Footslave Chronicles Volume 4
The fourth volume in a collection of essays chronicling the experiences of humble footslaves, both public and private.
VOLUME 4 CONTENTS (scroll down for chronicles in reverse numerical order)
10. Innocent Questions
9. Turkish Delight
8. Sox or Sex?
7. The Professional, Hindu-Girl Whippersnapper
6. Mistress Charlotte’s unremarkable (but very much admired) blue and grey, stripy, anklelength bootsocks
5. Me, Me, Me
4. In The Recovery Stocks
3. Bullying Bertha
2. Bubbly Beth
1. The Irish Girl’s Ankleboot-Nuzzler
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Chronicle no. 10 – Innocent Questions
25 year old miss Hayley is from out of town. From outside the Gynarchy, in fact – England, I believe.
I know her name, age and ethnicity only because I overheard the slave-merchant, master Abdulla sir, talking to her above my head, before he left her to examine the goods (me) in some peace. Master Abdulla does not believe in pressure-selling techniques; he very much believes that the slave-goods will pretty much sell themselves (mainly because, for every day we don’t sell ourselves, we get sorely whipped!)
Blonde miss Hayley is minded to purchase me as her personal footslave, at least for the duration of her studies here in the Gynarchy, but, not being born and raised in the Female State, she has a number of perfectly innocent questions about the mistress/slave relationship which, somewhat naively, she feels she should put to me – the prospective slave!
However, I am happy to answer them; indeed, I am obliged to by law, given that miss Hayley is young and female, and therefore my ultimate better.
She is standing over me in the slave marketplace as I kneel with my middle-aged, maleslave head humbly bowed over her feet. Miss Hayley is dressed as a typical student-girl of her generation – a pale grey anorak; dark blue denim jeans; and black leather, spike heeled, pointy-toed, zip-up ankleboots.
I cannot see her socks.
She asks me her first inquisitive question in her, rather plummy and posh, southern-English accent:
‘Ok yah, so, supposing I did purchase you for my feet, slave, what would I call you then?’
‘Oh pray mistress, if it pleases you mistress, that would be entirely a matter for the mistress, but some mistresses choose to address their personal slaves merely as ‘slave’, whilst others may add a suitable descriptor, such as ‘dirty slave’ or ‘filthy footslave’. Still others may apportion a slave-nickname to their property, such as ‘Dumbass’ – if you are forbidding me to speak, miss. Or ‘Foot-boy’; or ‘Sock-boy’, if it is so pleasing to you most esteemed mistress.’
‘Mmm…and what would you have to call me, if I did give you female permission to speak, slave?... ‘Miss Hayley’? Or ‘mistress Hayley? Or just plain ‘mistress’?’
‘Oh pray mistress…again mistress, it is entirely as the mistress so desires. If the mistress is disposed to permit her slave to address her using her beautiful first name, then the slave shall be obliged to do so – and honoured too, if I may say so, most respected mistress Hayley!’
‘Ha! Ha! Most respected mistress Hayley! I like that, dirty slave! Ha! Ha! Call me that from now on, and I shall call you ‘dirty slave’, yah?’
‘Yes, most respected mistress Hayley. Thank you, most respected mistress Hayley. As it pleases you, most respected mistress Hayley.’
‘And how do I make you kiss my feet, dirty slave?’
‘Oh pray most respected mistress Hayley, pray just position your pretty foot beneath my kneeling face, most respected mistress Hayley. The mistress’s outstretched foot is a signal to her slave that he must immediately kiss it, if it would be so pleasing to you most respected mistress Hayley.’
The naïve, young, blonde, English student-girl does so; she coyly stretches forth her right, black-anklebooted foot so that it is resting on the dirty floor of the slave market-place directly beneath my ever humbly-bowed face. Her right jean-leg has now ridden up slightly, thanks to the outstretched positioning of her right foot, but sadly not yet high enough to uncover the top of her smart and stylish, high-heeled, black leather ankleboot, so I still don’t know anything about her socks – or even if she is wearing any!
Nevertheless, the pointy-toed, black ankleboot smells nice and leathery as I obediently lower my lips to the somewhat scuffmarked toe of her student-girl ankleboot, and I like the way the zipper track up the side of her boot is creased and folded in several places. The boot looks well-worn, and ‘moulded’ to the shape of the blonde, English girl’s foot and ankle.
She sniggers as my lips duly make their first humble contact with the dusty, scuffmarked toe of her outstretched, right boot. She then promptly, and intuitively, switches feet beneath my face:
‘And the other one, dirty slave!’
Miss Hayley – sorry, most respected mistress Hayley – is learning fast! Indeed, so fast that she now even hitches up the hem of her blue-denim jean leg to properly expose the twisted and creased, elasticated top of a light grey, somewhat ropey-looking, ankle-length, cotton bootsock:
‘Kiss the top of my sock also, dirty slave, yah?’
‘Yes, most respected mistress Hayley. As you wish, most respected mistress Hayley.’
I do hope most respected mistress Hayley decides to buy me, because her light grey bootsock feels deliciously soft and warm on my footslave-lips, and I do like boots-and-socks girls!
But, be she a natural-born mistress or not, most respected overseas mistress Hayley still has some probing questions for her would-be, personal footslave:
‘Ha! Ha! You really do have to obey everything I say, dirty slave, yah?’
‘Yes indeed, most respected mistress Hayley. Absolutely, most respected mistress Hayley! If the mistress orders me to kiss boot, I kiss boot. If the mistress orders me to kiss sock, I kiss sock. I aim only to please, if you would be so kind and understanding, most respected mistress Hayley.’
I am not putting a question mark after that last sentence as it is not my place to ask questions of the sweet and naïve mistress – merely to answer her questions with factual statements, delivered in respectful, obsequious slavespeak, of course.
‘Ha! Ha! But what if you don’t obey me, dirty slave? Or if you displease me? How may I punish you then?’
Such a fetchingly naïve, young foreigner! Can she not see the whip-scars on my bare back? She really is quite sweet – like her soft, grey, ropey and well-worn bootsocks!
‘Oh pray, most respected mistress Hayley, if it pleases you, most respected mistress Hayley, if this dirty slave has the audacity to disobey the most respected mistress, or to displease her in any way, she may have him punished with the dreaded female whip, if it would be so pleasing to you, most respected mistress Hayley. The mistress may either apply the whip herself, or employ a professional whipmistress, as the mistress so pleases, most respected mistress Hayley. The mistress shall no doubt be furnished with a free whip upon purchasing the slave by the slave’s current master-merchant, if you would be so kind and understanding, most respected mistress Hayley. Please don’t beat me with the whip, most respected mistress Hayley. This slave is a good slave, most respected mistress Hayley.’
She has by now unhitched her left jeanleg-hem once again, thereby hiding the top of her freshly-kissed, grey girlsock. But I know there is plenty more sock where that came from, and now fervently hope to become the full-time, personal servant of miss Hayley’s light grey bootsocks – not just kissing them, but putting them on and taking them off her young-womanly feet for her; inhaling them before and after she has worn them inside her leathery, student-girl boots at college; nosing them; nuzzling them; sucking them; washing them; ironing them; worshipping them.
She laughs at my evident fear of her power over me, as well as my fear of the potential sting of her whip:
‘Ha! Ha! I shall have to go to whipping classes in order to learn how to use the whip properly on you, dirty slave, yah?’
‘Yes, most respected mistress Hayley. Thank you, most respected mistress Hayley. God bless you, most respected mistress Hayley!’
I think she’s joking. But her tone turns serious again:
‘You do realise that I shan’t be having any sex with you, don’t you, dirty slave? I find you totally repulsive, and I already have a boyfriend! You’ll just be my personal, dirty footslave – responsible only for cleaning my dirty feet, socks and boots? You can never look at my naked body – or even look me in the eye; only in the foot, yah?’
‘Oh yes, most respected mistress Hayley. That is entirely understood, most respected mistress Hayley. This dirty, lowlife footslave would never dream of engaging in sexual intercourse with a superior mistress, most respected mistress Hayley. He is not worthy of such intimate pleasure, most respected mistress Hayley, and must confine himself to his footslave-duties at all times, most respected mistress Hayley!’
‘Good! And you must also show your respect for my boyfriend at all times by addressing him as ‘most respected master Jeremy’, is that clear, dirty slave?’
‘Oh yes, most respected mistress Hayley. This slave will have no trouble in showing respect to the mistress’s superior boyfriend, since he is a free man, and therefore better than the slave, if it is so pleasing to you most respected mistress Hayley.’
I am actually quite shocked by miss Hayley’s inference that I might try to somehow usurp her boyfriend’s role in her life! Does she really think I would ever take my footslave-eyes of her discarded boots and socks in favour of her young-womanly nakedness? Just what kind of a footslave does she think I am?!
‘And just one more question, dirty slave, if I may? What happens when I want to get rid of you? For example, when I finish my studies and decide to go back to my own country? Or if I just get bored with you? How do I dispose of you?’
‘Oh pray most respected mistress Hayley, if it pleases you most respected mistress Hayley, the mistress is perfectly at liberty to dispense with her personal footslave’s services at any time, and to dispose of him as she sees fit, if it so pleases you, most respected mistress Hayley. For example, most respected mistress, you may choose to re-sell the slave to another mistress, either through a private arrangement or via a slave-market like this one; or you may gift the slave to the slave-mines; or you may simply dump the slave out onto the streets for the municipal dustwomen to collect along with all your other household rubbish and dispose of as they see fit. This slave will forever be at the mercy of the mistress and her whims, if it is so pleasing to you most respected mistress Hayley.’
Blonde miss Hayley scratches her right thigh through her thick, blue-denim, student-girl jeans and thinks for a moment:
‘Mmm… Ok yah, I think I’ll take you, dirty slave! Where do I pay?’
‘Oh pray, most respected mistress Hayley! Oh thank you, most respected mistress Hayley! Oh mistress! Oh mistress! Oh pray! This slave will be ever such a good and loyal footslave to you, mistress Hayley! Pray just go up to my master and offer to pay for me at the till, if it so pleases you mistress Hayley!’
She laughs at my fevered enthusiasm for my impending bondage to her feet, boots and socks:
‘Erm…I must remember to ask for that free whip you mentioned to be thrown in, dirty slave – since you’ve just disobeyed me twice by failing to address me as ‘most respected mistress Hayley, yah?’
I could kick myself! In my enthusiasm for my impending embondagement to this posh, young, naïve Englishwoman I had completely forgotten my gentleman-footslave manners!
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Master-sir Abdulla did throw in a complimentary whip; and most respected mistress Hayley did whip my bare back with it – there and then, in the centre of the slave-market!
