl – the ginger-haired, Pakistani office messenger-girl miss Reema – who is in her usual, everyday working garb consisting of a pair of ripped and torn, blue, denim jeans and scruffy, white, low-top, lace-up sneakers with just a hint of matching, scruffy, white sock showing – later also confirms her attendance at the forthcoming whipping ceremony whilst enjoying an outdoor cigarette alongside my mistress Anne. She tells my mistress that she always enjoys watching a good slave-whipping – quite deliberately within earshot of me!

Such cruel young women!

By the time whipping-countdown clock reaches 3 my mistress Anne is back at her office desk:

‘Just 3 hours to go until your whipping, slave!’

Her breath smells particularly acrid and stale right now, since she has just finished off her lunch hour fag.

‘Oh pray, goddess-mistress Anne. Thank you for reminding me of my impending doom, goddess-mistress Anne. Truly this slave is thankful to the mistress for taking the time to chastise and discipline him, and awaits his righteous punishment under the stinging, female whip with male fear and trembling, mistress! Oh pray have mercy on me, sweet and kind mistress Anne! Oh pray, mistress! Oh pray!’

Only one more hour of working at her desk; only one more hour, for me, of studying her under-desk, post-luncheon boots, and imagining her post-luncheon socks, before she will finish work early, meet up with mistresses Kimberly and Reema, and head off towards her home in order to prepare me for my whipping.

Our departure from the office is announced all too soon, for my liking:

‘Only 2 more hours to go until your whipping, slave!’

‘Oh pray, goddess-mistress Anne. Thank you for reminding me of my impending doom, goddess-mistress Anne. Truly this slave is thankful to the mistress for taking the time to chastise and discipline him, and awaits his righteous punishment under the stinging, female whip with male fear and trembling, mistress! Oh pray have mercy on me, sweet and kind mistress Anne! Oh pray, mistress! Oh pray!’

We are on the train heading to her home. During the all-too-short journey my upturned cheek must act as a footrest for my mistress’s dusty, oversized, clunky, right bootsole as I lie prostrate beneath her on the filthy floor of the train carriage. In front of my face is the equally dusty side of her left, chunky-heeled, fully zipped-up, black leather ankleboot, and beyond that the scruffy, white unkempt sneakers of ginger-haired, Pakistani goddess-mistress messenger miss Reema. Meanwhile goddess-mistress office clerk miss Kimberly’s black leather ballet-flats and cute pink and black anklesocks are, sadly, not within my field of vision, since she is seated opposite the other two girls, due to the need for extra floor space for her own, smug, personal footslave to act as his blonde-ponytailed mistress’s ballet-flat footrest!

The three young women are excitedly talking about my forthcoming whipping, and the specifics of my mistress Anne’s proposed modus operandi:

‘Will you being whipping him across his fatty, white ribs, isn’t it Annie?’ asks the curiously redheaded, Pakistani messenger-girl excitedly in her scruffy, white sneakers.

My mistress Anne laughs:

‘Yeah!…I always tend to start with the ribs, and then work my way slowly up and down the slave’s back, before finishing on his ribs again!’

‘Ha! Ha! I am hoping the whip will be being long enough to wrap around onto his stupid, fat stomach, isn’t it? They say that is causing very pain to a slave! Ha! Ha!’

‘Oh yes! Wrap-arounds! Promise us wrap-arounds, Annie!’ chirps in a now quite breathless with anticipation, goddess-mistress Kimberly in her now train-dustied, black leather ballet-flats!

‘Ha! Ha! I’ll see what I can do, ladies!’ promises my mistress Anne.

I feel like offering humble words of reassurance to the two, visiting mistresses – my mistress Annie will undoubtedly achieve painful wrap-arounds onto my bare, kneeling stomach, since she is a consummate expert in handling the female whip, and in any case the particular, single-tailed, black leather whip she shall be using is tailor-made for my admittedly somewhat rotund, maleslave torso!

I can testify to that – except, I can’t, of course! For in the run-up to punishment I am absolutely forbidden to speak, except to beg for mercy on the hour, every hour in a predetermined mantra – as you have been witnessing all throughout the day.

Speaking of which, the final hour’s notice is delivered after I have already been secured, on my knees, into my mistress Anne’s personal set of wooden whipping-stocks in the back yard of her modest, terraced house.

Once again she crouches down to my face, this time with a lit cigarette in her hands and blowing stale, feminine smoke into my face:

‘Ha! Ha! Only 1 hour to go now until your whipping, slave!’

‘Oh pray, goddess-mistress Anne. Thank you for reminding me of my impending doom, goddess-mistress Anne. Truly this slave is thankful to the mistress for taking the time to chastise and discipline him, and awaits his righteous punishment under the stinging, female whip with male fear and trembling, mistress! Oh pray have mercy on me, sweet and kind mistress Anne! Oh pray, mistress! Oh pray!’

The two invited female witnesses laugh out loud (and miss Kimberly’s uninvited personal footslave doubtless chuckles to himself internally) at my obsequious acceptance of my forthcoming pain and suffering – but that’s the sort of perverse conversation you get between a skinny mistress and her overweight slave in a society where the former has absolute, unbridled female power over the impotent, bridled, male latter!

The countdown will gather pace from now on; my mistress will start to count down the quarter hours, until she gets to the final quarter, when she will tease me every minute up until one minute to five o’clock; then it will be every second; and, finally, her two female co-workers will join her in gleefully counting down the final 10 seconds before the application of the whip, with my mistress Anne already poised behind me and ready to strike with the unfurled whip – on the hour:

‘10…9…8…7…6…5…4…3…2…1…’

Swish…Crack!

Pain! Unbelievable, burning pain!

An expertly-delivered, stinging wrap-around on the maleslave ribs! My mistress Anne, and her two guests (or possibly three, if you include miss Kimberly’s footslave), will indeed be pleased!

I try to think about my mistress’s skinny, red and black, whipping socks, garnishing yet further, female footsweat inside her boots, as her black ankleboot-leather creases behind me in anticipation of delivering the next agonising whipstroke to my poor and vulnerable torso…