Footslave Chronicles Volume 1
The first volume in a collection of essays chronicling the experiences of humble footslaves, both public and private.
VOLUME 1 CONTENTS (scroll down for chronicles in reverse numerical order)
10. Nylon Nirvana!
9. Being Silly
8. Bad Karma
7. Pain Reactions
6. Discretion is the better part of varletry
5. Settling Down
4. Excerpt from ‘A Footslave’s Guide to Humble Servitude’
3. Biting The Bar
2. If Truth Be Told
1. Muted Praise
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Chronicle no. 10 – Nylon Nirvana!
She is tall, blonde and beautiful – dressed in a pinstriped-miniskirt with matching pinstriped jacket over a white, frilly blouse; tan-coloured nylons on her long, shapely legs; and shiny black, patent leather, pointy-toed, high-heeled shoes on her equally shapely feet and ankles.
An office-junior, I would have said; or possibly a junior shop-assistant – on her way home from work. She probably has aspirations to be a fashion-model, and she certainly has the figure and the looks for that! But has she got the brains?
I hope she’s a shop-worker, rather than an office-worker, for that will mean she has been on her feet all day, and that her nylon-clad feet, as a consequence, will be hot and tired, and in need of a soothing foot-rub.
And I’m just the man for the job – though my official job title is ‘public shoelick’; not ‘nylon foot-rubber’! But hey – what the heck?
She climbs sullenly up onto the raised chair in front of which I am kneeling and rests her shiny, black-high-heeled feet on the two metal footrests directly in front of my face. Her tan-coloured nylons crease and fold around the front of her young-womanly ankles – thanks to the outstretched positioning of her feet:
‘Lick my shoesoles!’ she barks down at me abruptly, in between slapping noisily on her chewing gum, and before taking a glossy, fashion magazine out of her bag and settling down to read it.
‘Yes mistress! At once mistress!’ I humbly reply. I must be at least twice the age of this gum-chewing, blonde-bimbo mistress – she looks to be in her late teens or early twenties. Too young to possess her own personal footslave; but old enough to boss about a middle-aged, public footslave, and to have her dirty shoesoles licked clean in public!
I lower my face still further so that my tongue may gain purchase with the very bottoms of her shoes. The soles of her black patent high-heels look dirty and well-worn. They should be smooth and beige-coloured, but there is a large area of black where the beige has worn away through constant contact with the ground beneath her.
I, of course, go for that area first – the area she has been haughtily walking on.
It tastes rough and bitter. Little bits of street dirt and detritus soon rub off onto my tongue. I can smell her shoeleather.
Meanwhile, the arrogant and snappy, young, blonde, off-duty, shop-assistant, goddess-mistress makes a conscious effort to ignore me, the impotent and deeply unattractive, male slave at her feet, as she flicks nonchalantly through the pages of her glossy fashion magazine.
I wish I could read, but I’m only fit to lick shoe!
Subconsciously, the supercilious, young madam is actually helping me, by twisting up ever so slightly the blackened soles of her shoes on the metal footrest, and resting them on their high-heels, so that my tongue may gain greater purchase on her shoesole-dirt. The pleasing side-effect of this subconscious movement in her feet is to wrinkle her finest-denier, tan-nylon stockings even more prominently around her shapely, lower anklebones – directly level with my eyes; and that is driving me wild!
I simply must get a whiff of her sweaty nyloned-toes! For they must, surely, be damp and sweaty, having been inside her blonde-shopgirl shoes all day long?
She appears indifferent to my longing, but I fancy that this girl will quite like the thought of imposing her sweaty, nylon foot-stink on my ugly, male, middle-aged face. It will enhance her sense of young-womanly power and authority over me. And so I interrupt my shoesole-licking, to make my humble feelings known to her:
‘Oh pray mistress, if it pleases you blonde mistress, this slave is most admiring of the mistress’s pretty, tan-coloured stockings, if it is so pleasing to you all-powerful, public mistress?’
She interrupts her magazine-reading, briefly, to simply sneer down at me. She looks almost dumbfounded, as she twiddles her blonde hair and chews on her minty-flavoured gum. Doesn’t she realise the sheer power of her nylons over me?
I persist in wooing them:
‘Oh pray pretty mistress, if it pleases you young mistress, might this slave crave the superior, young mistress’s indulgence, and be permitted to sniff the mistress’s sweet, nylon-stockinged toes as a humble demonstration of his footslavish respect for the mistress and her warming footsmell, if you would be so kind and indulgent to a dirty, public shoelick who lives only to serve at your divine, feminine feet mistress?’
She tuts, and rustles her magazine impatiently above me, but then duly slips her right, nylon-stockinged foot out of her black, patent leather, high-heel shoe – the one with the now tongue-dampened sole:
‘Tch! Get on with it then, you stupid-idiot slaveman!’
I can’t believe my luck! Arrogant, young, supercilious, blonde-girl, sweaty, reinforced, tan-coloured-nylon toes are now sticking out directly in front of my kneeling nose!
The hose is so sheer and fine that even through the reinforced toe area I can see her purple-painted and somewhat chipped toenails! They smell like corn-chips! Cheesy! Vinegary! Just as I had hoped for!
I bury my nose in the moist area of sweaty nylon directly beneath her now wriggling toes. I am in nylon nirvana – surrounded by arrogant, young, blonde-woman, truly sweaty toe-stink!
For her part she simply continues to read her magazine, whilst my nose sniffs up her workaday, nylon footsweat. She seems not in the least bit fazed or embarrassed by her personal foot-stink – nor should she be. After all, she probably can’t smell it herself, being so far above it; and nor can anyone else. Only I am low enough to be immersed in her clammy, nylon foot-odour!
The subconscious wriggling of her recently-liberated, nylon toes helps to release yet more of the precious, female footstink up my nose. I am honoured and blessed – doubly so when the fashion-conscious, young, blonde woman slips off her left shoe and presents her left-footed toe cleavage for my nasal attentions also!
I make sure to sniff her stinky-nylon toes out loud, that she may hear, as well as feel, my utter submission and degradation at her stinky, blonde-girl, nyloned feet.
Soon – all too soon – she gets bored with me. She inelegantly picks her chewing gum out of her mouth; carelessly tosses it onto the dirty ground beneath me; and slips her nyloned, corn-chip toes back into her smart, leather shoes before climbing down from the high shoelick-stand without even stopping to have her left shoesole licked clean.
She is evidently happy with my work on her feet, and feels suitably worshipped. Besides, it’s Friday night, and she no doubt has a boyfriend to meet up with and go out dancing with. She will be going home now to get showered and changed into her night-clubbing gear.
Oh I do wish she would first divest herself of her nylon stockings and leave them with me – to sniff and to suck clean! I’ve often thought about offering my services as a nylon-stocking washer. But my current owners don’t think I have the necessary competencies. I might be competent at sniffing girls’ nylons – but mouthwashing them, apparently, requires extra skills and training!
And so, as she struts away from me, her nyloned hips swinging seductively in her ultra-short, pinstriped miniskirt, I can only dream of those crumpled-up nylons lying forlornly in her dirty-laundry basket at home, waiting to be machine-washed!
Such a waste! Such a waist!
At least I have her leggy-blonde-girl, discarded chewing gum to remember her by – containing the bacteria from her superior, female saliva.
Chronicle no. 9 – Being Silly
She is fast becoming one of my regulars on my train station, public shoelick-stand – the charming, young, Indian commuter-mistress with the black, bootcut slacks; the black leather, chunky heeled, zip-up ankleboots; and the pale pink bootsocks.
Every Wednesday evening, on her way home from work – regular as clockwork – she visits my sit-down shoelick-stall and has me tongue-polish her office boots whilst she relaxes above me and reads her paper.
She hasn’t really spoken to me yet, apart from giving me her orders. So I don’t even know her name. But I am determined to get to know her – for she is a truly beautiful and exotic customer-mistress.
I mean, pink sock on brown skin – it really doesn’t get any better than that!
Like Pavlov’s dog I am virtually salivating as the hour approaches when she is due at my stand! Sure enough – at about 17.30 hours – I witness those smart, black, bootcut office slacks and stylish, round-toed, zip-up, black leather ankleboots approaching my shoelick-stand.
As per usual she silently climbs up into the raised seat in front of which I am humbly kneeling; settles herself down; rests her Indian, booted feet onto the two, respective, metal footrests directly in front of my respectfully-bowed face; casually hitches up the hems of her black, bootcut trouser-legs; and thereby exposes the stunning, pale-pink tops of her fully-pulled-up, thin cotton bootsocks – the socks with the intriguing, fancy, diamond-patterned stitching – to my mesmerized gaze.
And through the tiny holes in that pale, pink sock-stitching – her soft, brown, Indian-girl skin! My God – what a delicious sock-tease!
Having settled herself down in the chair of power, and retrieved her evening newspaper from her executive briefcase, she once again barks her familiar orders down at me:
‘Slave, be shining my boots.’
I love her Indian accent! So sweet; so soft; so dominant!
‘Yes mistress. At once, pretty mistress!’
I do intend to strike up a proper conversation with the Indian mistress this time. I feel, after 3 previous sessions with her boots, that I know her well enough now for that! But first I have some work to do – for there is the small matter of tongue-shining her dusty, black leather boots, and the removal of the Gynarchy’s street dirt and dust from their outer, leathery surface.
I hear the Indian mistress’s newspaper rustling above me as she concentrates on reading her paper whilst I concentrate on examining her boots – seeking out the areas of dust and dirt which require to be transferred from her precious, Indian boots into my worthless footslave-mouth.
I must say, her black bootleather always tastes nice – perhaps because it belongs to such a pretty, young woman. She is quite petite; mid to late twenties I would guess; with long, black, shoulder-length hair – and a delightful, red bindi in the middle of her Indian forehead. She is also wearing a pair of black-framed spectacles. The overall impression is of a delicately-built and studious, partially westernized, successful, Indian-girl businesswoman; a young woman fully deserving of my humble servitude at her anklebooted feet.
As I said – it just doesn’t get any better than this!
Petite of stature she may be – but she seems to tower mightily above me as I kneel humbly at her feet, tongue-polishing her dirty ankleboots in public.
She may be ignoring the insignificant bootboy beneath her as he lickshines her dirty, office boots, but I cannot ignore her pale pink, cotton bootsocks as my tongue eventually reaches the upper rims of her black leather ankleboots. Her Indian-girl calves and ankles, like the rest of her, are quite delicate and slender, with the result that her ankleboots appear wide and open at the top – plenty of room for me to get my nose down inside the boots should the mistress so wish it of me!
Sadly, of course, she has not expressed any such wish. Indeed, she appears oblivious to the effect her diamond-stitched, pink socks are having on me. She sees me as a purely functional thing – a public boot-cleaner. Her socks are incidental to my main business; and, indeed, are none of my business – as far as she is concerned.
But I intend to change all that!
As soon as I finish lickshining the top of her second boot, I dare to make my audacious, public-footslave move:
‘Oh pray, pretty mistress, if you will forgive the intrusion most beautiful, Indian mistress, this dirty slave very much admires the mistress’s pink socks, mistress, if you would be so kind.’
She folds back her paper to stare down at me through her black-framed spectacles. I brace myself for a possible mistressly rebuke – for you never quite know how a stranger-mistress is going to react to such forthrightness, some would say ‘impudence’, coming from a humble, public shoelick!