And boy did it smart, as she then literally rode me out of the building, much to the amusement of the other female customers! Turns out she’s an equestrian – well used to taming and riding wild horses. So breaking in a slave should be a doddle for her!
She may have been the one asking all the questions today – but I too, it seems, have a lot to learn!
Chronicle no. 9 – Turkish Delight
Right now I feel that I really am the luckiest footslave alive, for I am honoured and privileged to be kneeling behind the feet of my most beautiful, Turkish office-footmistress – miss Eylül – staring at the backs of her shapely, Eurasian heels and legs.
It is an honour because my personal office-mistress Eylül is a truly beautiful, young woman in her late twenties – plump and round; a delightfully sultry complexion framed by bleached-blonde, shoulder-length hair tied back in a fetching ponytail (her hair is so naturally dark you can still see the black roots); ample breasts; and shapely legs with strong, muscular calf-muscles.
On top of all that – or rather, on top of her shapely legs and strong calf-muscles – she is wearing her black, woolly, Turkish-girl tights beneath her matching, black, knee-length office skirt, so she really looks the business today!
And that business is to work as one of the office receptionists, greeting the Financial company’s clients and visitors at the Reception desk, behind which she is seated on a swivel chair – her feet resting on a circular, metal bar at the base of the chair.
I am kneeling on the floor directly behind her feet – out of sight of the clients. My mesmerized face is currently just a couple of inches away from the 2 inch heels of miss Eylül’s smart, shiny, black leather court shoes, the backs of her black-woolly-tighted legs towering above me like the legs of a female colossus (even though my mistress is only of average height!).
But none of that is what actually makes me feel like the luckiest footslave alive! The reason I feel quite so lucky is that my sultry-blonde mistress Eylül’s thick, black woolly tights are wearing away and thinning at the backs of her heels, due to repeated wear and tear, with the result that I can kneel and admire the sight of her hard and wrinkled, bare, Turkish heel-skin beneath the thinly disguised ‘veil’ of her worn-away, woolly-tights material!
I can actually see the redness of her otherwise dusky heel-skin where previous pairs of shoes and boots have been rubbing against the backs of her unprotected heels – making them hard and leathery-calloused – and all through a thin covering of partially worn-away, black wool!
A plump, calloused colossus – that’s how I would describe my beautiful, bleached-blonde-ponytailed, Turkish mistress!
What a bonanza for a down-on-his-knees, down-in-the-dirt personal footslave – young, Turkish-woman, dry and chapped heelskin staring me right in the face!
Of course, that’s not all there is to admire about the backs of my plump, young, blonde-haired, Turkish mistress’s heels and legs as she sits above me behind her Reception desk:
· I can admire the sharp contrast between the shiny black of her polished, court shoes, and the matt black of her woollen tights (I just wish I’d been the one to tongue-polish her shoes this morning, but that privilege was, presumably, enjoyed by her downtrodden, stay-at-home, household footslave!);
· I can admire the various little wrinkles, creases and folds in the soft, woolly material of her, once perfect, black tights, particularly around her ankles (there are currently at least three such creases near the top of her plump, left ankle – though the number of creases varies all the time as she subliminally flexes her Turkish foot-muscles in front of my face);
· I can admire the way her black tights take on a lighter hue as they progress up her plump, Turkish-girl calve-muscles, due to the stretching of the black, woollen stitching (though I must be careful here, and not allow my eyes to wander above her upper calf-level, since I am her personal, office footslave and therefore required by law to study only my office-receptionist mistress’s lower calves, ankles, heels and feet. Indeed, my mistress Eylül has had me fitted (at her employers’ expense) with a concentrator device which should give me a sharp, painful shock to my temples if my eyes stray away from the aforementioned areas even for one second, though it’s an old, second-hand model and doesn’t always work! Ha! Ha!
· I can revel in my sense of utter lowliness vis-à-vis my superior, Turkish mistress as she literally sits with her back to me, towering above me, dealing with her important business of the day whilst I must merely stare at, and silently worship, her imperfect feet and footwear.
My office-mistress is very indulgent towards me, even though she is currently depressed as a result of being dumped by her longstanding boyfriend. Sure, she has been whipping me a lot of late at work – taking out her frustration with men generally on poor, little old me, her hapless, helpless, powerless office-footslave! My bare back is therefore very scarred and sore as I kneel behind her thinly-veiled, woolly-tighted heels beneath the Reception desk.
You could say that, at the moment, she is a somewhat bitter and callous, calloused colossus!
But my mistress Eylül is, nevertheless, fundamentally, in her heart of hearts, a sweet and kind slave-mistress, and she therefore not only gives free reign to her whip, but also gives me free reign to nose and kiss her woolly-tighted heels and feet at my footslave-discretion.
She is not a ‘perpetuant’ mistress as such – requiring the continual nosing or kissing of her feet and footwear – but she does seem to like the occasional, unsolicited touch of my slave-nose or lips on the backs of her working heels. I think it reminds her of her absolute power and female authority over me, and my utter, maleslave devotion to her – particularly at this difficult time when she is feeling rejected by her erstwhile, freeman boyfriend.
Of course, I have no choice but to remain devoted to my mistress Eylül. An office slave can’t exactly ‘dump’ his office mistress. But, in any event, I would never run away, or more accurately crawl away, from my beloved mistress (the footslavish equivalent of ‘dumping’) – and not just because the unreliable concentrator-device might actually kick in giving me truly dreadful pain to my fleeing temples; nor because I would almost certainly be caught by the Female Police and subjected to a richly deserved, public flogging in the town square; but because I am genuinely devoted to my mistress Eylül’s Turkish feet and footwear, and can’t live without them!
Here’s an example of exactly how devoted I am to my daytime, office-mistress and her feet:
It’s now mid-afternoon, and my mistress is relaxing with her de-shoed, woolly-tighted feet resting on the edge of a chair in the office’s communal coffee-lounge, skim-reading a glossy fashion-magazine whilst waiting for her coffee to cool. She happens to be alone in the office rest-room, and sadly devoid of any office, Alpha-male companionship (I don’t count, of course, being merely a raggedy-assed footslave, kneeling at the base of the wooden chair with my head humbly bowed over my Turkish office-mistress’s raw, black-woolly-tighted feet whilst I absorb her daylong office-footsweat onto my obedient slave-fingers and up my twitching slave-nose; revelling in it, in fact!)
My mistress Eylül needs to feel loved, however, even if merely by her devoted office-footslave, and so she suddenly casts aside her glossy magazine, picks up her coffee cup, and commands me to verbalize my professional, footslavish devotion towards her Turkish feet:
‘Slave, what are you admiring most about my sweaty feet today?’
I don’t look at her, of course – only at her feet; for I am not worthy to look my beautiful, plump, bleached-blonde, Turkish mistress in the false eyelash. Besides, the concentrator device is switched on and does appear to be working today! I therefore continue to massage her sweaty, tights-covered feet, occasionally kissing them, as I obediently gush out my fear and devotion towards my petulant and self-obsessed, Turkish footmistress in the universal language of humble slave-speak:
‘Oh pray mistress Eylül, if it pleases you goddess-mistress Eylül; please don’t beat me today mistress Eylül. This slave is a good footslave, and truly admires and respects the touch, smell and taste of his superior mistress’s warm, moist feet and damp, woolly tights, if it is so pleasing to you most beautiful and kind office-mistress Eylül. Oh pray mistress! Oh pray! Truly you are gorgeous! Your tights are wearing away at the heels mistress, and this slave is truly honoured to observe the beautiful mistress’s hardened heel-skin beneath the thinning material of her tights, as he rubs his ugly and unworthy face and nose over them, and breathes in your personal foot-air, should you be so kind and understanding to a dirty footslave, most magnificent mistress Eylül? Oh mistress, truly the aroma of your sweaty feet and tights is a blessing to this slave, who is fit only to breathe in the air contaminated by the superior mistress’s warm, sweaty feet, should it be so pleasing to you mistress Eylül?’
My office-footmistress laughs and wiggles her Turkish toes inside the black, but slightly greying, reinforced toe areas of her thick, woolly tights. My obsequiousness amuses her:
‘Ha! Ha! You a fool! You a lamebrain! Ha! Ha! You a dumb moron, slave – like all men! Your pleas for my sweet, feminine mercy fall on deaf ears! Go fetch the office whip. Eylül feels like whipping you now! Ha! Ha!’
‘Yes mistress Eylül . At once mistress Eylül.’
Even though I have specifically begged not to be whipped this afternoon, and even though I have been totally obedient towards my office-mistress and answered her demeaning question as truthfully and honestly as I can, there is no point in arguing with a cruelly abandoned and loveless, Turkish mistress when she orders you to fetch her a whip; you might as well just fetch the whip and get it over with – for whipped you will be, at the mistress’s pleasure; in lieu of her scumbag boyfriend; and in the office coffee-lounge!
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I was whipped, and sorely so. But all the while I was being whipped by my mistress Eylül I focussed in on her wonderful, woolly-tighted feet and legs behind me, still admiring the occasional flash of her thinly-veiled, Turkish heel skin beneath her semi-transparent, black woolly tights as she applied each vicious whip-stroke to my bare, kneeling back.
I knew I was being vicariously punished for the sins of her disloyal boyfriend, which is an honour in and of itself. Like I said – I am the luckiest footslave alive to be in painful bondage to such a traumatised, Turkish delight!
Chronicle no. 8 – Sox or Sex?
She is everything I am not – young; female; free; good-looking and intelligent (I am old; male; enslaved; ugly and stupid!).
Twenty-three-year-old, platinum-blonde mistress Marika is self-evidently my infinite better, and that is why you find me with my maleslave-hangdog expression kneeling by her feet as she perches on the edge of her office desk engaged in a superior telephone conversation with another of her fellow, free human-beings, her left foot resting on the ground whilst her right dangles over the edge of the desktop woodwork.
I might be a total loser in her eyes, but I am fortunate enough to be permitted, in my humble capacity as the office footslave, to use my eyes to look at her dangling right foot – not that her stationary left foot would be unappealing to look at, but there is so much more of her sock visible on her right foot!
Mistress Marika is wearing her usual, smart, grey-pinstriped, office trouser-suit, with her favourite pair of well-worn and scuffmarked, black leather, kitten-heeled, single-strapped, mary-jane-style office shoes, and black and yellow ankle socks.
The yellow on her socks is confined to the reinforced heel and toe areas, and so I can only observe a small slither of yellow sock material at the very back of her right anklesock; the rest of it is hidden inside her shoe. But at least I can see some yellow on her right sock; only the pure black of her left sock is visible, due to the hem of her left trouser-leg covering most of her left shoe – which is why I feel so honoured and privileged to be allowed to raise my head to the side of her dangling, exciting, right shoe and sock.
