Cesspit-Cangue
They call it the ‘Cyclical, Grindstone, Cesspit-Cangue Punishment’ (or just the ‘Cesspit-Cangue’ for short, since the former is, admittedly, a bit of a mouthful!) and it is exactly what the name suggests – a most cruel, though not unusual, punishment, utilised to punish recalcitrant footslaves throughout the Gynarchy since time immemorial.
I myself have been suffering it for the past 27 years!
Minute by minute, hour by hour, day by day, year after year I must turn the burdensome grindstone – which is attached to my neck by means of a wooden pole and a heavy, wooden neck-board known as a ‘cangue’ – by crawling on my hands and knees around and around through a stinking, squelching cesspit of mud and manure, under the strict supervision of a succession of cruel and unforgiving, whip-wielding, Indian taskmistresses (I don’t know why this particular, male punishment seems to attract specifically Indian taskmistresses – but, believe me, it does; I’ve never met so many Indian mistresses since the time I was incarcerated on the Cesspit-Cangue!).
How these delightful Indian ladies relish whipping me round and round through the dirty cesspit! And the heavy cangue around my neck has one further, cruel refinement; it contains a wooden, female-foot-sized platform jutting out directly below my wood-imprisoned face, for the taskmistress, or indeed any visiting-mistress member of the public, to position her dainty, feminine foot on for me to kiss! And, whilst the act of kissing that female foot may offer me a temporary, few seconds of respite from my unremitting toil in the mucky cesspit, it does absolutely nothing to alleviate my pain and suffering, since the mere weight of the taskmistress’s or visiting-mistress’s delicate, shod foot on the wooden footrest strains my already elongated neck even further downwards and forwards, thereby causing unbearable muscle-spasms in my bare neck and shoulders!
Yes – after 27 years of being whipped around the cesspit, I am well and truly broken and humbled! Not that my humility elicits any sympathy or compassion in my Indian taskmistresses, or in those visiting mistresses who come to gloat, since they all know I am being punished for something – though no-one, not even I, can remember exactly what my male crime was all those many years ago!
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Today is just another, long day in my cesspit-punishment hell. My first Indian taskmistress of the early-morning – 50 year old taskmistress Punita – has already made sure the cesspit is full of fresh dung and muck, and that it is suitably fetid and stinking for me to crawl through (though she, and I, are virtually immune to the stench by now, having both ‘worked’ for so long in this stinking environment – but the smell never fails to impress the visitors!)
She laughs at me as she gives me my first blow of the day with her thick-girthed, brown leather, bulls-pizzle whip across my imprisoned, bare back and shoulders – causing, no doubt, a thick, red stripe to appear on my male-convict skin:
‘Ha! Ha! Slave awake? Slave ready for more hard work, isn’t it?’ she asks in her cute, Indian accent – before placing her petite, loafer-and-short-anklesock-clad, right foot up onto the wooden footrest in the middle of the cangue beneath my face for respectful kissing; my first female-foot kiss of the day, and already her plain, cheap black leather, slip-on loafer shoe is covered in mud and crud! Her red and black, zigzag-patterned, short, cotton, sneaker-style anklesock also contains early morning, cesspit-mud stains as it creases and folds pleasurably at my downcast eye-level whilst I kiss the stinky, muddy, rounded, toe area of my 50 year old, Indian taskmistress’s, black leathery shoe.
I wouldn’t want you to think that, just because she is in her fifties, taskmistress-Punita is old and unattractive! Indeed, as you can see, she hardly looks her age – especially dressed as she is now in a sexy pair of tight fitting, black cotton, ankle-length leggings, and with her long, jet-black hair let loose and flowing (ignore the few flecks of grey around her temples!). With her pretty, but cruel, smile – and her pert, youthful figure – taskmistress Punita can still turn freemale heads, just as I can still turn the mighty grindstone despite being in my early sixties!
And so it is with a great deal of respect – both for her middle-aged, Indian-woman beauty as much as for her bulls-pizzle whip – that I kiss her early-morning, cesspit-soiled, black leather, flat shoe, the musty smell of the cheap leather well and truly overwhelmed by the stench of the fresh mud and manure!
She laughs again as my lips obediently pucker up in order to kiss the equally mud-stained, rounded toe area of her other shoe, duly presented to me in turn after the right shoe and immediately prior to my obsequious and despondent response to her polite, taskmistressly, rhetorical question as to my readiness to begin working the grindstone:
‘Oh pray, taskmistress Punita… God bless you, taskmistress Punita…This slave is indeed ready to work hard for the mistress…if it would be so pleasing to you, taskmistress Punita?...Please don’t beat me mistress!’
She laughs her pretty, Indian laugh, and does just what I humbly begged her not to do; she beats me – since it is the only way my Indian taskmistresses know to get a reluctant and lazy grindstone-slave started in the morning!
Her muddy shoe and sock are suddenly withdrawn from the wooden footplate beneath my face and placed back into the mud next to her right shoe and sock as my implacable grindstone starts to turn – under the power of the female, bulls-pizzle whip (if such a whip isn’t a contradiction in terms!).