But my gamble appears to have paid off, for the young mistress sounds flattered:
‘Thank you, slave!’
Thank you! She has actually thanked me for my arrogant and lustful comment! Ha! Ha! I think I may be onto something here!
I strike while the iron is hot:
‘Would the pretty, Indian mistress like me to unzip the sides of her boots and check her socks for any dust or dirt, most esteemed and respected young mistress?’
I brace myself, for this is one hell of a gamble! Asking an upright, businesswoman mistress for permission to unzip her boots! If my supervisor-mistress, miss Chantelle, could only hear me now I would most assuredly be whipped for such impertinence towards a customer!
But the ‘inexperienced’ Indian mistress appears more bemused, than annoyed, by my filthy proposal:
‘Ha! Ha!...Erm... Very well, slave. You may be unzipping the side of my right boot and checking my sock for dirt, but do not be touching my sock without my permission!’
‘Yes, mistress! Of course not, mistress! God bless you, mistress!’
I must unzip the boot by mouth, of course, using only my teeth. My hands, in any case, are chained up, so I have no option but to use my mouth.
My God, the sock is even nicer than I thought! Pure, pale pink – all the way down her skinny ankles, and it contrasts so sweetly with the slender, Indian mistress’s rich brown skin underneath. Indeed her soft, brown legskin gives the pale pink sock a kind of darkish hue. Quite stunning!
Sadly, though, not a trace of dust or dirt in sight!
The mistress twists her right, now semi-booted, ankle to one side on the metal footrest to examine her sock for herself:
‘Well, slave, are you being seeing any dirt on my sock?’
She is asking my opinion because I am closer to her sock than she is – even though she is wearing it. Her pink sock is now right in my white face!
I cannot lie to a pretty mistress, though – much as I would like to, for I ache to get my lips onto that soft, pink, diamond-stitched bootsock, even if it is perfectly clean! But lying to a trusting mistress in order to get permission to lick-clean her sock under false pretences? Not even I would stoop so low!
‘Oh pray mistress, if it pleases you mistress, this slave is pleased to report that the sock looks perfectly clean, mistress.’
I suppose I am lying to the customer-mistress, for I’m not pleased to report this humbling fact at all! But nor have I entirely abandoned all hope of somehow legitimately getting my face onto her sock:
‘Oh pray mistress, if you will forgive me mistress, this slave is most admiring of the mistress’s diamond-patterned sock-stitching, if you would be so kind mistress, and would be most honoured if the mistress would permit him to trace his ugly, slave nose along the pattern of that stitching, if you would be so kind and understanding to a silly footslave mistress?’
I really hope I haven’t overstepped the mark this time. I must be trying the Indian mistress’s patience and forbearance to the limit now! I mean, I’ve just admitted to her that her sock is perfectly clean, and does not require any of my footslavish attention, and yet here I am begging for permission to entirely selfishly nose her pale pink sock – purely for my own footslave-gratification!
Many a customer-mistress would have me instantly whipped for such impertinence – and justly so!
But not this sweet and kind, Indian businesswoman-mistress! On the contrary, I continue to amuse her by my pathetic admiration for her humble bootsock:
‘Ha! Ha!...Erm…Very well, silly slave! You may be sniffing the diamond pattern over my anklebone with your nose, but your nose must not be straying onto any other part of my sock! Is that being clear?’
Sniffing?! I may be sniffing her pink-socked anklebone! This is even better than I had hoped for! Sniffing – and not just tracing! And on the sexiest part of the stitching – the part which is stretched over her somewhat slender and prominent, Indian-girl anklebone!
I cannot believe my good fortune – and the Indian customer-mistress’s indulgence! And yet I have no need to feel guilty – for the mistress is retaining full, female control of the situation, by stipulating which specific area of pale pink bootsock I am permitted to sniff.
This is all just too good to be true!
‘Yes, mistress! Oh pray, pretty mistress! Oh thank you, mistress! God bless you mistress!’
I waste no time in placing my nose onto the top of the stretched, diamond-shaped area of stitching that covers her jutting-out anklebone, and start to run my nose down its side, all the while sniffing audibly on the soft, pink cotton, sock material.
It smells fresh and warm, with just a hint of moist, inner girlboot-leather.
I go down to the bottom of the pink diamond, and then zigzag my nose all the way up the other side.
The Indian mistress giggles:
‘Ha! Ha! Your nose is being very ticklish on me, silly slave!’
‘Oh pray mistress!...sniff…sniff… Please forgive me mistress!...sniff…sniff.’
I decide to ask the Indian mistress for her name, for I just have to put a name to these sweet socks!
‘Oh pray mistress…sniff…sniff…if you will forgive me most beautiful and respected mistress…sniff…sniff…might this silly slave be permitted to know the mistress’s name, mistress?’
Again – she could take offence at my forwardness. Again, she does not:
‘Ha! Ha! You really are being a most impudent and impertinent slave!...Ha! Ha! My name is being miss Salima….Now be zipping up the side of my boot again for I am having a train to catch, isn’t it, you silly slave?’
‘Yes, miss Salima. At once, miss Salima. God bless you, mistress Salima!’
I know when to stop – and the mistress is clearly now intent on leaving my presence. But as her pink bootsock once again disappears in front of my face behind her black leather ankleboot, I am pleased with the enormous progress I have made with this particular customer-mistress today.
I now not only know the taste of her boots; I have felt her sock on my nose, and smelt it. And, I know her name!
She still doesn’t know my name, of course – other than her new nickname for me which appears to be ‘silly slave’. But she has no need to know my real name. I am just her anonymous, silly, public bootlicker and socksniffer.
But I am confident she will be back – same time next week! And hopefully I’ll be able to get to work on her left sock next time.
As she climbs down from my shoelick-stand and hurries off to catch her train, I proudly think to myself:
I have just sniffed that beautiful Indian girl’s pale pink bootsock on her right, booted foot!
I don’t care if I looked silly! And I can sense the envy and jealousy of all those free males milling around me! Ha! Ha!
Chronicle no. 8 – Bad Karma
My life is full of darkness.
I have been sentenced by the Female Courts to life imprisonment, in solitary confinement, in one of the Gynarchy’s deepest, darkest dungeons – with regular, monthly whippings.
It’s my own fault – I shouldn’t have disrespected my mistress Olga by breaking her shoelace.
My dungeon cell has no natural light, and I am kept in almost perpetual darkness. The light inside my cell is only switched on once a month when my gaoler-mistress, madame Sandish, enters my cell in order to carry out the monthly whipping decreed by the Courts.
That’s why I regard her as my godsend – for she is my only contact with the outside world, even though she has come deliberately to hurt me!
Madame Sandish may not be the most conventionally beautiful of Indian ladies – rather short; petite; flat-chested; in her early fifties; her rich, black, hair showing the first signs of thinning and greying around her Indian temples.
And she is always drably dressed – in a plain, navy-blue anorak (it does get very cold down here in my windowless dungeon, even though I myself am kept naked but for my flimsy, white prisoner-slave shorts); black, denim jeans cut off at the ankles; plain, cheap, black plastic, flat, slip-on shoes; and functional, though often gaily patterned, short, sneaker-style socks – the elasticated tops of which are often only just visible above my gaoler-madame Sandish’s shoe-rims.
Not exactly what you would describe as an ‘Asian babe in high heels and a sexy sari with pedicured toenails’!
But she is all I’ve got. She is my only contact with the opposite sex – or, indeed, with the outside world, period. And so I regard her as my goddess-send, and actually look forward to her monthly whipping-visits to my lonely, underground cell.
Madame Sandish is very professional at her job as a female gaoler. She doesn’t speak to me, or enter my cell, during the rest of the month – in line with the wishes of the Female Court. She merely opens the hatch at the base of my heavy, metal, cell door from the outside, and shoves through my meals of stale bread and stagnant water with her black, plastic shoe on her still shapely, Indian foot – one meal a day, which I must then consume alone and in darkness.
I am never permitted to leave my cell – and never will. In the Gynarchy of Barbaria, a life sentence means life!
Although time passes painfully slowly when you are in perpetual, solitary confinement, and the days are difficult, if not impossible, to keep track of, it does seem like a long time since my last monthly whipping – and the one thing I can be sure of is that my gaoler, madame Sandish, will not miss a whipping. It is the undoubted highlight of her month, as well as mine!
I’m convinced my next monthly whipping must be due imminently, largely because my wounds from the last whipping have now just about healed – my only clear indicator of when my next physical chastisement is due.
Sure enough – a few hours after I wrote those last words – the light is suddenly switched on inside my cell, I hear the keys to my cell-door jangling on the outside, and the heavy, metal door creaks open reluctantly as my Indian-female gaoler enters my cell, her black leather punishment-whip in hand!
The light – though dull in reality – is actually quite blinding to me, so that my gaoler-madame Sandish, though she be nothing more than an unremarkable, plainly dressed and somewhat frumpy, middle-aged, lower-caste Indian woman with greying hair, actually appears to me like a beautiful goddess emerging out of the light into my dungeon gloom.
My heart starts to race as my eyes try desperately to focus in on her shoes and socks. I have to focus on her feet because I am restrained in a kneeling position – my chain only just long enough to let me shuffle forwards to the feeding hatch during mealtimes. The rest of the time I must kneel in the centre of my concrete-floored cell, contemplating my misery.
That’s why the mere sight of my female gaoler’s somewhat scruffy shoes and socks entering my cell – the very same Indian-woman shoes and socks which feed me through the hatch on a daily basis – fills me with a sense of awe and wonderment every month; as well as with a sense of dread as I know they have come to whip me.
My cruelly-smiling, Indian gaoler greets me in her broken English:
‘Ha! Ha! How you are doing today, slave? You are being ready for your vhipping? Ha! Ha!’
These are the first and only words anyone has spoken to me in the last month. I am overwhelmed with gratitude for, even such overtly hostile, human contact:
‘Oh pray goddess-madame Sandish! Oh pray! God bless you madame Sandish! Truly I am in your power and at your mercy, madame Sandish!’
You will notice that I don’t answer my female gaoler’s question directly – since I do not relish the prospect of my imminent whipping. But I suppose I’m as ready as I will ever be for it – physically, if not mentally – since my wounds from the previous flagellation have, as I was saying earlier, just about healed!
Madame Sandish, as always, seems to find my cringing servility and male fear at her middle-aged Indian feet amusing. She ostentatiously unfurls the black, leather punishment whip and lets its tail-end dangle in the dust of the concrete cell-floor:
‘Ha! Ha! I am bringing a new vhip today, isn’t it? Wery pain! Wery sore! Ha! Ha! You vill be suffering, isn’t it? Ha! Ha!’
The news that this is a brand new whip, presumably to replace the increasingly frayed and therefore ineffective previous whip (for I have been whipped by madame Sandish many times before; this is, I believe, my tenth consecutive year of incarceration) is not pleasing to my ears. I do not like pain – especially the burning, stinging pain generated by the female whip as so deftly applied to my bare, kneeling back by unsympathetic, Indian gaoler-mistress madame Sandish!
But, to be honest, I have more important things on my mind right now – like getting my lips onto my beautiful gaoler’s feet; my only physical contact with the superior, opposite sex! Or more accurately – onto her shoes and socks, for madame Sandish would never stoop so low as to permit a dirty, condemned, male prisoner-slave such as myself to touch her bare, lower-caste, foot or ankle-flesh with his dirty lips!