To be permitted to observe even a snippet of the normally hidden-beneath-pinstriped-trouser-hem, bright yellow heel-area of such a bleached-blonde, office goddess’s otherwise unremarkable, plain black, officewear sock is truly a footslave-privilege beyond compare, particularly since that little triangular area of exposed, yellow sock material is now tantalizingly creasing and folding at the back of her soft, young-womanly heel directly in front of my mesmerized eyes as she subconsciously flexes her dangling, right foot-muscles whilst engrossed in her telephone conversation above me.
The subject of that conversation is really none of my damn business, of course. My only legitimate business is her shoe and sock; studying them; admiring them; yearning to be even closer to them – to pay homage to them with my sockloving slave mouth and face. But I cannot help but ascertain from the tone of miss Marika’s voice above me that it appears to be a personal, and somewhat lovey-dovey, non-work-related telephone conversation – even though it is taking place in office time and on an office phone!
Naughty miss Marika!
Be that as it may, I’m quite sure miss Marika’s male boss (yes – they do exist here in the Gynarchy!) won’t mind. After all, miss Marika is a pretty, young woman who is very much in her prime; she can therefore do no wrong as far as the lucky, free males of the Gynarchy are concerned. In fact, she can do whatever she damn well pleases! And rightly so; for she is young, and a member of the superior sex!
I, on the other hand, as I have already explained, am merely middle-aged and male, and if I do anything wrong I shall be sorely whipped – again, rightly so! I therefore do my best to ignore the happy-go-lucky, seemingly somewhat banal telephone conversation going on above me as I admire superior, young, blonde-woman strappy, kitten-heeled, black leather shoe and cute, black and yellow anklesock.
And so to the all-important details of my humble footwear-observations:
The shoe has most definitely seen better days, though just by being on superior miss Marika’s shapely foot it takes on a divinity all of its own. The fetching, grey scuffmarks are mainly located on the rounded toe area and on the base of the black leather kitten heel.
I should stress that I did earlier try my shoe-level best to remove, or at least soften, those jagged scuffmarks with my office footslave-tongue, but they, inevitably, reappeared just as soon as my saliva had dried off the surface of miss Marika’s shoes.
She didn’t have me immediately beaten or whipped for this foolish attempt at a temporary cover-up on my part, for she is not, despite appearances, a vindictive or cruel young woman, and she knows that only several coatings of proper, black shoe-polish would stand any chance of divesting her shoes of their ingrained scuffmarks.
I would be happy to apply such polish to miss Marika’s mary-jane shoes with my bare tongue – despite the inevitable, bitter and poisonous taste of fresh shoe-polish on the tastebuds – if she had the time and blonde-inclination to make me do so. But, like most modern, young women, she hasn’t – she has much more important things to think about in her pretty head than the state of her lowly, office shoes; like the state of her relationship with her current boyfriend; and her hair; and her figure; and her make-up; and the size of her breasts; and whether or not she should get a boob job.
For miss Marika is mainly interested in what free men think about her – so that she can please them and attract a mate. She doesn’t give two hoots about what may attract a down-in-the-dirt, middle-aged and decrepit old male footslave like me towards her – i.e. her shiny shoes and sexy socks; for she can’t exactly mate with a slave! Ha! Ha! Who ever heard of such a thing?
Oh well, at least my tongue did manage to remove most of the surface dirt and dust from her pretty, mary-jane-style shoe before my shoe-shining session was so rudely interrupted by her phone ringing. Only the silvery-looking, heart-shaped buckle on the end of the single, black leather strap crossing the crown of her black-socked foot looks like it could still do with a bit of a tongue-polishing – although I dare not do so whilst miss Marika is talking on the phone. She might find it a distraction – having her buckle-strap sucked. I would need her explicit, verbal authority for such an intimacy, especially because there would be a risk of my mouth touching her sock; but I fully intend to seek such authority from her just as soon as she has finished her irritating (for me) phone conversation!
And here is what I shall say to her, in all humility:
‘Oh pray, mistress Marika, if it pleases you beautiful, blonde, mistress Marika, please forgive this dirty footslave for his impertinence goddess-mistress Marika, and please don’t beat me mistress, but this humble slave wishes to enquire of the mistress whether she would require him to resume his feeble efforts in the cleansing of the mistress’s office footwear, if you would be so kind to a lowly footslave mistress? And, in particular whether the mistress would require the slave to tongue-polish the shiny buckle on the mistress’s right shoe-strap, if it would be so pleasing to you most sweet and divine mistress Marika? Oh pray mistress! Oh pray! Truly this slave is the unworthy servant of your shoes and socks, most divine mistress Marika!’
And here, no doubt, is how she shall reply, as she resumes her properly seated position at her desk:
‘Like, just get on with it then, dirty slave, yeah?’
But that is an imagined, mistress-slave conversation which is yet to come. For now she is having a real-time conversation with a real man – a proper man; her boyfriend on the end of her office phone. Thick though I am, I have managed to glean that much from her tender tones above me.
Her right foot suddenly subliminally twists again to one side in front of my unworthy, kneeling face which is glued so adoringly by the side of miss Marika’s grossly under-utilized, office desk! Aahh, that sweet, blonde, office-girl, black and yellow anklesock! It truly looks good enough to nose and to sniff – especially when it is creasing and folding around the bright yellow heel area in front of my face, as it is now. I can also see several little furry balls of black sock-lint stuck to the instep of the constantly moving sock – fur balls I, for one, would be happy to choke upon!
Oh, if only I could become a mini-slave, and climb onto miss Marika’s anklesock in order to slide down that small gap near the back of her shoe onto the warm and moist, reinforced, yellow-cotton heel area! Sure, I might be squashed to death if she suddenly, and unthinkingly, twisted her foot to the other side again, thereby causing the inner lining of her black leather, mary-jane shoe to press against the yellow heel area of her sock once more – and pressing minislave-me to death in the process!
But what a way to go – squashed betwixt blonde-girl-giantess sock and shoe!
To most of the free men in the office, goddess-mistress Marika is not a goddess; nor a giantess. She is just a rather ordinary-looking, slightly chubby, bleached-blonde, office bimbo of average height, average boobs, and lower than average ability, who skives off work as often as she can get away with it!
But to me – the humble office footslave – she is a divine, female entity, whose shoes and socks I am not worthy to kneel beside and look at. And yet she graciously grants me her sweet, feminine permission to do so – implicitly if not explicitly, as she towers above me on the edge of her desk, twiddling her bleached-blonde hair and chewing gum whilst she speaks dotingly to her latest boyfriend on the phone.
I am not, at the end of the day, envious of him – whoever he is. Being a free alpha-male he may have her undivided attention, but being a beta-male loser-slave I have her pretty shoe and sock right in my face; and I am more than content with that.
I mean, the free man on the end of the phone can’t observe blonde miss Marika’s divinely scuffmarked, matt-black, mary-jane shoeleather; or her fuzzy, black anklesock-lint; or her angular, yellow-heeled sock-creases up close and personal like I am now.
So who is the real loser, I ask you? The master or the slave?
Sox or sex – I know which I would rather have!
Chronicle no. 7 – The Professional, Hindu-Girl Whippersnapper
I am kneeling in the pre-punishment stocks in the punishment cell of the Municipal House of Male Correction. Confinement for 24 hours in the stocks is considered necessary prior to a slave-whipping so that I can be properly monitored and deprived of food or drink, lest I soil myself during the actual whipping-punishment which shall surely follow tomorrow morning – as sure as night follows day, and women rule in the Gynarchy!
I have been sent to the Municipal House of Male Correction by my mistress, mistress Sandy, on a trumped-up charge of foot-neglect – she reckons I should be held to blame for a ladder in her tan-coloured tights, even though I was nowhere near the tights when they laddered on my mistress’s legs (I was dutifully tongue-shining her discarded flat-heeled, knee-high, black suede leather, stretch-boots down in the basement boot-room at the time!)
But no matter, my busy mistress was intensely annoyed that she had laddered her tights on the way into work, and consequently arranged for me – her personal foot and leg slave – to be despatched to the House of Correction for suitable chastisement by a so-called ‘Professional Whippersnapper’ – a female trained in the art of the whip (My mistress Sandy can rarely be bothered to punish me herself these days, being such a successful and busy young businesswoman; she simply hasn’t got the time to whip!).
And so, at my busy blonde mistress’s behest, I now find myself contemplating a soon-to-be, professionally-delivered whipping whilst kneeling on the cold, stone floor of the House of Correction punishment cell, with my back unnaturally bent over and my head and arms cruelly confined in the pre-punishment kneeling stocks.
Yes – such cruel confinement constitutes only pre-punishment here in the Gynarchy of Barbaria!
After several hours (but it feels like an eternity to my aching neck and shoulder muscles) the heavy, iron door to my cell creaks open and a beautiful, young, swarthy-complexioned, Indian woman in her twenties enters. She has dark, shoulder-length hair, and is dressed casually in European-style clothing – a dark grey, ‘hoodie’ style anorak, and dark blue denim jeans, the hems of which are tucked into the tops of a fetching pair of spike-heeled, pointy-toed, black leather, zip-up ankleboots.
Running along the insides of the upper rims of her black leather ankleboots I can just see the elasticated tops of a pair of sweet, red cotton anklesocks; and dangling by the outer side of her right boot is the somewhat frayed end of a dreaded, brown leather, single-tailed punishment whip!
Surely it can’t be time already for my whipping? I only got here a few hours ago!
The right ankleboot – the one next to the whip – is imperiously extended forwards through the dust and the dirt of the cell-floor beneath my face, and comes to rest with its pointy-toe area just millimetres away from my puzzled face.
I immediately lower my lips those last few millimetres in order to pay my oral respects to the professional, female whippersnapper’s boot-toe, as I realise I must quickly ingratiate myself to my female punisher, and seek to elicit some sweet, feminine mercy and compassion in her – otherwise my back will soon burn with the sting of the merciless, female whip!
I hear the all-powerful, Indian-girl whip-holder’s echoing laughter at my act of instinctive obsequiousness towards her pointy and dusty boot-toe, and watch transfixed as her right boot is swiftly replaced beneath my confined face by her left.
On my way down to her left boot-toe my face can’t help but notice a fetching little twist in the soft, red cotton material along the top of her sockline!
She again laughs out loud at me, causing her twisted, red sock-top to crease and fold even more inside her stylish ankleboot before she withdraws it from my lips, and verbally introduces herself to me in her cute, but frightening, Indian accent:
‘Ha! Ha! My name is being miss Poorvi, dirty criminal slave, and it will be being my enormous pleasure to be punishing you with the whip tomorrow morning, isn’t it?’