Madame Sandish may be poorly paid and uneducated (I know for a fact that she cannot read or write) but she is, nonetheless, my infinite, female better. And she knows it. I am just not worthy to kiss her on the skin – not even on her humble footskin!
‘Ha! Ha! Dirty prisoner, be kissing me on the feet now; be showing respect for your superior gaoler-madame, isn’t it? Be kissing me first on the toe of my shoe; then be kissing me on the top of my sock. Do not be touching my bare skin, or I vill be vhipping you many times before the proper punishment is even being started, isn’t it? Ha! Ha!’
The ‘proper punishment’ my Indian, female gaoler is so gleefully referring to is the ‘twenty, well-laid-on lashes’ which the good lady judge sentenced me receive each and every month all those years ago.
I really don’t want any more than twenty lashes from this brand, new whip – which is probably still a bit stiff and unyielding, and therefore even more painful than the old, frayed whip – so I pay heed to my Indian gaoler-mistress’s gracious warning. I lower my criminal-class lips to the rounded and scuffmarked toe of the imperiously-outstretched, cheap, black plastic, lower-caste, flat slip-on shoe on her right foot and respectfully kiss it. I kiss the dirty shoe of the one who is about to whip me whilst I am down on my knees in the dust.
How my petite and slight-of-build, middle-aged, Indian-female gaoler seems to tower above me as I pay homage to her cheap shoe-plastic! Her inviting sock, the item of footwear I must kiss next, is now also just inches away from my mesmerized face.
I must be ultra-cautious when I place my lips on the brief slither of elasticated sock-top which is only just visible above my gaoler-mistress’s black, plastic shoerim, for I have already been warned by her that the faintest trace of my stiff upper lip on her exposed, Indian anklebone will lead to even more stinging, female lashes!
The sock looks suitably nice and ropey; cheap to match her shoe. It is basically a grey sock, to match her greying hair, but with a thin, zigzagged line of red running along the narrow, elasticated top. I calculate that if my upper lip touches the red, zigzagged line, but does not cross it, it will not be in danger of straying onto madame’s bare, brown legskin, since there is a narrow ‘buffer-zone’ of grey cotton sock material just above it. It will mean, however, that my lower lip will still brush against the rim of her shoe whilst I am paying homage to her sock with my upper labial tissue.
I can only hope that will be acceptable to my all-powerful, Indian gaoler-mistress, who is pretty much a law unto herself down here in the bowels of the Gynarchy. At least she hasn’t specifically stated that it won’t be!
As my single, trembling-with-fear-and-admiration lip makes contact with her grey and red, elasticated socktop I hear her laugh at me from on high:
‘Ha! Ha! How you are being liking madame Sandish’s sock today, slave? It is being a wery nice sock, isn’t it? Grey and red? Ha! Ha!’
‘Oh yes, madame Sandish! If it pleases you madame Sandish! Truly this dirty and lonely prisoner-slave admires the madame’s sock very much, if it would be so pleasing to you most beautiful gaoler-mistress madame Sandish.’
I’m hoping that my pathetic sock-flattery will earn me privileges – more specifically the privilege of getting to smell my female gaoler’s lower sock inside her cheap, black plastic, slip-on shoe. That plastic material must surely be making her Indian foot perspire somewhat inside its plasticky enclosure!
Oh to be allowed to smell a mature, Indian woman’s sweaty-socked foot! It’s the best thing I can hope for in my miserable, confined existence down here in the Gynarchy dungeons!
My sweet and kind gaoler-mistress can read my mind like a book, even though she can’t read:
‘Ha! Ha! I am thinking you are liking to be smelling madame Sandish’s pretty, grey sock, isn’t it prisoner-slave? Ha! Ha! You are vanting that I am slipping off my shoe and being letting you smell my dirty sock, isn’t it? Ha! Ha!’
This is my only moment of pleasure in an otherwise miserable, male-menopausal month. I must grab the opportunity with both hands. Symbolically I cup my hands around my Indian gaoler’s petite, right foot – like I am venerating it – and beg for the privilege of smelling her sweaty sock:
‘Oh pray, goddess-madame Sandish! Oh pray! Truly this dirty prisoner-slave would deem it an honour to be permitted to smell the mistress’s sock on her pretty foot, if you would be so kind and understanding to your dirty, unworthy prisoner, officer-madame Sandish!’
If officer-madame Sandish was a cruel or sadistic gaoler she could, of course, simply withdraw her foot from my face and deny me my convicted-prisoner privileges. But, luckily for me, she is a sweet and kind gaoler, and not just an Indian-woman socktease.
Laughingly, she deftly slips off her right shoe with the aid of her left foot, and positions her middle-aged, sweaty-socked toes over my humbly-kneeling nose, wriggling her toes inside the sock so that the red and grey cotton material of the sock-top creases and folds in front of my eyes as the pure-grey, reinforced toe area envelops my nostrils in its fresh, warming stink:
‘Ha! Ha! You must be sniffing my sniff sock out loud, isn’t it prisoner-slave? Ha! Ha! You are being sniffing the dirty sock of a superior, Indian woman; be breathing in my sock-stink! Ha! Ha! You are looking most foolish and despised! Ha! Ha! I am being your infinite better! Ha! Ha!’
I am lost for words – unable to slavespeak to my gaoler-mistress as I breathe in the, in places thin and worn, soft, cotton material of her sweat-saturated grey and red-patterned anklesock. Who knows what manner of nasty-smelling toejam may lurk underneath? This is my one moment of comfort in an otherwise pain-filled existence.
But, sadly, all good things must come to an end – and all too swiftly my Indian gaoler-mistress slips her sweaty-socked foot back into its plastic shoe-enclosure, and gets ready to whip me. It’s bad karma – I must now pay for my sock-sniffing indulgences by experiencing the familiar, stinging pain of the female whip once again, albeit from a brand new whip!
I stare forlornly at my whipper’s not so new, grey and red patterned sneaker-sock as it creases and folds behind me atop its cheap, black plastic, loafer-shoe throughout the course of my prison beating – the same female sock that I have just sniffed – and accept my karmic punishment with humility and resignation.
Chronicle no. 7 – Pain Reactions
By WPC-whipmistress Magda
My name is WPC mistress Magda, and I am a professional whipmistress in the Gynarchy’s Female Police. I punish convicted, male slaves for a living – utilising the female whip – in line with the sentences handed down by the Female Courts; so it’s all perfectly legitimate and above board.
I love my job – especially when it comes to witnessing the stupid, whipped slaves’ pain reactions.
I’m not talking so much about their twisting, and writhing, and screaming for sweet feminine mercy whilst they are in their bonds and undergoing their actual punishment at my fair hands, secured to the wooden whipping post in the town square – though that can be a lot of fun to watch too (which is why, presumably, a public whipping always draws such a large, female crowd!)
No – I’m referring more to the prisoner-slaves’ varying reactions after I cut them down from the whipping post; to the way they grovel and fawn over my feet, expressing their contrition and humility, and thanking me for correcting them in such an effective and professional manner. For I like to think that I always do a highly professional job on their stupid, male backs.
It’s nothing personal – I’m just upholding the Female Law! I am the female winner wielding the whip; and they are the male losers languishing under the female, judicial lash!
I like it when my victims humbly acknowledge those facts immediately after their whipping.
I would divide the freshly-whipped, male slave into three different categories:
1. The ‘Slobberers’ – probably the largest category! These are the freshly-whipped prisoners who are so shocked and overwhelmed by the sting of my whip that all they can do is crawl over to my feet and slobber incoherently all over them. That’s partly why I always wear sturdy shoes and thick socks when I am carrying out a punishment whipping.
I tend to wear black leather, flat-heeled, square-toed loafers and thick, black, cotton socks – partly because they complement so nicely my knee-length, cotton, navy-blue, WPC uniform skirt; partly because the colour black confronts the punished slave with suitably sombre, female footwear on such a serious occasion ( for a whipping may be fun for us ladies to inflict and to watch but it’s not much fun for the male punishee!); and partly because I like the feel of a man’s quivering lips on my black-socked feet – I like to feel his male penitence and submission through my socks, and to know that he has really learnt his lesson from a true female master! Even though my soft and inviting bare legs are just above his penitent and sobbing face, he focusses his quivering lips on my shoes and socks; he has been duly weakened by the whip!
That’s also why I need to wear thick, black socks, however, for I don’t want the prisoner’s dirty slave-saliva seeping through the socks and onto my precious bare feet! The ‘slobberers’ can, in my experience, produce a lot of saliva whilst they are droolingly paying their humble respects to their female-whipper’s feet, and I don’t much relish having soggy and wet, bare feet!
I could, of course, just wear my black leather, zip-up, spike-heeled, knee-high, uniform police boots during the whipping, but then I wouldn’t get that same feel of those quivering, repentant and worshipful, convicted-prisoner lips on my socked feet through the thick, black, reinforced bootleather – and, as I said earlier, I do like to feel a man’s humility on my socks and feet, as well as watch it!
Besides, I know for a fact that many of the male punishees appreciate the odd glimpse of severe, no-nonsense, feminine, black sock on a shapely pair of soft, feminine anklebones behind them whilst they are being whipped – it helps to take their mind off the pain as they observe the creases and folds in my socks coming and going in tandem with the whip-strokes which I am so expertly delivering to their prone and vulnerable, male backs! Ha! Ha! What a bunch of total losers! Ha! Ha!
2. Then there are what I call the ‘whip-weary’ punishees. These are the most pathetic of all my ‘victims’. They are so weakened by their whipping, so selfishly consumed by their pain, they aren’t even sentient enough to have the foresight to crawl over to my feet immediately upon their release and pay their respects to my superior, plain black loafers and socks. They just lie on the ground, facedown, and moan!
I truly despise this lot! They are just a bunch of whip-weakened wimps!
Oh – have no fear! They will pay their respects to me later – and doubly so – when I visit them in their recovery cell back at the Female Police Station! Where a ‘slobberer’ would have been expected to formally kiss my shoes and socks 100 times in the cell, a ‘whip-wearied’ prisoner will be required to kiss them 200 times – just as soon as he gets his strength back. And if he doesn’t – well, there is always room for more whip! (Actually, there is barely enough room to swing a cat-o-nine-tails in those tiny, cramped, recovery cells! Ha! Ha!)
I’ve never yet had to re-whip one of my punishees for failure to pay his post-whipping respects to me; even the ‘whip-weary’ come round to it in the end, as soon as they start to feel better. I suppose they get to know what’s good for them! Ha! Ha!
3. The third category are what I call the ‘Professional Penitents’. I’ve left them until last as I sneakingly admire them the most – if it’s possible for an all-powerful young woman like me to ‘admire’ a lowly, whipped, male slave!
What I ‘admire’ about this much smaller group of whipped men is their seeming ability to praise and bless me coherently – in fluent, humble slavespeak – whilst they are kissing my feet in the way a professional, full-time and diligent footslave should be kissing a lady’s feet immediately after a whipping; crisply; succinctly; respectfully; and repeatedly!
Such male punishees are not disposed to whine and slobber over my dark, whipping shoes and socks – even though they must be feeling the effects of my whip every bit as painfully as their whining, incoherent and slobbering counterparts! Nor are they too weak to worship a lady’s whipping shoes and socks properly.