It’s not at all clear to me whether or not miss Poorvi is actually asking me a question at this point, but I feel it only polite (and hopefully ingratiating) to respond to her female-gloating declaration of punishing-intent:
‘Yes miss Poorvi. Thank you, miss Poorvi. God bless you, miss Poorvi!’
Well, she is only doing her job – her job of whipping recalcitrant prisoner-slaves on behalf of their too-busy-to-whip mistresses! So why should I hold any grudges against this superb young, Indian woman? Much better to hold my lips against her superior bootleather – in abject contrition and supplication!
She laughs at me again – as well she might – the helpless, male prisoner confined and vulnerable at her black-anklebooted and red-socked feet:
‘Ha! Ha! You will be receiving a total of twenty harsh lashes, isn’t it slave? Ha! Ha! That will be being most painful for you, I am thinking? Ha! Ha!’
‘Yes miss Poorvi. Thank you miss Poorvi. Pray teach me a lesson in obedience to the superior female with your magnificent, brown leather whip, beautiful brown-skinned miss Poorvi.’
Well, it would seem somewhat churlish to bemoan my painful fate, given the time and energy this sweet, young Indian woman will no doubt have to expend on punishing me – even if she is well-remunerated for it by my blonde businesswoman-mistress Sandy.
I can’t take my eyes of the professional whippersnapper’s ankleboots – and not just because I like the cut of her boots; I literally can’t take my eyes of them, since they are both now standing directly beneath my confined-in-wood face and dominating my field of vision, along with her twisted, blood-red socktops!
The frayed and well-used, brown leather whip-end, however, is mysteriously nowhere to be seen – until I suddenly feel it being ever so gently drawn along the contours of my naked, arched back.
Having introduced me to herself, it seems, the young Indian woman now wishes to introduce me to her whip:
‘Ha! Ha! The punishment whip I am using in this place is being most extreme, dirty slave – it is being cutting through your flesh in a most terrifying manner! Ha! Ha! I shall be beginning your punishment tomorrow by first whipping you from the right hand side and then from the left! Five strokes on each of your flanks, which shall all be being equally painful since I am being ambidextrous as well as a Hindu, isn’t it? Ha! Ha!’
‘Oh pray mistress! Oh thank you, mistress Poorvi! Truly this dirty, wicked slave is at your whip-mercy, most skilful and experienced, Hindi-whipmistress Poorvi!’
‘Ha! Ha! After that, I shall be concentrating the whip on your lower ribs, isn’t it? But all ten of your remaining lashes shall be being to your right hand side since I am wanting to be hurting you most in just one part of your miserable body, isn’t it prisoner-slave?’
I do wish mistress Poorvi wouldn’t keep on asking me all these rhetorical questions! She knows I have no choice but to agree to her will, and to place myself at her mercy. If she wishes her whip to embrace my lower right ribs until they are red raw, then so shall it be! Who am I to object? I’m just an object!
Besides, I take a certain comfort in knowing that this young, Indian woman is a true professional, with a definite plan of action to chastise my back, and that she won’t just be letting the whip fall upon my back willy-nilly and in an uncontrolled manner!
‘Yes mistress Poorvi. Thank you mistress Poorvi. God bless you mistress Poorvi.’
She again moves her right, anklebooted foot slightly forwards in the punishment-cell dirt as a subliminal signal for me to kiss it’s dusty, scuffmarked toe-area – the pointy toe of an Indian whip-girl’s zip-up, black leather ankleboot covering her blood red sock. I oblige the pointy boot, and follow up by performing the very same act of female-boot-kissing humility on her duly proffered left boot:
‘Be getting some sleep now slave, for tomorrow there will be being much pain, isn’t it? Ha! Ha!’
And with that she turns her spiked, Indian heels, and her Indian back, on me – satisfied in the knowledge that the last thing I shall be getting tonight is any sleep, thanks to her enthusiastically vivid description of my impending punishment under the female lash.
This young, Hindu lady clearly loves her job – and her whip!
The cell door clanks shut – leaving me alone in my wood with my massive, maleslave fear and anxiety.
Yes, the female whip will be snapping mercilessly across my prone and vulnerable bare back tomorrow morning, and those same, sweet, feminine ankleboots shall be festooned in male tears, as well as penitent kisses, in the Municipal House of Male Correction – of that be in no doubt! For this Hindu-girl whippersnapper is clearly a consummate professional!
I only hope the Indian-girl whipmistress wears those self-same red anklesocks again inside her dainty, black leather whipping-boots, and not just because I like the thought of her whipping me in her sweaty, two-day-old socks, but because I would deem it an honour for my whipped back to match her blood red socks.
I think that would be most pleasing to her!
Chronicle no. 6 – Mistress Charlotte’s unremarkable (but very much admired) blue and grey, stripy, anklelength bootsocks
I really am a very lucky footslave. My master Darren and mistress Charlotte actually permit me to kneel beside my mistress Charlotte’s boots all day long and to admire the twisted and creased top of her blue-and-grey-striped bootsock on her skinny, right anklebone – whilst she is still wearing it inside her black leather, blocky-heeled, zip up ankleboot!
I know this is a great honour and a privilege for a dirty, dumbass footslave like myself because my master and mistress tell me it is – and they must be right, for they are both much cleverer than I am being not only free human beings, but also spectacle-wearers. They certainly look ultra-intelligent in their respective spectacles, whereas I have a permanently dumb and gormless expression on my ugly, maleslave face - or so I’ve been told!
My 27 year old master, master Darren sir, is particularly pernickety about which precise area of his 22 year old, live-in girlfriend’s stripy, blue and grey bootsock I am permitted to focus on – specifically he stipulates that I must only stare at the grey stripe immediately below the uppermost blue stripe of her pretty anklesock.
I think (though it’s not my place to think) that this may be because he doesn’t want my dirty, footslave-eyes wandering upwards onto his beautiful, young, blonde girlfriend’s bare, white leg-skin above the top of her sock, as he is aware that when she is seated – and particularly when she is seated with her right leg crossed over her left – her right trouser hem will often ride up above the top of her stripy, blue and grey bootsock to reveal a tantalizing glimpse of her soft, pasty-white and skinny, leg flesh.
Clearly, such female-flesh intimacies are not for the likes of me – I am only worthy to admire my superior mistress’s stripy, cotton foot covering; and whilst I sometimes can’t help but admire the different hues in my mistress’s blue and grey sock, and, indeed, via my peripheral vision, the contrast between the whiteness of her smooth, bare, feminine legskin and the dark blue of her upper sock-stripe, I can fully understand my master Darren’s jealous concerns in this regard, as no free man wishes to have a dirty, yoked footslave lusting after his girlfriend’s bare flesh, however low-lying that area of flesh may be!
And so, obediently, I always endeavour to concentrate on that penultimate grey sock-stripe, and nothing but the penultimate grey sock-stripe, near the top of my mistress Charlotte’s ankle-length, cotton bootsock – out of sheer, slavish respect for my master Darren and his masterful wishes, as well as out of a healthy respect for the sting of his whip should he catch my eyes, heaven forfend, straying disobediently and lasciviously onto the upper blue stripe of the sweet-feminine sock or, even worse, onto his pretty girlfriend’s, forbidden lower leg-flesh!
Fortunately, there is much for me to admire in the penultimate, grey stripe on my mistress Charlotte’s bootsock. There is, of course, yet another distracting blue stripe immediately below the grey stripe – her socks are striped all the way down to her toes! But each stripe is quite broad – about an inch or so in diameter, I would say – and so there really is no excuse for observing the surrounding blue sock-stripes in anything other than one’s peripheral vision.
I can therefore very much concentrate – as demanded by my master and mistress – on just the grey stripe near the top of my mistress’s ankleboot-sock. I can count the lines of vertical stitching all around the grey area of sock, and even the individual stitches within those lines – my counting exercises keep me occupied for hours, especially as I frequently have to begin all over again whenever my mistress subconsciously, or even consciously, moves her slender, feminine foot muscles, or stands up in order to walk somewhere, thereby causing her sock to temporarily, and agonizingly, disappear from my mesmerized view!
It is, however, I’m glad to say, only a temporal agony, for as soon as my blonde mistress Charlotte resumes her seated position I can start to study the mathematical properties of her grey sock-stripe all over again.
Most exciting of all, of course, are the constantly changing little contours and ridges caused by the creasing of her sock. How I love to trace each sock-crease with my eyes, though I must stop eye-tracking any creases in the cotton material as soon as they reach either of the thick blue stripes in her sock surrounding my only legitimate sphere of interest – the broad, grey, penultimate sock-stripe.
I have to confess that, whilst my slave eyes may always be obediently focussed on that uppermost grey stripe on my mistress Charlotte’s right sock, my slave mind will, I am ashamed to say, often wander down to the sweaty toe areas of her sock, where I know for a fact the lowermost stripe is also a delightful shade of grey. I know that for a fact because, being miss Charlotte’s personal footslave, it is, of course, one of my immensely privileged, private-footslave responsibilities to care for her precious socks on a daily basis; to mouth and handwash them at the end of each and every day.
And so I know for a fact that the grey and bobbled toe-ends of her well-worn bootsocks will often become quite crusty and damp with her stale personal-footsweat as they ferment inside her warm, leather ankleboots throughout the long, working day. Naturally, being a pathetic footslave, the smell and taste of such blonde-girl, fermented bootsock is most appealing to me – even the very thought of it gets me going!
And so, I must confess, I can’t help thinking about the increasing sweatiness of my mistress Charlotte’s blue and grey bootsock deep inside her hot, leather ankleboot as she goes about her business throughout the day, even though my orders are to concentrate on one of her, much less fragrant, upper sock stripes!
At least my superior master and mistress can take comfort in the fact that my lowly slave-mind is not wandering onto higher things – such as my mistress’s bare, smooth leg-flesh above her sock. My footslave-mind is permanently inclined to always sink lower (a bit like my wooden-collared neck), and to remain permanently below my mistress’s prominent anklebone.
Indeed, my pathetic mind is conditioned to do so by the whip – I’d much rather think about the blue and grey stripes on my mistress’s soft, cotton socks than about angry, red stripes on my bare back and shoulders!
Of course, my mistress Charlotte doesn’t wear the same pair of blue and grey stripy socks every day (even though she could, because I diligently mouth-soak, hand-wash, and then breath-dry her freshly worn socks at the end of every evening); she, in fact, has many pairs of different-coloured, and different-lengthed bootsocks to go with her ubiquitous, black leather, block-heeled, zip-up, office ankleboots. But she deliberately wears her blue and grey stripy bootsocks on a regular basis because she knows they are amongst my favourites – they are easy to understand and obey; easy to focus on; easy on the footslave-eye; more exciting than her plain, single-coloured socks; less demanding than her multi-patterned, multi-coloured socks; and their stripy pattern helps to ‘fill out’ her otherwise somewhat unattractive and skinny lady-ankles!