No, these ‘professional penitent’ males know how to take the female whip, and how to show proper respect for their female-whipper’s shoes and socks even when their backs are on fire!
They don’t even require a spell in the recovery cell! I mean, you’ve got to admire that – to some extent, yeah?
I’d love to know what’s going on inside their weak and feeble male brains on such occasions – and so I’ve ordered one of them to account for himself below.
Here’s his humble explanation (I had to write it down for him, of course, since male slaves can’t read or write; or, at least, it’s forbidden to them to read or write):
‘After my public whipping
By slave Pigface
I have just been soundly whipped by WPC-mistress Magda of the Female Police – 20 lashes for the sin of disrespecting my mistress Devichandra’s precious, brown leather bootsoles by failing to prevent her from inadvertently walking over some dirty, discarded chewing gum.
I fully accept that my punishment was just and proper, and can think of no-one I would rather be punished by more than WPC-mistress Magda of the local Female Police. She is truly an expert whipper, and I praise and bless her for taking the time out of her busy, police-officer schedule to chastise and discipline me at the public whipping-post in the local town square.
I hope my screams of pain did not upset the watching crowd of delicate, young women too much, and that they may even have enjoyed the spectacle. I’m sure my own mistress Devichandra will have enjoyed it – and rightly so!
WPC-mistress Magda is a truly beautiful, female Police Officer; tall and slim; shoulder-length, blonde hair tied back in a professional, female police-officer ponytail; strong and muscular arms, which must come in handy for a professional slave-whipper!
I believe she is Polish in origins, but I may be wrong. If so, I most humbly beseech your forgiveness most beautiful and respected, all-powerful WPC-mistress Magda!
Miss Magda really does know how to whip! She ensures that the cuts from the black leather, single-tailed, State-punishment whip are spread out nice and evenly across one’s back, before she delivers the final 5 strokes to the same area of your ribs. Overlays! I can’t begin to describe the pain of those last five, punishing whipstrokes over the old sores!
Which is why – immediately following the whipping – I simply have to crawl over to WPC-mistress Magda’s flat-heeled, black loafer, police-uniform shoes, and matching, black uniform socks, and kiss them out of my sheer respect for her female power and authority over me! I am broken, humbled and contrite – as a freshly-whipped, male slave should be – and it behoves me to express my slavish gratitude to my female whipper for making me see the error of my ways in such a lovely way.
As I kiss her flat, black leather shoes – repeatedly, but respectfully – I admire the dust on them; dust generated from the dirty ground on which I am now kneeling by the movement of her feet whilst she was wielding the black leather whip across my bare back.
As I kiss her black socks, I admire the creases and folds in the black, cotton material – creases and folds again generated by the movement of her feet whilst she had been wielding the whip so elegantly behind me at the whipping post.
I expect that WPC-mistress Magda’s feet must have built up a good, healthy sweat inside her whipping shoes and socks, and that thought warms and comforts me as I pay my humble respects to them.
Of course, kissing my female whipper’s feet in public is not enough. I must verbally grovel and fawn to the superior police-officer whipmistress as well, expressing both my penitence for my crime, and my gratitude for my correction at her fair, Polish hands.
And so, in between my respectful kisses to her black shoes and anklesocks, I publicly express my feelings towards her in the apposite language of humble slavespeak:
‘Oh pray WPC-mistress Magda…Oh pray goddess-mistress…Oh the pain!...Oh pray…God bless you, WPC-mistress Magda for correcting me with the female whip…Truly this slave regrets his sin against his mistress Devichandra’s sweet, feminine boots, and craves the forgiveness of all womankind!...Oh pray mistress…Oh pray…The female whip has fairly taught me my lesson! …This slave will do better in future, and will not fail his mistress Devichandra and her boots ever again…if it is so pleasing to you most beautiful and respected WPC-mistress Magda… Oh pray mistress!...The pain!…Your whip!....Your power!’
Of course, I reserve my deepest respect for my own mistress Devichandra’s boots and socks, which I shall worship and fawn over later when I am finally released from female-police custody, but there is no way a professionally whipped slave can depart from the scene of his public chastisement and humiliation without showing proper respect and gratitude to the female one who has so expertly whipped him.
At least, not in my book!’
Ha! Ha! So there you have it! The confessions of a ‘professional penitent’ – in the middle of a pain reaction!
He’s certainly right about one thing – his charming Indian mistress, miss Devichandra, did indeed enjoy watching her stupid, ignorant slave being publicly whipped. She even asked me for a blow-by-blow account afterwards, and I know for a fact that she bought a copy of the DVD! Ha! Ha!
Love and whip-kisses,
WPC-whipmistress Magda
xxx
Chronicle no. 6 – Discretion is the better part of varletry
My public shoelick-stand – unusually – is located in a not very public place. My Chinese owners have positioned me in the back of their restaurant car-park, which itself is at the back of their Chinese restaurant – so it can get pretty lonely when the restaurant is not busy and the adjoining car park is deserted.
By the same token, however, my semi-private, public shoelick-stand does tend to attract those female customers who, for one reason or another, prefer a bit of privacy when having their feet attended to in public – and especially after dark. Sure, a carefully positioned, bright spotlight illuminates the wooden footblock directly beneath my face on which the lady places her outstretched foot for licking or cleaning – but the lady herself can remain a shadowy figure, unrecognisable to anyone even a few yards away.
Ladies like the young woman who is now furtively approaching my public shoelick-stand through the night-time gloom at the back of the Chinese restaurant. She is, judging by her attire, a strict Muslim girl – Indonesian or Malaysian I would say: petite; slim; early twenties; wearing a modest, white hijab-style headscarf; a stripy cardigan-top; and a long, beige-coloured, unrevealing, ankle-length skirt, below which I can just about make out two, flat, black, suede-leather loafers.
I’m not sure if she’s a customer from the restaurant or not – but she clearly wishes to be one of my footmistress-customers. There would be no other reason for her to venture back here at this time of night.
My suspicions are confirmed when the young, Asian-Muslim lady tiptoes up to my deserted shoelick-stand, hitches up the hem of her long, modesty-preserving, ankle-length, beige-coloured skirt, and stretches forth her dainty, right, loafered foot onto the spotlit, wooden footblock beneath my kneeling face:
‘Dirty slave kiss Mlathi shoe,’ she almost whispers, adjusting her white, muslin headscarf whilst furtively looking around her to make sure no-one is watching.
She looks, and sounds, religious, serious and glum.
I feel compelled to almost whisper back through the surrounding darkness:
‘Yes, mistress Mlathi. At once, mistress, Mlathi.’
I can now see that the susurrating, Muslim girl is wearing thick, cream-coloured, cotton socks inside her black, suede loafers – creamy socks to complement her beige-brown skirt, presumably, not that anyone would ordinarily be able to see her intimate foot-underwear given the hem-length of her modest skirt!
Also, as you might expect of such a sweet and modest, young Muslim woman, her socks, though I’m fairly certain they are only calf-length and not fully knee-length, are fully pulled up in order, no doubt, to protect her lower-leg modesty from the ‘dirty slave’s’ prying eyes. No soft, bare, feminine-smooth, Indonesian legskin for me to admire and enjoy this evening! That will be reserved for her husband later – in the privacy of their boudoir (assuming she is already married!).
The socks do, however, have an exceptionally pretty diamond-pattern to the cream stitching which does, teasingly, afford the faintest glimpses of the beautiful Indonesian girl’s smooth, bare footskin underneath – particularly where the socks are stretched upright over her shapely, feminine anklebones.
As I lower my lips to pay oral homage to the rounded toe area of my discreet, night-time visitor’s pretty, outstretched, suede leather loafer, I find myself hoping and praying that this seemingly diffident and inexperienced, young footmistress will not expect me to lickshine her shoes tonight – for, as every experienced public footslave knows, suede leather never licks up well, and especially not when the toes and insteps of such shoes are dusty and dirty, as they are now.
Nothing too horrendous, you understand – just the normal, everyday street dust and dirt that any young woman would inevitably pick up on her shoes merely by walking around in them as she goes about her daily business, but everyday dust and dirt which is, nonetheless, well-nigh impossible to remove by tongue-power alone, and, indeed, which is more likely than not to be ignominiously spread around the shoe’s surface by a footslave’s well-intentioned tongue!
Fortunately, the young, hijab-wearing mistress appears more than satisfied with the merest dry-peck of my footslave lips to her arrogantly outstretched, rounded shoe-toe. In fact, she claps her pretty, Indonesian hands in undisguised female delight, almost forgetting, it seems, her desire for public anonymity. She also forgets to whisper her young-womanly glee:
‘Ha! Ha! You a slave! You kiss my dirty foot! Ha! Ha! Even though you a man, I bigger and better than you! Ha! Ha! I the master; you the slave! You in my power! Ha! Ha!’
‘Yes mistress Mlathi. Indeed, mistress Mlathi. Thank you mistress Mlathi.’
Her happy mood quickly takes a turn for the worse. Once again she looks surly and glum, and she suddenly gathers up and then spits out some of her precious, Indonesian-girl phlegm onto the top of my balding head:
‘Slave not talk! You a dirty dog! You only kiss foot. You not worthy talk to superior, Muslim mistress!’
As if to reinforce the veracity of her point she spits copiously on me again, looking down on me both literally and spiritually, as if I were nothing more than her personal spittoon.
Suitably humbled and chastened, I place my lips respectfully once again onto the dusty, suede leather toe-area of my female master’s still-distended, flat, black, slip-on shoe – ardently admiring the stretched, diamond-patterned stitching in her fully pulled-up, cream-coloured sock. Not a stitch out of place or a sock crease in sight! Just incredibly smooth-looking, creamy, oriental Muslim-girl sock!
Again her mood changes, and she claps her hands and lets out yet another little impromptu squeal of unaccustomed, young-womanly delight:
‘Ha! Ha! Dirty slave-dog kiss woman shoe! Dirty slave-dog kiss woman dirty shoe! Ha! Ha! You a dog! You a animal! Ha! Ha! I spit on you!’
It almost seems like a friendly, congratulatory spit this time, compared to the previous ones.
She then, eventually, withdraws her slender, right foot from my lips and, still hitching up the hem of her ankle-length, beige skirt, replaces it with her, equally slender, equally neatly-besocked, left foot:
‘Now slave-dog kiss Mlathi on other foot. You kiss not only shoe! You kiss sock! You worship Muslim-girl sock, or I beat you hard with stick!’
I know better than to answer back to my Muslim customer-mistress this time, especially as there are plenty of fallen sticks from nearby trees lying around should she so desire to beat me with one of them. Not that I would need the stimulus of the stick to kiss miss Mlathi’s stick-like, besocked anklebones. The creamy, diamond-stitched, Muslim-girl socks are truly warm and inviting to my lonely footslave-lips on this cold, autumnal evening!
It appears that my lips are tickling her socked ankles, for she giggles on the first touch of my mouth:
‘Ha! Ha! Slave mouth feel funny through sock! Ha! Ha! You a dirty pig! Mlathi want you snuffle sock like pig. You make sound like pig while kiss Mlathi nice sock! Ha! Ha!’
The mistress’s wish, however bizarre, must always be my command, and so I duly make some discreet ‘oink oink’ noises whilst nuzzling and kissing miss Mlathi’s cream-coloured, calf-length, cotton socks.