Such a kind and considerate, young mistress – taking the time to select a suitable pair of unremarkable girlsocks for her personal sockslave’s education and delectation.
The only really taxing thing I have to try to work out is which of the two blue and grey stripy socks is currently adorning her hovering, right foot in front of my kneeling face – the one with the thinning and wearing heel; or the one with the dangerously loose stitching on the crusty, grey toe-end; for I do respect and admire each of the two stripy, feminine socks not just as a pair, but also for their individual idiosyncrasies.
Rather like I admire my master Darren and mistress Charlotte, and their idiosyncratic ways!
Chronicle no. 5 – Me, Me, Me
Fat, greasy-blonde, thirty-something, regular customer-mistress Tina is all ‘me, me, me’.
I’m sure her fellow free citizens, both male and female, must find her self-obsession and self-centredness quite repulsive, but I, of course – being a mere public footservant – must pander wholeheartedly to her egotism; fawn over and flatter her. Otherwise I shall be whipped.
I don’t even particularly like her choices of footwear – invariably uninspiring, patterned, nylon tights tucked into the same old pair of flat-heeled, matt black leather, single-strapped, mary-jane style shoes beneath the hems of her ubiquitous, black cotton, officewear trouser-legs. The only saving grace to her footwear is that the tights, and therefore the patterns, do vary – and the relative chubbiness of her white feet and ankles underneath can make for some interesting stretching in the nylon stitching around her fat anklebones, although, if truth be told, I personally prefer to admire the stretched stitching in the material of a lady’s thick, cotton sock to that in a sheer pair of nylon tights!
Of course, I would never describe customer-mistress Tina’s footwear in such unflattering and ungrateful terms to her fat face. Quite the opposite! I make her feel like a nylon-foot goddess and, being so egotistical, she innocently laps it all up.
I’m sure that’s why she visits me on my public-footslave stall regularly, at least once a week – in order to receive her weekly, undeserved ego-boost.
Today she is wearing a pair of tan-coloured, tiny-black-diamond-patterned, nylon tights on her flabby feet and ankles – flabby feet and ankles which are now resting imperiously on the two metal footrests directly in front of my kneeling face as she sits in the comfortable mistress-chair high above me.
Not that customer-mistress Tina is apparently interested in having her ubiquitous, flat, mary-jane style, single-buckle-strapped, black leather shoes lickshined today. For, after I have kissed the rounded, scuffmarked toe of each broad, mary-jane shoe, the fat female wearer of the shoes, who seems to tower above me in the mistress-chair like a veritable Titan, spits down her egocentric orders at me:
‘Skinny slave, nose each of the tiny diamond patterns in my tights. Run the tip of your skinny nose around each individual diamond pattern for 8 seconds before moving onto the next one. Begin with the diamond on the outside of my right anklebone, and work your way down my tights, zigzagging your nose around each nylon diamond until you get to that tiny hole in my tights just above my shoe-strap. I’ll tell you what to do when you get to the hole! Begin now, slave!’
‘Yes mistress Tina. At once mistress Tina. This slave will truly be honoured to nose-worship the black diamond patterns in the mistress’s most alluring, tan-nylon stockings, if it is so pleasing to you most respected and beautiful mistress Tina.’
I’m not looking at her face – but I’ll bet customer-mistress Tina is looking well smug right now above her double chin, as she helpfully hitches up the stitched hem of her plain black cotton trouserleg to reveal yet more of her nylon-covered, fleshy, right anklebone to my gormless-looking, skinny footslave-face. I begin, as per my fat customer-mistress’s command, with the little black diamond in the nylon stitching which is stretched across the top of her outer anklebone.
Now, you might think – what’s the point in a lady having a public footslave merely ‘nosing’ her patterned tights to order? Why isn’t she at least having him kiss each little black diamond-shaped area of nylon stitching for 8 seconds? Or at least making him sniff it?
But that’s the whole point – he is nosing her tights to order; in accordance with her very specific, egotistical instructions. Mistress Tina is demonstrating to all and sundry, who care to look (and we do get some, mainly male, voyeurs hanging around our public shoelick stands taking pictures and making notes etc.) that she is in a seated position of total and absolute power over me, and can humiliate me in the most petty and degrading of ways.
I therefore have no choice but to nose each of her nylon-diamonds, in the precise manner prescribed by her, no matter how demeaning such a public performance may be for me – a fully qualified public shoelick – and no matter how long it may take; for there are lots of little black diamonds covering customer-mistress Tina’s fat feet and ankles, and 8 seconds per diamond will soon add up!
I obey customer-mistress Tina to the letter – out of fear and respect for the fat-female whip which she is clutching between her fat fingers – tracing my nose for precisely 8 seconds around the 4 edges of each little black diamond pattern (2 seconds on each centimetre long edge) as I make my way first horizontally across her nyloned, upper anklebone on her right foot, before lowering my nose to the next level of diamonds.
Only the backs of her heels prove difficult to nose accurately, as I must stretch my head around, but sweet and considerate mistress Tina helpfully, albeit subconsciously, twists her solid heel and ankle to one side in order to facilitate me in nosing the diamonds on the rear of her tights.
What she is consciously doing – whilst I am obediently nosing her black-diamond-patterned, tan-coloured nylon tights – is telling me all about how much she is looking forward to getting away from it all with her husband on her forthcoming holiday to the Seychelles. She does so, of course, without a thought for the fact that I shall never be permitted to ‘get away from it all’, as I am obliged to remain chained up to this very same public shoelick-stand diligently licking ladies’ shoes and humbly nosing their tights to order for the rest of my unnatural slave-life.
But like I said, customer-mistress Tina is all ‘me, me, me’ – and she is only interested in what is going on in her wonderful and exciting life, not in my humble, drab, oppressed-slave existence; and rightly so!
After some 10 minutes of nosing her nylon diamonds, and listening to her wittering on about how wonderful and exotic her forthcoming holiday is going to be, I reach the little tear in her tan-coloured tights just above her black leather shoe-strap which she had mentioned earlier. I am mightily glad that my customer-mistress Tina is aware that the tiny hole in her tan-nylon tights is a pre-existing condition, and not something that has been caused by any nasal carelessness on my part; for tearing or laddering a lady’s tights with one’s maleslave-nose is a criminal offence here in the Gynarchy – punishable by a public whipping.
I dutifully inform the fat mistress that my nose has arrived at last at its destination, for she is too busy verbally contemplating her forthcoming foreign vacation to notice such bagatelles herself:
‘Oh pray mistress Tina, please forgive this dirty, public footslave for interrupting you most respected and merciful mistress Tina, but this slave is now duty bound to inform the mistress that his nose has reached the tiny hole in her tights, and is therefore awaiting the mistress’s further instructions as he has been commanded to do by the most beautiful mistress, if you would be so kind to a stupid slave, superior goddess-mistress Tina.’
Most beautiful, superior goddess-mistress Tina (aka ‘that fat, blonde bird who never shuts up’ by her freemale, office co-workers – I’m speculating) looks down on me in every sense of the term, and utters her new orders to me from above her double chin:
‘Shut up, slave, and start kissing the hole in my tights. I want to feel your upper lip touching my bare footskin through the tiny hole, but make sure your mouth doesn’t snag on the hole and make it any bigger, or you’ll be whipped! Kiss the little hole 1000 times, and make sure it’s always your upper lip, and not your lower lip, which touches my bare skin. Begin now!’
‘Yes mistress Tina. Thank you mistress Tina. At once most glorious mistress Tina!’
It is right and proper that I should thank the self-obsessed, fat customer-mistress for the honour of touching her bare, pasty-white footskin with my lip, for kissing bare, female foot flesh – even a tiny slither of bare footflesh through a tiny hole in a female sock or stocking – is a privilege not often afforded to public footslaves such as myself. My ugly mouth is normally restricted to shoeleather and hosiery; only private footslaves routinely get to serve bare footflesh!
So I am genuinely respectful and appreciative of customer-mistress Tina’s kind invitation to kiss her bare footskin through the hole in her tights, even though I know such an action – repeated 1000 times – is designed not for my footslavish gratification, but to feed the ego of the totally self-obsessed and self-centred, young fat woman who enjoys lording it over me so much, and having me in her public power.
The sniggering, voyeuristic onlookers – with their whirring digital cameras – must think I look truly pathetic as I obediently kiss the fat, blonde girl’s holey tights 1000 times, all whilst she noisily tucks into a plastic bowl of salad above me with a plastic fork, rudely speaking with her mouth full as she continues to extol the virtues of her lifestyle and the wonderful holidays which she and her beloved husband can afford to take at my expense (since I am forbidden to charge for my services).
She is not totally without empathy for the pathetic creature at her tan-nyloned feet, however; after some 5 minutes she bends down, her mouth still slapping away greedily on her spicy bean salad, in order to inspect my work and to make sure it is only my stiff upper lip which is paying due homage to her exposed, white footflesh, in accordance with her fat-feminine wishes.
She belches as she does so (the spicy beans evidently repeating on her), and I am enveloped in the expelled odour of her half-digested food.
At least she can’t whip me whilst she’s eating!
Chronicle no. 4 – In The Recovery Stocks
She is supervising me whilst I am languishing in the prison recovery-stocks.
I am recovering from my most recent monthly whipping in the punishment cell, and junior-officer mistress Leanne’s role is to sit beside me as I kneel in the heavy, wooden stocks, my back smarting from the weals caused by the female whip, until such time as the prison doctor, medical officer-mistress Tania, decides that I have had enough and can be returned to my own solitary-confinement cell.
23 year old junior officer-mistress Leanne is ideally suited for this relatively boring and undemanding work – for she is a quiet and unassuming girl, with no formal academic qualifications to speak of. Her role, however, like her good self, is quite simple – to merely sit beside me as I kneel in the agonizing stocks, and to make sure I don’t pass out and miss all the pain. She is armed with some smelling salts should I need reviving, but I don’t anticipate requiring them on this occasion – my whipping had been relatively mild at just 20 strokes.
Junior officer-mistress Leanne is seated on a chair beside me with her right leg crossed over her left. Her right foot is, therefore, hovering in the dank, punishment-cell air just inches beneath my suffering face – and a very nice foot it is too. Miss Leanne herself is slightly overweight – hardly surprising given the sedentary nature of her job – but her feet and ankles are pleasingly trim and shapely.
She is, as per usual, wearing her low-heeled, somewhat scruffy and scuffmarked, black leather pumps and dark-toned nylons on her white feet beneath her navy-blue, prison-officer uniform trousers, and because of her seated position the hem of her right trouser leg has ridden up to her lower, fatted calf-muscle, giving me a full and unimpeded view of her shapely, nylon-covered anklebone.