‘Ha! Ha! Louder! LOUDER! PIG SNIFF LOUDER!’ she shouts at the top of her piercing and excitable, young-woman voice, seemingly losing all her previous inhibitions, and forgetting quite where she is!
I dutifully obey. I grunt louder.
Her sock smells fresh – not at all sweaty; but I am, fortuitously, picking up the unpleasant, musty aroma of her dusty, black, suede leather shoe beneath the creamy white sock. That keeps me suitably humble.
Suddenly we both hear a man’s voice in the distance, calling from the back of the restaurant:
‘Mlathi, di mana kau? Kembali ke sini!’
‘Aku datang, suami!’ shouts back my customer-mistress in reply, and suddenly the hem of her ankle-length skirt is dropped, and her religious, left sock and foot are gone forever from my secular, wooden footblock as she scurries off back into the darkness of the car-park.
It almost sounded like she was being summoned! I hope she won’t be getting into any kind of trouble, for she is such a brave and kind young woman. Actually, a natural footmistress if ever there was one!
I certainly won’t be the one to tell tales if anyone else asks me about the colour and texture of her supposedly hidden socks – for discretion is the better part of public-footslave varletry!
Chronicle no. 5 – Settling Down
My new mistress – mistress Nupura – is absolutely jubilant! A recent immigrant to the Gynarchy from India, she is revelling in her power over me – her personal footslave, gifted to her by the Female State.
Like many new mistresses she is quick to whip and slow to be satisfied, and my back, as a consequence, is decorated with many, fresh, female-whip marks. But I am hopeful that she will soon settle down, and that once the novelty of owning her first footslave begins to wear off she will be less consistently cruel towards me.
That’s what usually happens with new mistresses, in my humble experience – unless they turn out to be innately cruel. And I don’t think mistress Nupura is a sadist, as such; just excitable.
She is, for sure, a very pretty, Indian girl – though perhaps a tad overweight; 22 years old; black, shoulder-length hair; now preferring western-style clothing as she seeks to fit in to her new Gynarchy-girl lifestyle – the enviable lifestyle of an attractive, young woman with absolute power.
She therefore now likes to wear boots – stylish, spike-heeled, pointy-toed, zip-up, ankle-length boots. She has several pairs, such as the black, patent leather ones she has on today – all supplied to her by the Female State, along with her personal footslave (me) and her personal slave-whip.
I must say the Female State does look after its female-refugees from male oppression extremely well!
Today, fat miss Nupura is showing off – or rather showing me off – to one of her newfound friends, a fellow Indian lady named miss Anjali. Miss Anjali is also, coincidentally, rather plump – even more so than my own mistress Nupura; but, being Indian, she too is beautiful to behold, and very much to be admired by a raggedy-assed, State-supplied, thin and emaciated footslave like myself.
Slightly older than my mistress Nupura, miss Anjali has lived in the Gynarchy for several years now, but she is visiting my mistress Nupura in her home without her own personal footslave in tow. She explains that she has left him behind in her flat, mouth-washing her dirty nylons.
Mistress Anjali always seems to wear nylons – dark-coloured nylons to match her dark, Indian skin – along with her ubiquitous, flat-heeled, navy-blue, slip-on shoes; unlike my mistress Nupura who prefers to wear black, cotton socks inside her spike-heeled ankleboots. What both the young, Indian women have in common, however, apart from their rotundity and their delightful Indian-girl accents, is their preference for wearing slacks; dark-coloured slacks to match the sombre colours of their respective footwear.
The two women embrace and greet each other in Hindi above me as my mistress Nupura welcomes her fellow-fat, Indian girlfriend into her State-supplied home. I, of course, am dutifully kneeling behind my mistress Nupura’s patent black leather ankleboots as the two superior young ladies greet one another, staring with slavish humility and admiration at the back of my fat, Indian mistress’s shiny, black bootleather as it creases and folds in tandem with her subliminal foot-movements.
Sadly, the hems of my mistress Nupura’s black, bootcut slacks are hiding the tops of her plain, black anklesocks inside her shiny boots, but the mere thought of her socks creasing and folding around her shapely, Indian anklebones inside her boots, in unison with her outer bootleather, fills me with an even greater sense of footslavish humility.
My mistress kindly switches to English in order to instruct me in my household-footslave etiquette:
‘Vhipped slave, be kissing the feet of our guest, miss Anjali, and be velcoming her to my home!’
Vhipped slave is how my mistress Nupura likes to refer to me, since that is what I am – her whipped slave; well-whipped; indeed, over-whipped, you could say – for I’m not really that bad a footslave! My mistress Nupura is still learning how to exert her authority over me and, as I have explained earlier, inexperienced mistresses tend to overcompensate with the use of the whip until they are completely comfortable in their own sense of female power and authority!
And rightly so.
Miss Anjali, for her part, comments on my whip-marks as I shuffle forwards on my hands and knees in order to pay my respects to her outstretched, right guest-foot:
‘I see the slave has been displeasing you, Nupura, and has been requiring the stimulus of the vhip! Ha! Ha!’
Miss Anjali speaks better English than the recently-arrived-from-India miss Nupura; but she too has trouble pronouncing her ‘w’s, although curiously only at the start of words, all of which makes her sound incredibly cute, especially when pronouncing the dreaded word ‘vhip’!
I therefore kiss the rounded toe of her flat, navy-blue, slip-on leather shoe with renewed respect – partly because of her accent; partly because of her evident pleasure in the whip-marks on my bare back; and partly because I do very much respect and admire our esteemed guest’s plain, flat shoe.
It must be raining outside, for miss Anjali’s shoeleather is quite wet; musty even. On closer inspection I can even observe some dark raindrops in the nylon material of her dark, flesh-coloured stockings just below the hem of her bootcut, navy-blue trouser leg.
How the fat, podgy, dark-haired Indian-girl seems to tower above me as I kiss her street-wet feet in humble, slavish greeting; one after the other!
My mistress Nupura notices the wetness of her guest’s shoes as well:
‘Ha! Ha! Would you be liking to be drying the soles of your dirty shoes on my vhipped slave’s face, Anjali?’
‘Oh yes please, Nupura!’ responds our honoured guest, presumably keen not to sully her host’s nice, clean carpet with her street-sullied shoes. My mistress Nupura is clearly delighted that my gormless, footslave-face can be of such humble service to her favoured guest:
‘Ha! Ha! You, the vhipped slave – be lying this instant with your right cheek on the ground so that miss Anjali may be viping the sole of her dirty shoe on your left cheek!’
‘Yes miss Nupura! At once miss Nupura! I obey you, miss Napura!’
I duly lie down prostrate on my stomach with my right cheek lying flat on the ground as instructed so that my upturned left cheek may act as a footwipe for our fat, Indian-female guest and her flat shoes. I only hope miss Anjali doesn’t lean down too hard on my face with the sole of her shoe, since her not-inconsiderable weight might be enough to damage and hurt the side of my face, even though her shoesole is perfectly flat.
At least I am not in any imminent danger of being ‘spiked’ in the face by my own, fat Indian mistress’s spiked ankleboot-heels; I suppose I should be grateful for such small mercies!
Meanwhile, miss Anjali’s left foot remains fixed firmly on the ground in front of my face as she holds onto the wall of the porch in order to steady herself before lifting her right foot up off the ground and then dragging the sole of her wet, dirty shoe across my upturned, left cheek.
The bottom of her shoe feels cold and damp, and I can feel little pieces of street-dirt and detritus rubbing off onto my cheek – mud; twigs; leaves; grass etc. She must have walked through a muddy park to get here!
Mercifully, though, miss Anjali does not exert too much pressure on my face; a more experienced-mistress than my mistress Nupura, she is now beyond the stage of hurting a slave just for the fun of it!
She nevertheless takes pleasure in my degradation beneath her dirty shoesole, and laughs heartily at me in unison with my mistress Nupura just as soon as she lifts the sole of her right foot off the side of my face and inspects the damage:
‘Ha! Ha! Your vhipped slave’s face is now being looking incredibly dirty, Nupura! Ha! Ha! My shoe must be being nicely cleaned underneath! Ha! Ha!’
Mistress Nupura is evidently pleased with my facial-cleansing efforts, for I can sense that she is beaming with pride at her excellent idea to offer me up as a human footwipe to her guest. All of which is good, as it means I am less likely to be whipped by her after the guest has gone!
‘Ha! Ha! Vhipped slave, now be turning over your face so that miss Anjali may be viping her other shoe on your face also, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, miss Napura. At once, goddess-mistress Napura!’
Good thinking, goddess-miss Nupura! There would surely be no point in miss Anjali attempting to clean the sole of her left shoe on my now soiled left cheek? I must, therefore, meekly turn the other cheek to her – like a good and submissive, Indian woman’s footwipe-slave!
Once again I can observe dark, rain-stained, nylon stocking wrinkling ever so slightly in front of my prostrate face – this time on her right foot – as she steadies herself above me in order to wipe the dirty sole of her left guest-shoe on my upturned right cheek. I am truly humbled by the thought that the matching, dark nylon stocking on her left foot is now literally creasing and wrinkling above me as she drags the sole of her wet, left shoe across the side of my footmat face.
Once again I feel mud and twigs – and even a little, wet stone – coming off onto my cheek.
The two, fat, young women then inspect my dirty face once again, and delight in the transfer of dirt from Indian-girl shoe to maleslave-face. They then enter the living room, with myself back up on my hands and knees and following my mistress Nupura’s black, patent leather ankleboots to spiked-heel. I try to imagine, once again, what it would be like to have my own mistress’s sharp, spiked heels dragged across my prone and vulnerable face for cleaning! Extremely painful, I would have thought! Thank the goddesses she herself has not been outside in the rain and the dirt today!
Not yet anyway!
I kneel behind her spiked bootheels in the kitchen whilst she boils the kettle in order to make some tea for her guest – longing for, but not getting, a glimpse of my mistress’s black anklesocks inside her boots. I shall just have to make do with my imagination again – imagining those sweet, feminine bootsocks, since those damned trouser-hems are frustratingly covering the tops of my mistress’s boots!
Mistress Nupura would be welcome to rub the soles of her damp socks across my face anytime she so pleased. They would be soft, and wouldn’t hurt – unlike her metal-tipped bootheels!
Suddenly the doorbell rings and my mistress rushes back out to the hallway to the front door to see who it is. I, of course must crawl behind her bootheels once more – making sure I keep up with her fast, young-womanly pace, under pain of the whip!
As soon as the door opens I see the familiar round-toed, single-strapped, black leather, ballet-flats and black socks of my mistress Nupura’s social-worker, miss Hayley. Miss Hayley is a young, blonde, bespectacled white woman, in her mid twenties, who has been tasked with helping my mistress to settle into the Gynarchy. It was miss Hayley who kindly supplied me to miss Nupura as her personal footslave – along with the much-utilised, complimentary, single-tailed, black leather, female whip.
It is always a pleasure to see and to serve miss Hayley’s shoes and socks – for she is in the habit of wearing thick, black woollen anklesocks which crease and fold most appealingly inside her soft, black ballet-flats – and I like to imagine myself burying my footslave-nose deep inside those woollen sock-folds and nuzzling them; not that the cold and standoffish miss Hayley would ever permit me any such selfish, footslave indulgences! She’s much too professional a young blonde woman to ever do that!