Ordinarily, on the outside, I would have regarded this unremarkable-looking young woman’s unremarkable footwear as somewhat plain and dull – but here, in the dark and dingy confines of the prison punishment cell, her nylon-clad, hovering foot is my only comfort and hope, since it takes my mind off my pain, especially when she subconsciously flexes her uneducated foot-muscles causing the dark nylon to wrinkle and crease around her young-womanly anklebone.
I have already kissed that junior officer-mistress foot, of course, prior to her taking up her seat beside me, as a mark of my respect for my young, brunette supervisor-mistress and her important role in keeping me awake.
She is reading a magazine whilst she supervises me, or rather leafing through the pictures in a glossy magazine about celebrities – much more interesting for her than actually looking at me; she must have supervised a thousand, freshly-whipped prisoner-slaves in the recovery-stocks, even though she has only been with us some 18 months now. I have been imprisoned in this place for some 30 years – virtually all my adult life, and certainly all of miss Leanne’s life!
I am attempting to focus on the movement in a particularly fetching little dark-nylon stocking crease just below her outer anklebone on her subconsciously-swivelling right foot, when the heavy, iron door to the punishment cell creaks open and the familiar feet of medical-officer mistress Tania enter the room.
She is somewhat older than junior officer-mistress Leanne, being a fully qualified medical doctor; mid to late thirties I would say. She also happens to be blonde, as opposed to brunette, but, like junior officer-mistress Leanne, her chosen footwear, beneath her white, doctor’s coat and her prison-officer uniform navy-blue trouser hems, consists of pragmatic, flattish, slip-on shoes and dark nylons – navy-blue shoes in the case of the female doctor, but equally as dusty and scruffy as those adorning the feet of the somewhat bored (and somewhat boring) junior officer-mistress.
The lady-officers get to choose their own footwear in the prison to go with their obligatory navy-blue uniforms, and I think most of them opt for cheap, practical footwear which won’t be adversely affected by the dust and dirt of the prison corridors and cell floors. After all, this place is hardly a catwalk in a fashion house – it’s a place of misery and punishment for the male inmates, and why should the prison officer-mistresses seek to bring any glitz or glamour into the dirty male prisoners’ pathetic lives?
Medical officer-mistress Tania moves forward to stand directly in front of my kneeling frame in the stocks, no doubt in order to examine the state of my whipped back.
I automatically kiss each of the good lady-doctor’s nyloned feet as she automatically presents each foot to me for kissing. It’s just one of those unspoken prison rituals – the kissing of the prison-officer mistress’s feet whenever she enters or leaves a prisoner’s presence.
The lady-doctor’s dark nylons feel warm and rough on my parched lips.
Meanwhile, junior-officer mistress Leanne’s right, nyloned foot twists politely to one side beneath my face so as not to inadvertently spread dust on the hem of the female doctor’s white coat, though in so doing the dirty and dusty sole of miss Leanne’s right, black leather pump inadvertently touches my left cheek, spreading her shoe-dirt onto it.
No matter – my face is much less important than the lady-doctor’s coat!
‘How’s he doing?’ the good lady-doctor asks my supervisor-mistress, addressing the organ-grinder rather than the monkey, so to speak.
‘Fine, ma’am; he’s been sobbing a lot.’
‘Good. I expect his pain to peak in the next few hours or so. Keep him here until 5 o’clock, and then return him to his own cell.’
The good lady-doctor knows her stuff! You might think that the pain from a whipping is at its most acute whilst the whip is actually being applied, but actually the individual weals can take on an even sharper relief as the numbness caused by the whip-friction wears off.
‘Yes ma’am,’ responds junior officer-mistress Leanne politely, unconcerned about my impending peak of pain, but conscious of the need to show respect to the higher-ranking lady doctor.
‘What about you, are you okay Leanne?’ asks the good lady doctor, who is responsible for the welfare of the female prison staff as well as the punishment of the male inmates.
‘Yes, I’m fine ma’am, thanks! I’m due to be relieved in half an hour by officer Philippa.’
This is good news for junior officer-mistress Leanne – only half an hour to go of her ‘tedious’ three hour stint.
Not such good news for me, however – for I have been ‘sentenced’ by the good lady doctor to a further three and a half hours in the recovery stocks; until five o’clock I think she said? And not only that, but I now know I shall be spending that time in the company of junior officer-mistress Philippa – one of the least sympathetic and caring prison officer-mistresses I know!
I feel like sobbing again.
I automatically kiss the good lady doctor officer-mistress Tania’s proffered, dark-nyloned feet once again, briefly admiring a particularly nasty-looking mud stain on the instep of her left, flat shoe as I do so; and then she is gone, leaving me alone with the intellectually challenged miss Leanne once again, whose right foot has now returned to its straightened position beneath my face.
I look forward to kissing that junior officer-mistress plain, nyloned, right foot again, together with her matching left foot, on her departure from the punishment cell in half an hour’s time.
Sure enough the time comes for her ‘handover’ to her colleague, junior officer-mistress Philippa, and in addition to young-woman, dark-nyloned departing foot my lips get to taste young-woman, black leather, blocky-heeled, chisel-toed, zip-up, arriving ankleboots; for that is the dusty footwear of choice of blonde-ponytailed officer-mistress Philippa – she of the squeaky voice and voracious appetite for strong-smelling food.
Sure enough, as she takes up her seat on the chair beside me – her right leg, like miss Leanne’s before her, crossed over her left, thereby revealing her plain, black cotton anklesock-top inside her black leather ankleboot hovering in the stale, prison air beneath my imprisoned face – junior officer-mistress Philippa unthinkingly takes out her lunch box, and a plastic fork, and begins spooning some spicy-smelling, cold pasta into her free-young-woman gullet. At the same time I hear her open a bottle of fizzy pop.
She is, of course, perfectly at liberty to take care of her bodily needs for food and sustenance whilst she watches over me – but she must surely realise that her indulgences only add to my own sense of helplessness and suffering? I too hunger and thirst, for a whipping really takes it out of you! Just one swig of her fizzy pop would do wonders for my parched and dry mouth, and just one spoonful (or forkful!) of spicy, cold pasta would help to fill the aching void in my prisoner-slave stomach (prisoner-slaves are not allowed to eat or drink for 24 hours before a whipping, lest we soil ourselves during punishment).
But I know the uncaring junior officer-mistress Philippa well enough by now to know that none of her victuals shall be coming my way!
Still, at least I can get to stare at the twisted top of her black cotton bootsock as her right booted foot swivels happily and contentedly in the air beneath my kneeling and confined face. And I shall endeavour to block out the smell of her food with the smell of her musty bootleather.
Only three hours to go – for both of us; the soon-to-be fully satiated junior officer-mistress; and the thirsty, hungry and whipped prisoner-slave.
Her ankleboot-leather creases and folds inconsiderately beneath my face as she relishes a particularly succulent morsel of fresh, nourishing pasta.
Chronicle no. 3 – Bullying Bertha
Of all our female prison guards, senior officer-mistress Bertha is undoubtedly the one whom we male prisoner-slaves fear the most.
It’s not that she’s that old – she must be all of 25; and it’s not that she is unattractive – she is, admittedly, rather short and stocky, but very pretty with it; it’s just that she can be so vindictive and cruel – a bit of a bully, some might say; though in the Gynarchy the concept of a female bullying a male in her charge is not recognised – especially not in prison!
Let me illustrate what I mean by describing what happened when senior officer-mistress Bertha entered my cell just yesterday morning, for an inspection:
We prisoner-slaves on senior officer-mistress Bertha’s Wing are confined to our cells 24/7, 365 days a year. She never permits us to crawl out of our dank and dingy, solitary confinement cells, so she and her fellow female-guards must always come in to us (walking upright, of course – as befits a member of the superior sex!)
We male prisoners are not being held in solitary because we are particularly dangerous or violent, or even vile, criminals – it’s just that that is the way senior officer-mistress Bertha likes to manage her Wing. And her superiors also like it that way – they have no complaints about the orderliness and strict discipline on officer Bertha’s Wing!
Officer-mistress Bertha kindly makes sure we prisoner-slaves are not left unoccupied in our individual cells, however; she insists that we scrub the concrete floors of our cells, on our hands and knees, with a tiny scrubbing brush, from lights on until lights out – that’s some 16 hours a day. Her rationale behind this is that whenever she and her fellow female-guards deign to enter our cells they don’t wish to be walking on dirty floors, and so we must keep our cell floors spotless.
She makes a fair point, for no lady should ever have to walk on dirt.
The irony is, of course, that just about the only time the female guards ever enter our dingy cells is precisely to inspect our floor-scrubbing work – since they have no need to enter them just to feed us (our daily ration of prisoner-gruel is pushed through a metal hatch at the base of our cell doors) – and so you could argue that all the floor-scrubbing we do is unnecessary and could be avoided if only the prison-guard mistresses left us male prisoners alone to wallow in our own dirt.
But you won’t ever find any male prisoner arguing with senior officer-mistress Bertha, or her prison-work policy! It’s just not worth the corporal punishment!
And so, back to yesterday morning – at least, I think it was morning; it’s often hard to tell in a windowless cell as you can quickly become disorientated and lose track of time, but I’m sure the incident I am about to describe took place only a few hours or so after ‘lights on’.
I was dutifully scrubbing away at my lonely, concrete cell-floor when I heard the dreaded sound of keys jangling in the lock on the outside of my cell door – followed by the even more dreaded sight of senior officer-mistress Bertha’s black leather, chunky-heeled, strapped and buckled, calf-length, biker boots over the hems of her uniform-regulation, navy-blue, bootcut trouser hems.
I should explain that the officer-mistresses are free to wear footwear of their own style and choosing, although the rest of their uniform is prescribed and must consist of their pale blue shirts; their blue and yellow epaulettes denoting their rank; and their navy-blue trousers.
Senior officer-mistress Bertha tends to wear soft, black ballet-flats, with dark-black, thin-nylon socklets in the summer months; and these black leather, heavily buckled, biker boots with thick, warming socks in the winter months (not that her bootsocks are generally visible thanks to her navy-blue trouser-hems being tucked into the tops of her calf-length, officer boots).
Often, our officer-mistresses’ footwear is the only way we prisoners can distinguish between the seasons outside!
I do so hate it when officer-mistress Bertha wears her dark nylon socklets with her ballet-flats during the summer – for not only do they make her feet smell, she also knows full well that we prisoner-males are obliged, by law, to look at a lady’s hosiery, rather than her bare feet, whenever a lady is waiting hose on her feet, even if she is wearing the briefest of hosiery, with only the tiniest slither of nylon or cotton material visible above her shoeline. And we prisoner-slaves are already so starved of female flesh – we would much rather be concentrating on officer-mistress Bertha’s bare footskin during the summer whenever we kiss her feet as she enters our cells; but we find ourselves instead having to focus our eyes on dark, black nylon socklet, with her foot and ankle flesh relegated to our soft-female-skin-starved, peripheral vision!