But she does always make sure her thick socks are on view, inside her ubiquitous, black leather ballet-flats – and I praise and bless her for that.
Her black woollen socks are therefore to be admired, but not touched, as I pay my enthusiastic, footslave-greeting respects to each of the scuffmarked, rounded toes of her wet, black ballet-flats in turn, beneath the hems of her smart, business-like, grey pinstriped trousers.
Her shoes are rain sodden as well, of course, since she has been walking the same, rainsoaked streets of the Gynarchy as her predecessor, miss Anjali. My mistress Nupura, who now appears to be on a roll, sees a golden opportunity to impress her social worker with her newfound, mistressly skills:
‘Ha! Ha! Vhipped slave – be offering your face as a foot-vipe for miss Hayley this instant! Be lying flat down on the ground again, like I showed you, and inviting her to vipe her dirty feet on you, isn’t it?’
I obey my mistress Nupura, as always – as I know what’s good for me. And besides, having the bespectacled, blonde miss Hayley’s dirty, wet ballet-flat soles dragged across my upturned cheeks will be an honour and a privilege – especially as it means her esteemed, black-woollen socks will be directly above my face:
‘Yes, mistress Napura. At once, goddess-mistress Napura…Oh pray mistress Hayley, if it pleases you mistress Hayley, pray wipe the soles of your feet on my face, that I may divest them of their dirt and detritus, if you would be so kind to a humble, human footwipe, most elegant and respected goddess-mistress Hayley.’
Blonde mistress Hayley smirks down at me as the dirty, wet sole of her right, ballet-flated foot comes down to rest on my upturned left cheek. She is quite a tall girl – with big feet in comparison to miss Anjali – and she does seem to put more of her weight onto me as she uncaringly scrapes the sole of her right shoe across my face. Fortunately that ballet-flat shoe is ultra-soft and malleable, like, one suspects, her thick woollen anklesock which I can just see out of the corner of my eye above her wet shoeline.
This is heaven – a lowly form of footslave-heaven! Acting as a humble footwipe to superior, young women, of differing ethnic origins, who completely and utterly despise me. I’m just a male thing for them to wipe their dirty feet on – and yet I know this is where I belong.
Oh if only my mistress Napura would find some excuse to wipe her bone-dry bootsoles all over my face! I’d be quite prepared now to endure the pain of her spiked heels, just for the honour of being an Indian girl’s bootwipe!
But it’s not to be; my mistress Napura wishes me to serve only her guests. I therefore settle down to an afternoon of discreet and humble foot-servitude at the now cleansed, flat-soled shoes of my mistress’s two important, female visitors – obsessed and dominated by their everyday feet and footwear as a good and diligent footslave should be; and hoping against hope that I shall not require to be publicly ‘vhipped’ by my still emotionally unstable, spikeheel-booted mistress Napura for showing her up in some way in front of her guests!
Chronicle no. 4 - Excerpt from ‘A Footslave’s Guide to Humble Servitude’
The following is an excerpt from just one chapter of a weighty tome known as ‘A Footslave’s Guide to Humble Servitude’ – an erudite but rather quaint work which is nevertheless in daily use throughout the Gynarchy, and oft quoted by female lawyers in order to convict negligent or incompetent, male footslaves in the Female Courts.
It is, if you like, a widely accepted ‘best practice’ guide for footslaves and mistresses alike, setting out the standards of servitude expected of various different sub-types of footslaves.
We shall concentrate on just one of them:
‘Chapter 7 – The Sockslave.
Introduction
The sockslave is a rather queer and peculiar form of personal footslave charged exclusively with the well-being and care of his mistress’s socks. Such a slave will ordinarily be kept locked away with his mistress’s socks and only required to serve his mistress in person as and when she is wearing socks.
The sockslave is, like all footslaves, justly subject to the pain and authority of the female whip, and would therefore do well to avoid neglecting or disrespecting his mistress’s socks. He should regard them as his betters, since they enjoy even more intimate contact with his mistress’s very foot-essence than the human sockslave himself.
The following are indicators of good and seemly sockslave behaviour, calculated to assist the humble sockslave in the avoidance of his mistress’s almighty, feminine whip-sting.
7.1 When not on duty (i.e. when the mistress is not wearing socks) the sockslave should worship and honour his mistress’s discarded socks in her absence. The sockslave would do well to live with his mistress’s socks in a cell devoid of other distractions.
7.2 Typically such a cell should have access to water so that the sockslave may tend to his mistress’s dirty socks by handwashing them. Clearly, all such handwashing must be preceded by the mouthwashing of the mistress’s socks, in order that the very essence of the mistress’s stale foot-perspiration should be extracted from the fibre of the mistress’s discarded socks and properly consumed by her personal sockslave. The essence of a sockslave’s handwashing of his mistress’s socks is not so much to remove her sweat and other excretions from them (such as dead skin and toejam), as to divest them of his own sweat-extracting saliva following the humble mouthwash. Best practice dictates that the imprisoned sockslave shall be required to wash out his mouth every evening with his mistress’s stale, dirty sock-water, and shall thereby never be in need of fresh drinking water.
7.3 In attending to each pair of his mistress’s discarded socks the sockslave must honour their memory. He must have regard to their history on his mistress’s feet, both immediate and long-term, and be particularly respectful of any signs of wear and tear on the mistress’s socks. Thus, when the socks are washed and dried, the good and diligent sockslave will kiss the socks not less than 100 times each on their most worn and frayed parts, prior to ironing and folding the mistress’s precious socks, ready for her to wear on the next occasion she so chooses.
7.4 A mistress’s brand new and as yet unworn socks are similarly deserving of a sockslave’s respect, and must be worship-kissed immediately upon receipt in the sockslave’s cell, even though they do not yet bear the essence of his mistress’s precious feet.
7.5 The sockslave shall only be permitted to leave his cell, and accompany his mistress to heel, whenever she chooses to wear socks.
7.6 The sockslave shall be responsible for dressing his mistress’s feet in her socks; for the general maintenance of his mistress’s socks whilst they are on her feet; and for divesting her feet of her socks at the end of the day.
7.7 Whilst the mistress is wearing her socks the sockslave must be fully obsessed by them.
7.8 If any part of the socks are visible whilst the mistress is wearing them the sockslave must focus in on them, and diligently study and admire them. Any sockslave who does not do so is to be sorely whipped.
7.9 Such focus and admiration may take the form of observing the contours of the mistress’s socks; of admiring the creases and folds in the material of her socks; of admiring the patterns and colours in her socks; of observing the logos on her socks; of counting the stitches in her socks; of considering the condition and well-being of the mistress’s socks; of thinking about her socks on her feet generally.
7.10 In particular, the good sockslave will wish to make a mental note of any anomalies or deficiencies in his mistress’s socks, such as alien fluff or sock-lint attached to the surface of her sock, so that he may rectify matters later back in his sock-cell (e.g. by the subsequent removal of such sock-detritus by means of his sockslave-mouth).
7.11 Should the mistress’s socks require emergency attention whilst they are adorning her feet, such as straightening, the good sockslave must offer to act. However, unless he be employed as a perpetuant sock-kisser, sniffer or nuzzler the sockslave must never touch his mistress’s socks whilst she is wearing them without her express permission. Thus the standard, non-perpetuant sockslave wishing to correct some urgent fault on his mistress’s socks must first approach the mistress for permission to touch her socks, utilising the humblest of humble sockslave-speak.
7.12 An example of such a scenario would be if one of the mistress’s short sneaker socks has slipped down the back of her shoe thereby producing an uneven and untidy appearance to the mistress’s bare heel and anklebones. The good and diligent sockslave in such circumstances will implore the mistress for permission to interfere with her socks, as follows:
“ Oh pray, mistress, if it pleases you mistress, pray forgive this intrusion by your most humble sock-servant, mistress. But this slave has observed some slippage in the mistress’s left sock and craves the mistress’s forbearance and indulgence so that he may straighten the mistress’s short sock for her, if you would be so kind to a weak and humble sock-servant who is at your mercy, most strong and powerful, feminine mistress. Oh pray mistress, please don’t beat me mistress! This slave fears his mistress, and seeks only to be the humble and dutiful servant of his mistress’s socks.”
7.13 If the mistress is disposed to grant her sockslave permission to interfere with her socks, the slave shall proceed to rectify matters swiftly and efficiently under pain of the female whip. If the mistress is not so disposed the slave shall doubtless be whipped, both for his neglect in allowing his mistress’s sock to slip inside her sneaker in the first place, and for so rudely interrupting and disturbing his all-powerful mistress. However, not to risk the mistress’s wrath and displeasure in such circumstances, by ignoring the deficiencies in her sockwear, would be completely unacceptable behaviour in a personal sockslave, and may even lead to dismissal and banishment to the slave-mines.
7.14 Should the mistress’s socks be hidden from the sockslave’s view whilst she is wearing them (e.g. by her trouser-hems or because she is wearing boots) the diligent sockslave must nevertheless have regard to them, by remembering their appearance, and imagining their current state on the mistress’s feet – their warmth and moistness; their aroma; their crookedness inside the mistress’s shoe or boot. The slave should exhibit unobtrusive signs of anxiety and depression at being thus separated from his mistress’s socks, and shall garner every opportunity to observe even the merest slither of the mistress’s socks atop her boots or shoes, at which point his demeanour must change to one of quiet satisfaction and gratitude.
7.15 The sockslave must honour the aroma of his mistress’s worn socks be they fresh or stale, for they reek of his mistress’s precious, individual foot-essence. The diligent sockslave will first inhale that which he is about to ingest when it comes to the mouthwashing of his mistress’s dirty socks. He would rather suck on her dirty socks than eat, for the well-being and cleanliness of his mistress’s socks is of greater importance to him than his own bodily well-being.
7.16 Whilst being whipped the sockslave can expect to be gagged by his mistress’s dirty socks, that his selfish screams may be suitably muffled. The sockslave undergoing punishment must endeavour to observe his mistress’s socks on her feet as she is standing behind him and whipping him, should such a feat be at all achievable. If it is not, he must imagine her socked feet inside her boots or shoes whilst she is whipping him – and honour their righteous memory.
7.17 If the sockslave is being punished at his mistress’s feet by another on his mistress’s behalf, the sockslave may seek solace in his mistress’s socked feet by gently nosing them should his face have access to them whilst he is being whipped.
7.18 The sockslave shall have no say in his mistress’s style of sockwear, but shall fully respect and admire the sockstyle-preferences of his superior mistress, be they short, medium or long; plain or patterned; cotton or woollen; bright or dull. The sockslave is himself a dullard, and incapable of making such decisions on behalf of his mistress.
7.19 The sockslave should be named after his mistress’s socks, since he is their eternal servant, and his sole purpose in existence is to serve them. Common examples of such socknames, all lower case to reflect his lowly status, would be ‘sockboy’; ‘sockswain’; ‘sockpig’; ‘socksniffer’; ‘socklicker’; ‘sockliker’; ‘sockfancier’; ‘sockkisser’ – each preceded by the name of the sockslave’s personal mistress (thus ‘Mistress Olga’s sockboy’; or ‘Mistress Fatima’s sockfancier’; etc.).
7.20 The sockslave may only converse with his mistress in connection with her socks, since all other subject matters are beyond his humble remit. Any sockslave not observing this stipulation is to be sorely whipped. The mistress’s socks are his life – and the be-all and end-all of his existence.