Cruel, or what?
In the wintertime, of course, such as now – we have no chance of seeing officer-mistress Bertha’s bare, white footskin inside her calf-length, biker boots; or indeed the bare ankleskin of any of our winter-shod officer-mistresses.
Not even of those who are shod in shoes, for they will inevitably be wearing thick socks inside their shoes in order to keep their sweet feminine tootsies warm – and, again, a slave is obliged by law to stare at sock, rather than skin, when addressing a lady’s footwear.
And we are all nothing if not law-abiding prisoners in this Female-run prison – we have to be, or else we will be sorely whipped!
As soon as mistress Bertha’s biker boots entered my cell I ceased scrubbing, and presented my lips to the somewhat dusty and scuffmarked, rounded toes of her personally-chosen, female prison-officer footwear – by way of a physical demonstration of my respect for, and submission to, her female law and authority. I quaked over her boots as I did so, for I observed that, as ever, senior officer-mistress Bertha had her brown, wooden truncheon withdrawn and ready to bruise me on my bare, prisoner back. She carries a single-tailed brown leather punishment whip on her belt as well, of course – but, for the bruising mistress Bertha, the wooden truncheon is her weapon of choice. She likes to bruise, rather than cut – or rather, she reserves cutting with the whip for more serious discipline!
Her biker-bootleather tastes nice as her not inconsiderable frame casts an ominous shadow over me.
It is only now that I realise she is accompanied by one of the trainee junior officer-mistresses – 20 year old junior officer-mistress Harshada, a beautiful, young Indian woman freshly arrived in the Gynarchy from her home country, and revelling in her new job and position of power over helpless, male prisoner-slaves. She has such big, brown eyes – mistress Harshada – though her feet are tiny, at least by comparison to officer-mistress Bertha’s. And miss Harshada has elected to wear a delightful pair of shiny, black leather, high-heeled, court shoes on her trainee prison-officer feet this morning – court shoes with full-length, plain, black anklesocks.
I’m not sure how practical, black patent leather, high-heeled courts are for a prison-officer mistress to wear to work, but I suppose this young woman is simply wishing to increase her height and stature, since she is truly pint-sized!
The socks are a nice touch (even though they hide her soft, brown Indian footskin from my male-prisoner gaze!), for they are, I notice, quite creased and wrinkled on her pretty feet below her navy-blue uniform trouser-hems – all of which indicates a certain Indian-girl contempt for the prisoner-slave who is now obliged to kiss the shiny black, leather of her pointy shoe-toes.
As soon as I have paid my respectful homage to the matt, black leather biker boots of senior officer-mistress Bertha, and the shiny, court shoes of her Indian trainee, the former begins her inspection of my spotlessly clean cell floor.
I know it is spotless because I am a good and obedient prisoner-slave, and scrub my cell floor unceasingly day in and day out, as I have been instructed to do. But officer-mistress Bertha is clearly in a mood to find fault, and I watch in abject fear and horror as she ostentatiously scrapes some mud off the sole of her right boot onto the floor of my cell directly beneath my kneeling face.
I hear the Indian girl giggle as she does so.
‘Prisoner no. 76219Q – what is the meaning of this?’ barks senior officer-mistress Bertha down at me. ‘Dirt – on one of my cell floors?! Lazy, incompetent fool!’
And with that she brings her thick, wooden truncheon crashing down onto the small of my back, forcing my ugly face down onto her beautiful bootstraps once again.
It fairly knocks the stuffing out of you – a well-delivered truncheon blow, especially when wielded by the strong and stockily-built, officer-mistress Bertha!
I hear mistress Bertha’s foreign trainee clap her pretty, Indian hands with glee, and offer some words of encouragement to her mentor:
‘Ha! Ha! Beat the impudent fellow again, Bertha! He is being most disrespectful of us, leaving us to walk onto his muddy floor, isn’t it? Ha! Ha!’
Officer-mistress Bertha is happy to indulge her Indian-girl mentee, who looks like butter wouldn’t melt in her black, cotton socks. Another devastating truncheon-blow, this time to the side of my ribcage, knocks even more wind out of my sails! I gasp onto officer-mistress Bertha’s thickset, biker boots.
‘Well, prisoner! You heard my colleague! What have you got to say for yourself? Are you so high and mighty that scrubbing your cell-floor, and keeping it clean for your female betters to walk on, is beneath you, or something?’
I can barely speak, so winded am I:
‘Oh p…pray…s…senior officer-m…mistress Bertha…gasp…p…please don’t hurt me…s…senior officer-mistress…gasp… this dirty prisoner apologises to the mistresses for his filthy floor, if it so p…pleases you superior officer-mistresses.’
I kiss the dirty boot-toes of my tormentor. No point in arguing with her or lodging a formal complaint about my treatment. Senior-officer mistress Bertha has delegated authority to investigate all complaints made against her – and she has never yet been found guilty of misconduct whilst in office!
‘Don’t just kiss my feet and apologise to me, dirty prisoner! Apologise to my younger colleague, officer-mistress Harshada also!’
The latter gleefully shoves her right, stiletto-heeled foot underneath my kneeling, panting face – her shiny, black court shoe gleaming under the single light bulb hanging from the ceiling of my cell, her black ankle sock now even more creased and wrinkled thanks to the imperiously outstretched positioning of her Indian foot.
I lower my lips to the shiny, black shoeleather once more, and duly apologise to the trainee-mistress, as soon as I have my breath back:
‘Oh pray, officer-mistress Harshada, if it pleases you officer-mistress Harshada, please forgive me for the filthy nature of my cell-floor and allow me to lick my cell-floor dirt off the soles of your pretty shoes, if it would be so pleasing to you most respected and all-powerful, junior officer-mistress Harshada.’
The Indian girl just giggles, causing a brand new crease in her right, black ankle sock to develop:
‘Ha! Ha! Will we be whipping him, Bertha? Please say that we can be punishing this insolent wretch with the whip for his disobedience and contempt for the soles of our footwear, isn’t it?’
Senior officer-mistress Bertha laughs out loud:
‘Ha! Ha! Of course we’ll be whipping him, you silly girl! After all, I want to see if your whipping technique has improved! Remember what I said? Always start with their ribs! Ha! Ha!’
I hear the Indian girl laughing in unison with her mentor as she unclips her brown leather prison-punishment whip from the belt around her tiny, Indian waist, and unfurls it – ready to wrap around my bruised and exposed ribs.
I kiss the newly formed crease in her black sock – in the forlorn help it might mitigate my impending punishment.
It doesn’t, for, unfortunately for me, trainee officer-mistress Harshada is out to impress her mentor – the bullying, but beautiful, officer-mistress Bertha…
Chronicle no. 2 – Bubbly Beth
My new mistress – mistress Beth – appears to be a very bubbly and vivacious, young(ish) woman. She could certainly talk the hind legs of a donkey – she hasn’t shut up since she got me home from the slave market!
Mind you, that is her role right now – to explain to me in no uncertain terms how my life as her personal footwear slave will be from now on; to lay down her law to me. My role is to shut up and listen to her rather squeaky, high-pitched, feminine voice; and obey.
She is in her mid thirties; blonde, with a ruddy complexion; somewhat overweight, and clearly self-obsessed. But I like all of those things in a mistress.
I am kneeling in front of her pink-leather-anklebooted feet as she is sitting in a comfortable armchair in her living room. Her black cotton bootcut slacks are still covering the tops of her pink, chunky-heeled, round-toed, zip-up ankleboots, so I cannot, for now, observe her socks.
She begins by showing me her whip:
‘As you can see, slave, I use a five-tailed punishment-whip to discipline my slaves. As you know, most mistresses in the Gynarchy use a single-tailed whip, but I have a frozen shoulder and my arm often gets tired whipping, so my husband Tony – whom you will, incidentally, address as “master-sir Anthony” all the time – suggested that we get a five-tailed whip so that I can cause you five times as much pain with just a single stroke. As you can see also, each tail has five little knots in the end – that’s also designed to cause you more pain as each strand of the whip will effectively cause you 5 cuts!
It’s a perfectly legal whip, but I’m told the pain from this particular whip is truly horrendous – though, obviously, I’ve never been whipped myself, so I don’t really know! Ha! Ha! All I know is what my slaves have told me over the years.
But don’t worry – I’m not a cruel mistress. I’ll only whip you if you fail to show me proper respect, or if you are disobedient or displease me in any way!
Now to your daily duties: You will begin each morning by respectfully kissing, and then removing from my feet, my pink, fluffy bedsocks – just as soon as I lower my feet onto the carpet below my bed. I suffer from circulation problems, and so my feet tend to get very cold at night, even under the duvet and even though I am tucked up in bed Tony. That’s why I always wear bedsocks, and that’s why you must worship and admire them by kissing them first thing in the morning – one hundred times each.
After you have kissed them you will gently pull them off my feet from the toe ends. Make sure you don’t touch my bare skin with your dirty, slave hands – otherwise you’ll be feeling the sting of that whip I’ve just shown you!
Once my bedsocks are off, you will respectfully kiss my bare feet one hundred times, prior to licking and sucking away all the toe-jam and dead skin that has accumulated between my toes during the night, as well as any fluffy bits from my pink, fluffy bedsocks. Make sure you soften the hard, overnight skin on the backs of my heels by licking it also.
I will then go for my morning shower, while you get my footwear ready for the day. When I’m at work – like I was today – I always wear this same pair of pink leather ankleboots I have on now, but you must make sure they are licked clean and spotless while I am in the shower. If I’m not going into work that day I’ll let you know which other pair of my shoes or boots you are to fetch and prepare for my feet. I have lots of different pairs of shoes, boots and sneakers, and they are all kept in that wardrobe over in the corner of my bedroom. You’ll soon get to know them all.
You will also have to fetch my chosen pair of daytime socks from my sock-drawer. Again, I have lots of pairs of socks – mainly brightly-coloured and cartoon-print socks – to match my bubbly personality – but just because they are fun socks don’t think you can disrespect them in any way. You will mouthwash and then handwash all my dirty socks at the end of each day before you go to sleep in your slave-hole next to the master-bedroom, and you will make sure all of my socks are re-ironed and folded away again each night, ready for me to choose from the following morning. Again, if I catch you showing any disrespect for my socks you will be sorely whipped with the five-tailed punishment whip!
When I’ve finished showering and getting dressed you will put my daytime socks, and boots or shoes, onto my feet – again making sure not to touch my bare foot or ankle skin as you do so. You must kiss each individual item of footwear before you place it on my feet. You must also keep your head bowed over my feet. You must never look me in the eye, only in the foot – otherwise you’ll be whipped.
I always wear slacks or jeans, so once my pink ankleboots are zipped-up you are unlikely to see my socks again for the rest of the day. Having said that, if you do, for any reason, catch a glimpse of my socks during the day, for example while I’m wearing my shoes or sneakers, you must focus in on them and admire them – concentrate on the stitching in my socks and on any creases or folds in the cotton sock material. When you can’t see my socks you will be required to kneel at my feet and admire my boots throughout the day – again admiring the stitching down the sides of my ankleboots, or concentrating on the creases and folds in my pink bootleather.
When I’m moving about you must follow me on your hands and knees to heel. Whenever I’m stationary – for example when I’m sitting at my desk in the office – you must kneel by the side of my boots, and regularly kiss them as a sign of your admiration and respect for your superior mistress.
You can also kiss the shoes or boots of my female work-colleagues if I give you permission to, but you will only ever kiss the ground in front of my male work-colleagues’ feet – or, indeed, my husband Tony’s feet – since kissing male feet is forbidden in the Gynarchy, and I am a law-abiding mistress.
My husband Tony and I don’t socialise much in the evenings, and we tend to just kick off our shoes, cuddle up together on the sofa, and relax in front of the television. Your role in the evenings is to kneel at the end of the sofa and massage my damp-socked feet with your hands. Because of my circulation problems you must massage my socked feet vigorously, but you’re not to touch my bare ankleskin. You can smell my socks while you are massaging them, but you’re not to kiss them while you’re massaging them on my feet unless and until I tell you to. My husband might get jealous!
Then, before I go to bed with my husband, you will take off my daytime socks and kiss them 100 times each, before fetching my pink, fluffy bedsocks and kissing them 100 times each also, prior to placing them on my feet after I get changed into my pyjamas.
Once I am safely tucked up in bed with my husband you will retire to your purpose-built, ensuite slave-hole where you will attend to my dirty daytime socks by turning them inside out in order to mouth and hand wash them, after which you will lay them across your upturned face so that they can dry on your skin overnight whilst you are sleeping.
I hope all that is clear, slave?’
At last, my bubbly and vivacious footmistress Beth has paused for breath!
‘Yes mistress Beth.’
‘Good! Then you will begin your bondage to me by kissing my pink leather ankleboots on the scuffmarked toe-areas 100 times each!’
She gaily holds up the scuffmarked, rounded toe of her right ankleboot to my kneeling lips…
Chronicle no. 1 – The Irish Girl’s Ankleboot-Nuzzler
You will no doubt have read oftentimes about Gynarchy slaves affectionately nuzzling their mistresses’ socks. But my mistress Sinéad is a very special lady – she actually permits me to nuzzle the outsides of her black leather ankleboots!
It is such an honour – for my mistress Sinéad, who originates from the Emerald Isle, is a particularly beautiful and strong young woman; some would say ‘headstrong’. She is 23 years old; ginger-haired, with her hair often tied back in a fetching ponytail; slightly podgy in appearance, but in a fulsome and winsome way.
Above all, you have to admire her personality which is ideal for managing and controlling a personal bootslave – for she is slow to anger, yet quick to whip. Many Gynarchy mistresses can be a bit squeamish about applying the whip to their slaves’ backs; not my mistress Sinéad!
Whipping is her perfectly legitimate hobby; she has formally studied various whip-techniques at Female University and has a ‘Postgraduate Diploma in Applied Whipping’ from the ‘Young Ladies’ College of Central Barbaria’. She also likes to watch live whippings on Gynarchy TV, and has a large collection of black-market DVDs depicting slave-whippings which have been recorded by female witnesses on their personal camcorders and mobile phones. Mistress Sinéad even runs a ‘Slave-Whipping Forum’ online.
So you just have to admire my mistress Sinéad if you are her personal footslave, like me; admire her, or feel the dire consequences of her expertly applied whip on your bare back!
That’s why I like to routinely nuzzle, and she likes me to routinely nuzzle, the outsides of her Irish-girl ankleboots; it is a public demonstration of my slavish admiration for, and fear of, my all-powerful, whip-hungry, flame-haired mistress.
Fortunately, my mistress Sinéad wears very nice boots. She only has one pair, but she has worn them regularly for over three years now, so they look, and feel, nice and weather-beaten. They smell of her very essence – not just on the insides, but even on the outsides – largely because, over the years, her foot and sock DNA has saturated the very fabric of her well-worn bootleather.
A I indicated before, they are a delicious pair of common-or-garden, black leather ankleboots – the type you will see on a young woman’s feet all the time; chunky-heeled; zip-up; round-toed; scuffmarked in places; often soiled by everyday street dirt and dust – for, although my mistress Sinéad enjoys the nuzzling of her boots, she is not terribly fastidious about her boots’ appearance beneath the hems of her ubiquitous officewear, black cotton trouser hems, or her casualwear, black denim jeans. (My mistress never wears skirts or dresses – embarrassed, no doubt, by her slight corpulence, though she has no need to be; she looks the business!)
And so, I am frequently to be found kneeling beside her boots underneath her office desk, pathetically nuzzling the side of her right ankleboot as it hovers in the air due to her sitting with her right leg crossed imperiously over her left whilst she works on her computer.
I like it when the whole of the side of her well-worn, black leather ankleboot is exposed in this way, for it means I can nuzzle the most tender part of her outer boot – the zipper track! I just love the feel of the felt and metal zipper on the end of my slave-nose as I run it respectfully down the tracks, all the while sniffing in the mustiness of my mistress’s black, unpolished bootleather.
My only regret is that mistress Sinéad’s bootcut, office slacks rarely ride up high enough to reveal the tops of her black cotton bootsocks to my admiring gaze. My mistress wears nice socks to work – predominantly black, but usually with a splash of colour, such as her many cartoon-themed socks. I love putting her cartoon-socks on her feet first thing of a morning; straightening them over her podgy, white anklebones and smoothing out all the little wrinkles and creases in the socks before paying my respects to them by kissing the little, multicoloured cartoon logos on the sides 10 times each.
The socks may be light hearted and frivolous, but I must be studious and serious in my demeanour as I kiss them, for any perceived frivolity or disrespect on my part will be sure to earn me an unwanted appointment with my mistress Sinéad’s bitter-stinging whip!
Most of my mistress’s socks, like her one pair of ankleboots, are several years old – and so they too reek of her very foot-essence, even when fresh and laundered, being saturated as they are in her precious, expired foot-DNA. But, as I have already indicated, the socks are sadly, for the most part, hidden throughout the long, working day inside my ginger-haired mistress’s boots, with only occasional glimpses of elasticated sock-top forthcoming – like, for example, when she semi-subconsciously reaches down to pull up her socks or straighten them inside her boots (a job I would happily perform for her were she to ask me!)
But it is her boots I admire the most – for it is such a privilege to be so close to them throughout the day; to be forced to breathe in air that is contaminated by their musty-leathery smell; to have my field of vision dominated by them; to feel them on the sensitive tip of my nose as I nuzzle them like the pathetic, oppressed footslave that I am, anxious to please my Irish mistress at all times and to avoid the burning pain of her whip.
Her female colleagues admire my mistress Sinéad’s indulgences towards me in allowing me to constantly nuzzle the outsides of her boots whilst she is wearing them. Most mistresses would find it somewhat irritating and distracting; ticklish even. But they have to admit that it does make for a wonderful sight – the subdued male affectionately nosing the side of his female master’s and better’s scruffy, nondescript, black leather ankleboot – like it was an object worthy of veneration!
Indeed, her co-workers enjoy the amusing sight so much they will often complain to my mistress Sinéad if she has, temporarily, and perhaps as a punishment for bad behaviour, forbidden me from nuzzling her boots in public. Or, if they are feeling particularly mischievous, and desire to see me whipped, her colleagues may even make false accusations against me – just as brunette mistress Marie-Anne did yesterday morning as she was seated beside my mistress Sinéad at work enjoying a coffee. Mistress Marie-Anne falsely accused me of staring at her navy-blue courts and dark, nylon-stockinged ankles as I knelt nuzzling the side of my mistress Sinéad’s black leather ankleboot.
This, of course, would be a serious crime on my part – were it true – for I am required by law to give my own mistress’s feet and footwear my full attention at all times unless my mistress has given me her express permission to kiss and worship the feet of another woman.
But I am a good, female-law-abiding maleslave, and would never disrespect my mistress Sinéad’s boots in such a way – however shapely and attractive mistress Marie-Anne’s nylon-stockinged feet and ankles may be; and however scuffmarked her navy-blue courts!
Nevertheless, a mistress’s accusation is law, and so my mistress Sinéad immediately thanked her colleague for snitching on me, and invited her fellow, young, Irishwoman to accompany her to the office punishment room where she could witness me being severely punished for my perceived impudence with the whip.
I was therefore obliged to crawl to heel behind the two, young Irish ladies – one redheaded, the other brunette; one anklebooted, the other court-shoed – down to the office punishment-room in the basement where my mistress secured me in a kneeling position in the whipping stocks, my blubbering head hovering down over the feet of my accuser-mistress, mistress Marie-Anne, as she sat gleefully in front of me, urging my mistress Sinéad ‘not to spare’ me.
Mistress Marie-Anne need not worry – my mistress Sinéad never spares me when it comes to the application of the whip; in fact, I think perhaps because she is a little deaf and wears a hearing aid (unusual in such a young woman), my mistress Sinéad is effectively immune to my screams for mercy!
I see mistress Marie-Anne’s dark-nylon-stockinged ankles wrinkle and crease expectantly below my bowed face in anticipation of the first stroke to be applied to my back, and can sense her cruel, Irish smile above me as she rests happy in the knowledge that I am being punished for a crime I did not actually commit. But I must bear no malice against her – for she too, being female, is my better, and I shall doubtless be required to kiss her scuffmarked, navy-blue office courts later, and thank her and praise her for having me so unjustly punished in her presence, though, of course, I shall be obliged to leave out the term ‘unjustly’.
Throughout my pain, I try to focus on my mistress Sinéad’s familiar, black leather ankleboots positioned behind me as she whips me. The creases in her bootleather warn me of each impending cut of the whip, and I selfishly yearn to comfort myself and ease my pain by nuzzling them once more.
But, for now, I must suffer pain – the pain and distress of having my nose separated from the side of my dominant, Irish mistress’s right boot; where it ordinarily belongs. For I am nothing more than a ginger-haired, Gaelic-girl’s pathetic, whipped ankleboot-nuzzler!