7.21 On his death, the personal sockslave shall be buried with dishonour, his face covered with selected pairs of his mistress’s socks as a symbol of his eternal bondage both to her and to them, and so that future generations may mock his everlasting enslavement to his mistress’s socks should his remains ever be unearthed.
Summary
The position of personal sockslave is a truly lowly and menial position, yet at the same time a great honour and a privilege, and the sockslave would do well to remember that at all times. The successful sockslave will obsesses himself with his mistress’s socks, and put their well-being first, high above his own well-being. Regular tastes of the female whip are inevitable since the sockslave will invariably fall short of his mistress’s high expectations in such an intimate role. But the sockslave must accept his chastisement with humility and resignation as befits the servant of the most humble and odorous of feminine foot-garments, which are nonetheless his infinite betters.’
Chronicle no. 3 – Biting The Bar
This evening my master and mistress have arranged to punish me. I shall be ‘biting the bar’.
My offence was to be caught out not admiring my mistress Fiona’s socks and shoes earlier in the day. She had observed me staring into space instead of staring at the stretched, cotton stitching in her socks whilst I had been kneeling beside her black ballet-flated and besocked feet underneath her desk at her place of work. And that is considered disrespectful, and a crime, for a bright, young woman’s personal footslave here in the Gynarchy.
And so my mistress Fiona had reported my crime to her husband, master Antonio, as soon as she returned home in the evening, with the result that I am now to be punished by him at her feet.
I feel such a fool, for my blonde-ponytailed, bespectacled mistress Fiona is such a beautiful, if slightly plump, young woman, with truly beautiful shoes and socks! Although her everyday worksocks are nominally black, they show signs of greying at the heels and along the insteps through repeated wear and tear. Moreover, the low-cut sides of her plain, well-worn, and now somewhat misshapen, black leather ballet-flats partially reveal a row of exciting little, square-shaped multicoloured logos along the insteps of her otherwise plain black, office socks – a series of little green, red, pink, yellow, and purple square-shaped boxes running the entire length of her socked-instep – and the slight podginess of my attractive mistress’s feet and ankles stretches the stitching in those multicoloured logos in a most alluring way.
How could I not have concentrated on such sweet, blonde-girl, officewear socks? It was simply a moment of madness; a non-blond moment on my baldy part; a foolish, momentary lapse in footslave-concentration for which I am now about to pay dearly!
My deeply offended, but nonetheless happy and excited, mistress Fiona is now seated in the punishment room in front of the punishment stocks. I am kneeling, secured in the wooden stocks, with my unnaturally lowered face just inches away from her slighted, shoed and socked feet. She is seated with her legs crossed coquettishly over at the ankles, so I now have a clear view of both her black anklesocks beneath the slightly raised hems of her plain, black office-slacks, including all the multicoloured, little box-shaped logos running along the sides of her short socks just below her fleshy, white ankles.
The socks are, inevitably, somewhat creased on my mistress’s fat feet at the end of such a long working day – which only adds to my sense of frustration at my stupidity and carelessness. How could I possibly have neglected such an intriguing pair of female socks on such an alluring and sexy, young working-woman’s feet, even for a split second?
I am an idiot!
One thing’s for sure – I’m not neglecting them now! In fact, I am yearning to pay my respects to them now – to kiss them, all along the creased and logoed insteps, as a demonstration of my genuine, footslavish contrition and penitence. But, as my master Antonio finishes off his preparations for my whipping at his young wife’s feet, I am cruelly prevented from doing so – for he is now inserting the dreaded bar into my mouth.
It is a rusty, metal, retractable bar on which the punishee must bite whilst he is being whipped. It is rusty because I have, sadly, had to bite it many times before, and I do tend to produce a lot of saliva during a whipping!
The unforgiving metal bar is designed, of course, to prevent me from biting through my tongue due to the intense pain of the whipping – and also, to a lesser extent, to muffle my screams; not that my master and mistress are too bothered about those, but I need to keep my footslave-tongue intact and in good working order in order to be able to lick my mistress’s shoes and boots clean in the future!
And so, as the cruel, foul-tasting, rusty metal bar is extended in front of my face I must bite onto it, and brace myself for the pain that is to come.
I endeavour to concentrate on my mistress’s black-cotton, socked feet as they extend out beneath my prostrate face in their cute, matching black leather ballet-flats. Too late now, of course!
‘Don’t spare him, Antonio! Whip him hard! Really make him bite into the bar!’, exhorts my mistress Fiona, adjusting her glasses on her somewhat angular nose, normally such a sweet and benevolent young woman, but completely intolerant of any perceived insolence or incompetence on her personal footslave’s part – especially in front of her work colleagues in the office.
I hear the master chuckle evilly behind me as he slowly unfurls the black leather, single-tailed, female whip ready for action. He enjoys whipping me on his wife’s behalf!
There is a pause of a few seconds, which seems like an eternity, as the master-sir deftly measures up my prone and vulnerable bare back with the whip, brushing it softly, at first, against my bare back, which actually only serves to heighten my already frayed nerves, and prolong my agony; deliberately so, I’m guessing. Meanwhile my mistress Fiona’s black ballet-flats and socks crease and fold, almost subliminally, with excited anticipation beneath my kneeling face. Her nerves, too, are on edge, though they, thankfully, won’t be the ones to feel pain!
Already the metal bar is wet as my mouth drools uncontrollably over it. I swallow my pride as I simultaneously attempt, in vain, to swallow my saliva.
Then I hear the much-feared, but sadly all-too-familiar, sound of the terrifying ‘whoosh’ of the single-tailed, leather whip slicing through the air as it descends at the speed of sound onto my bare, bent-over back.
A moment of numbness, by way of a fitting punishment for my earlier moment of madness – followed, very swiftly, by what can only be described as indescribable pain!
I moan forlornly into the bar.
I hear my mistress laughing above me, delighted by my pained reaction to her husband’s whip:
‘Ha! Ha! Harder, Antonio! Harder!’
Her socks and ballet flats now crease and fold almost uncontrollably beneath my face as she urges her husband on to even greater efforts! A drop of my saliva falls off the metal bar and onto my mistress’s left sock – just above one of the little yellow squares along her podgy, socked instep. I pray that she hasn’t noticed this – in all her female arousal and excitement – for dribbling uncontrollably onto my mistress’s socks during punishment is unlikely to earn me any mitigation!
The whipping continues – harder, just as my mistress Fiona had requested it to be…
I shall spare you a blow by blow account, even though I myself was not spared. Seventeen stinging cuts of the female lash in all!
Why seventeen? It’s a purely arbitrary number, chosen by my mistress, the directress of ceremonies. I’m guessing she felt that I actually deserved fifteen lashes, but requested the extra two just for good measure; or perhaps because of my involuntary dribbling onto her socks!
When it is all over the jaw-stretching bar is mercifully retracted and removed from my mouth. It now inevitably contains yet more fresh bite and rust marks from my penitent, oral orifice.
My still seated, steamy-bespectacled mistress Fiona immediately raises the somewhat scuffmarked toe of her right ballet-flat up to my still blubbering lips for me to respectfully kiss. I do so, several times, prior to extending my confined-in-the-wooden-crossbar neck as far as it will go, purely on my own punished-slave initiative, in order to enable me to humbly kiss the coloured box-logos all along the creased instep of her short, black anklesock.
The thin and wearing sock feels soft and comforting on my lips, compared to the recent harshness of the metal bar.
When I do the same to my mistress’s left ballet-flat and sock I can feel the moistness of my earlier dribble on the yellow, square-shaped logo along her left, black-socked instep. How shameful is that?!
‘Ha! Ha! Let that be a lesson to you, dirty disrespectful slave!’ scolds my triumphant, chubby, young, blonde-haired mistress.
‘Y…Yes m…mistress Fiona! Thank you for c…correcting m…me…m… mistress…Fiona. God b…bless you m…mistress Fiona, and G…God bless the master-sir for wielding the whip so effectively on me, mistress!’
I continue to kiss her victoriously extended shoes and socks, in between my sobs of abject pain and humility before my masters and betters, as my mistress stands up to embrace and thank her manly, young husband for disciplining the household footslave in such a pleasing way.
Hopefully, as the still-warm whip is put away, I have indeed learnt my lesson well, and shan’t be having to bite the bar again in the near future! Nothing must ever be allowed to distract me from my sweet mistress Fiona’s misshapen, workaday shoes and socks. In future I must make sure to concentrate on their intrinsic beauty, and prevent my mind from ever wandering away from such sweet, feminine sock!
Chronicle no. 2 – If Truth Be Told
I am still having to lie still on my stomach – 12 hours after my beating! And what a well-deserved beating it was! If truth be told it was just about the worst beating I have ever received as a slave – and yet I fully earned it.
How come? Well, it’s all down to my 22 year old mistress Joanna, who is a bit of a practical joker…
The day had seemed to be progressing normally enough. It was one of my shop-assistant mistress’s scheduled days off, and so she was seated at home on the sofa, flicking through some glossy magazine or other, and half-watching a daytime TV chat show. I, as per usual, in my role as her personal footslave, was kneeling at her feet – her Ugg-booted feet to be precise, for mistress Joanna likes to wear her beige-brown Uggs about the house, fetchingly folded over at the cuffs to make them look like thick, furry, ankle-length slippers below the hems of her calf-length, black cotton leggings.
Of course, her somewhat unusual and quirky form of house-slipper means that I also get to see the tops of her pale pink, ruffle-socks inside her folded-over Ugg boots – an added bonus for a down-on-the-ground footslave, and one designed to ensure that I never get bored at my mistress’s Ugg-booted feet, for I can always count and admire the creases in her pink, cotton sock-tops just below the frilly cuffs if I find my mind starting to wander off the beige-sheepskin outers of my mistress’s folded-over house-boots.
I could tell my 22 year old mistress was getting bored, however, by the ever increasing number of sweet feminine yawns and sighs emanating from the sofa above me.
Eventually, just as I was in the middle of tracing a pink sock-crease with my eyes along the top of my mistress Joanna’s left, pink anklesock, she suddenly threw down her magazine and addressed me:
‘Slave, what don’t you like about me?’
It was a totally shocking and unexpected question from my normally sweet and kind, young mistress – and a question fraught with danger. For it is not a slave’s place to dislike anything about his mistress!
And besides, what’s not to like about my sweet and kind shop-assistant mistress Joanna? She provides me with a roof over my head (albeit the old, disused coal-bunker in the yard outside her house); and she feeds me (albeit only on stale bread and water); and she whips me when I require to be corrected (albeit a little bit too enthusiastically sometimes).
She also prohibits me from walking upright or from taking my eyes off her superior feet. She insists that I remain kneeling at her feet at all times – be she sitting at the supermarket-till where she works; exercising in the gym; seated in the cinema beside her boyfriend; or just relaxing at home on the sofa in her ubiquitous, living room Ugg boots, as she is now.
And, to crown it all, as we have already noted, she wears lacy, ruffled socks inside her shoes and boots – pastel-coloured socks with frilly or lacy tops which only serve to gloriously emphasise her young-womanly femininity. Even when she is wearing her masculine-style, heavy black leather, calf-length, biker-boots to impress her boyfriend, she will be wearing her pale yellow, lacy-trimmed, knee-high cotton socks inside them along with her short, black leather miniskirt – just to remind everyone that she is a girl (which can sometimes be necessary given that her name ‘Jo’, combined with her short, black hair and rather flat chest, could otherwise lead to her being mistaken for a boy if the lights are dimmed in the particular nightclub she is frequenting!)
Lacy socks; whips; and boots - what more could a humble footslave ask for in a mistress?
And so, I respond to my mistress Joanna as you might expect me to - truthfully:
‘Oh pray mistress Joanna, if it pleases you mistress Joanna, there is nothing that this slave does not like about his mistress, if you would be so kind and understanding mistress Joanna. The mistress is perfect, mistress!’
She angrily pushes the side of my kneeling face with the thick, rounded toe of her beige-coloured Ugg boot on her right foot:
‘Don’t lie to me, dirty slave! There must be something that you don’t like about me! Ha! Ha! Nobody’s perfect – not even me! Ha! Ha! I demand that you name two things about me that you don’t like – one physical, and one to do with my personality. And if you don’t come up with anything, so help me God I’ll whip you to Kingdom come, you understand me slave?’
I do understand, especially as my mistress’s dreaded, single-tailed, black leather whip hangs more or less permanently from the belt around her slimline waist!
Oh, but I hate this sort of game! Having to think of two unflattering aspects of my mistress’s physical appearance and personality, and then declaring them to her! It is sure to be a trick by my mischievous mistress – a trick designed to get me whipped!
And yet, if I don’t play along with her cruel game I’m guaranteed a whipping – as she has just explained! So I must try to think quickly on her feet.
First, a physical attribute about my mistress which I don’t really like? Well, her feet tend to get rather hot and sweaty inside her boots and shoes, and consequently they smell – but I like that! I also quite like her short hair and tomboyish looks for, as I have already indicated, she softens her tomboy image with her short skirts and frilly socks. She’s a sock-girl, and I wouldn’t want that to change!
The only thing I can genuinely think of is that she is somewhat bandy-legged! Her mates are always taking the mickey out of her bandy-leggedness, and she doesn’t seem to mind! I genuinely would prefer it if she had nice, long, shapely legs, instead of skinny ones – so perhaps I’ll go for that?
Oh pray, sweet goddesses in heaven, please don’t let me be whipped for saying this!
‘Erm…Oh pray mistress Joanna, oh pray, oh mistress… erm…this slave is humbly aware of the mistress’s somewhat bandy-legs, if you would be so kind and forgiving to an insolent slave, all powerful mistress Joanna!’
There is a deadly, terrifying silence for a few seconds as I stare into my mistress’s Ugg-booted feet, and possibly into the abyss, before she suddenly bursts out laughing:
‘Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! So – you don’t like the shape of my legs, slave! Ha! Ha! That’s good! That’s the first thing! Now, what about my personality – what don’t you like about that?’
This is easier, under the circumstances. I don’t like the fact that my mistress is a bit of a joker – a practical joker, who is evidently angling to get me into trouble somehow or other.
So I tell her so:
‘Oh pray mistress, if you’ll forgive me mistress, this slave is unsettled by the mistress’s unique sense of humour, if it is so pleasing to you most merciful mistress.’
Again she laughs:
‘Ha! Ha! Oh, so you don’t like playing our little game, do you slave? Ha! Ha! Well that’s just too bad! Because from now on, whenever you address me, I want you to call me ‘Bandy-legged joke of a mistress’! Ha! Ha! You’re to call me that even in front of others, yeah? Even if my boyfriend is present, yeah? Ha! Ha! I want to see the reactions on their faces! Ha! Ha!’
I lower my lips to the furry, grey-white cuffs of my mistress’s folded-over Ugg boots and kiss them repeatedly whilst begging for mercy:
‘Oh pray sweet mistress! Oh pray! Please don’t make me address you like that! Oh pray mistress – I shall be sorely whipped for such public insolence! Oh mistress Joanna! Oh pray!’
But she continues to laugh at me, bandy-legged joker that she is:
‘Ha! Ha! I know, slave – that’s the whole point! Ha! Ha! I want to see you being whipped for insulting me! NOW DO IT! CALL ME A BANDY-LEGGED JOKE OF A MISTRESS NOW, OR I’ll WHIP YOU TO HIGH HEAVEN ANYWAY!’
Her jocular tone has suddenly vanished, and I feel I have no choice:
‘Yes mistress Joanna, I obey you mistress Joanna, you bandy-legged joke of a mistress.’
Mistress Joanna is rolling around in the sofa in hysterics again. I appear to have tickled her funny-bone.
But she wants even more:
‘Ha! Ha! Ha! And not only that, slave, I demand that you describe every other mistress you meet today truthfully! You’re not just to address them as mistress – you’re to say exactly what you think of them when you are addressing them! You get me, slave? Ha! Ha!’
‘Yes, mistress Joanna.’
‘YES WHAT, SLAVE?’
‘Yes, you bandy-legged joke of a mistress, mistress Joanna!’
Fortunately for me, mistress Joanna is now too weak with laughter to hit me.
But I’m not laughing – for I know that this particular path she has set me on is leading me to an inevitable collision course with the female whip!
……………………………………………………………..
Sure enough, some 30 minutes later the doorbell rings and I must, as per usual, crawl on my hands and knees out to the front door porch in order to answer it.
When I open the door I see the familiar, black leather, zip-up ankle boots and black denim jeans of one of my mistress’s best friends and colleagues from the supermarket checkout – mistress Rosalind.
I kiss the stylish, square-shaped toes of her outstretched ankleboots each in turn as they are nonchalantly presented to me, and spot with some relish as I do so the elasticated tops of mistress Rosalind’s plain, black cotton bootsocks inside her chunky-heeled, zipped-up ankleboots – such a sobering contrast to the frilly, pastel shades of my own, bandy-legged joker-mistress’s frilly, pink bootsocks!
‘Is your mistress at home, slave?’ enquires miss Rosalind politely.
‘Yes indeed, fat lazy black mistress Rosalind!’ I reply.
…………………………………………………………..
And that’s why you find me still in the whipping-recovery room after some 12 hours.
You might think it’s funny – but mistress Rosalind certainly didn’t!
Chronicle no. 1 – Muted Praise
My 27 year old mistress, mistress Samantha, would be regarded by most people as a fairly ordinary sort of girl – both in her personality and appearance.
She is of average height and average build – perhaps veering slightly towards the plump side. Her long shoulder length hair is dyed auburn-red, and she often wears it tied back in a fetching ponytail.
Some free persons might rather unkindly suggest that she can be a bit stand-offish and full of herself, but as far as I am concerned I won’t hear a word said against her. For to me, she is my supremely beautiful and superior foot-mistress and goddess, and it is my privilege to be her dirty and unworthy personal footslave.
I have been in bondage to her feet for over 5 years now, and so my mistress and I know each other well. As a result, she no longer feels the need to converse with me – not even to bark down her haughty, mistressly orders at me. Nor does she bother to verbally admonish me when I screw up at her feet; she simply lets her whip do the talking.
Needless to say my mistress Samantha has likewise withdrawn from me my permission to speak to her. Her last words to me were that she had no interest in hearing the whining and moaning words of a down-in-the-dirt footslave, and that my purpose in life was to obey, not to converse with my free betters. She has therefore imposed a vow of silence on me which I am only permitted to break whilst undergoing a whipping at her fair hands – and even then I am only permitted to gasp and grunt with pain. Even begging for mercy is strictly prohibited to me.
But she does like to hear me suffer.
Throughout the day, therefore, and every day, I must humbly kneel at my mistress Samantha’s feet and be seen but not heard – as befits a dumb footslave. I express my devotion and obedience towards my mistress by honouring her footwear with my silent attention and respect.
Like now – for example – as I kneel beneath her desk at her place of work, admiring her black leather, chunky heeled, round-toed, zip-up ankle boot and black and red ankle sock on her right foot beneath the hem of her black, officewear, bootcut slack. My mistress is seated with her right leg crossed over her left whilst talking on the phone, which is why I can see the elasticated top of her red and black cotton bootsock as her foot hovers and swivels subconsciously in the air at my kneeling-face level.
Even if I were permitted to speak, I would never, of course be permitted to interrupt my hair-twiddling mistress Samantha whilst she is on the phone – and especially not when, as now, she appears to be on the phone to her boyfriend, even though she’s supposed to be working!
But in a fantasy world where I could address my mistress at such times, this is what I would say – all in the humblest of humble slave-speak of course:
‘Oh pray goddess-mistress Samantha, if it pleases you goddess-mistress Samantha, truly this slave is honoured to be kneeling at your feet and staring at your right sock and ankle boot as you flex your superior, feminine foot-muscles.
This dirty slave praises and blesses the mistress for your mistressly indulgence towards him, and for graciously permitting him to kneel with his face at your upper boot-level, for it is an inestimable honour or a dirty slave such as myself to be afforded the most pleasing and educative sight of your elasticated sock-top. Truly this slave respects and admires the creases in your most beautiful anklesock, most beautiful and kind mistress Samantha, and yearns to bury his slave-nose in those very same feminine sock-creases, and to nuzzle them, if it would be so pleasing to the superior, ponytailed mistress!
The mistress is rightly contemptuous of her slave, mistress-madam, as she is his infinite better. Even the stitching in her sock is a more intricate life-form than the humble slave kneeling at her feet. And the common-or-garden, black leather ankleboot, which so masterfully protects the mistress’s precious sock and bare foot from the elements, is likewise the slave’s better. Truly the slave praises and eulogises the mistress’s sock and boot, for they enjoy a far more intimate contact with the mistress’s divine, bare footflesh than this slave could ever hope to aspire to!
And rightly so – for the slave is not worthy, madam.
Oh pray, mistress! Oh pray! Pray teach this worthless slave proper obedience and respect for the mistress and her footwear by means of your female whip! Continue to beat him and whip him, mistress, as you are wont to do, for even though this slave fears the mighty sting of your whip, he needs its corrective embrace to remind him of his place and his lowliness beneath the mistress’s socks and boots. The whip will fairly teach him humility and respect for his female betters and their footwear, most sweet and kind mistress Samantha!
Oh pray, pretty mistress! Oh pray! You are the goddess and I am the worm! Trample me under boot, if you will, and then scrape my filth from the sole of your precious boot. For that is what I am, mistress – the filth beneath your boots. Pray walk on me and keep me oppressed and downtrodden at your superior, female feet – where I belong.
Blessèd be your boot, mistress, and blessèd be your sock! I kiss your sock in submission, and beg for your righteous, feminine contempt. I am undone, mistress Samantha, and the power of your whip has been my undoing. Your sock is my life!’
Of course, my self-obsessed mistress Samantha is completely oblivious to my dumb feelings for her as she chatters away on the phone over my head to her unseen boyfriend, and subliminally twists her anklebooted and socked, right foot in the air directly in front of my mesmerized, footslave-face. Even if I could talk and express all my feelings for her and her boots and socks, she would not be moved.
And rightly so, for I am nothing but a brute thing – an object required by law to kneel at her feet and admire them. How could a superior, young woman like my mistress Samantha not despise such a lowly, dumb animal?
I therefore hold my slave-tongue, and endeavour to count the individual stitches in her constantly moving, red and black cotton sock-top, as befits a mute footslave.