I can hear the stinking sludge of the cesspit churning beneath me as I start to crawl through it – releasing fresh, unpleasant smells up my entrapped nostrils – but, like I said, I’m almost immune to the smell now. I certainly haven’t been sickened by it for many years now, so low have I sunk into the mire! My Indian taskmistress Punita is assisted in acclimatising to the rancid smell by a cute, pure white, surgical facemask which she now places over her lower face to protect her more delicate, feminine nostrils – though, like I said before, after many years of supervising the treadmill, she too has built up a natural immunity to the fetor (and, I must say, the white facemask makes her look even prettier, if that’s possible – almost veiled and Muslim, though I believe she is actually a Hindu!)
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Our first female visitor of the day – who will have paid good money to come and gloat over me – is another Indian female (what is it about the Cesspit-Cangue that attracts so many Indian women?!).
Like my taskmistress Punita, she too is petite and slim in stature – though much younger; early twenties I would say. She is dressed in a smart, black trouser suit and frilly white blouse, and looks more suitably attired for the office than a visit to the punishment-cesspit! Maybe she has just popped in on her way into work, but, really, if she were being sensible, the Indian visitor-girl would have worn her kneehigh, rubber wellies to come and gloat over me amongst the muck and the stench – but her shapely, young, Indian feet are actually clad in pointy-toed, black-suede, low-heeled courts and black, office anklesocks.
My taskmistress Punita kindly helps her to put on her visitor’s surgical mask, or else the young visiting-mistress is in danger of gagging at the stench, unaccustomed as she is to being surrounded by the stink of a dung-laden, punishment cesspit!
It doesn’t take long, however, for the visiting Indian-girl to gaily position her right foot onto the mid-cangue footplate beneath my kneeling, hard-labouring face, after I have been whipped to a halt by my ever-obliging, Indian taskmistress Punita:
‘Slave kiss foot of visiting, young madam!’ orders the latter, her voice somewhat muffled behind her own, tightly secured, surgical facemask.
The visiting girl’s laughter is also muffled as I lower my lips to her dirty, black-suede, pointy shoe-toe, and slavishly kiss it.
I fully respect my Indian visitor-mistress’s shoe-toe, of course, even though I prefer a rounded shoe-toe, like that of my taskmistress Punita’s. I slightly resent the fact that, with a pointy shoe-toe, I am unable to kiss directly over the socked toes of a mistress – since the toe cleavage is further back up the shoe – but at least with this particular pair of gloating, Indian-girl, pointy courts the black sock is clearly visible (indeed, it is right below my eye-line) as I kiss the front point of the suede-leather shoe, so I get to admire all the little creases and folds in the unknown, Indian girl’s sock, along with one or two specks of cesspit-mud!
Consolation indeed!
‘Ha! Ha! He stinks, isn’t it?’ comments the recipient of the humble footkiss, as she deftly switches her office-feet beneath me.
My taskmistress Punita politely confirms the bleeding obvious!
‘Ha! Ha! Yes – he is being most smelly, isn’t it? Ha! Ha! The stink is now being ingrained in his body since he has been being punished here for more than 27 years, isn’t it? Ha! Ha!’
‘Ha! Ha! That is before I was even being born!’ replies her delightfully shocked, Indian-girl, younger cousin (presumably, they are speaking broken English to one another for my benefit – so that I may hear their Indian-women mockery of me, but I am much too focussed on a thick globule of mud stuck to the surface of the visiting, Indian girl’s left sock as her left foot rests beneath my heavily-cangued face, to care about their merciless, female mockery; I worry about that globule of mud sullying the Indian mistress’s smart, black cotton trouser-hem!)
My kisses to the female stranger’s black suede, pointy-toed, muddy shoes are all too brief, as both women wish to see me labouring under the weight of the cangue and the grindstone once again, and so the pointy, left office-foot is promptly withdrawn, and the bruising, bulls-pizzle whip is once again painfully employed, in order to get me moving through mud and dung again – round and round; going nowhere; achieving nothing – other than the grinding of fetid animal excrement!
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My next visitor-mistress of the day is, thankfully, non-Indian – for that would make for a very boring story, wouldn’t it?
She is, in fact, tall and white – but with Slavonic features (and a Slavonic accent to match); dark, shoulder-length hair; quite a pale and wan complexion; wearing the classic, overseas student-girl combination of dark-blue, if somewhat frayed and scruffy, thick denim jeans (turned fashionably up at the hems), and pure white anklesocks inside a pair of once-white, lace-up, leather sneakers. Definitely made in Poland or Slovakia, I would say!
When she places her right foot first onto the wooden footplate beneath my cangue-imprisoned face her white, ribbed sports-sock looks particularly clean, compared to the dirty white of her outer sneaker-leather. It won’t remain such pure white sock for long, however, if this East European girl hangs around in the cesspit!
I only wish I could kiss the sock in its pure, unsullied white state – before it’s too late – but my orders are always to kiss shoe (or sneaker!) – not sock (or nylon), unless I am expressly told otherwise. And so I must make do with kissing dirty-white, rounded sneaker-toe (at least, as I explained before, I have the comfort of knowing that my lips are kissing directly over white-socked toes beneath that flaky and scuffmarked sneaker-leather – and the very fact that the young Slav-woman has graciously, and stylishly, turned up her blue-jeans at the frayed hems means there is a goodly amount of full-length, white-ribbed anklesock for me to admire whilst I am paying my labial respects to her gloating sneaker!)
Once again, a muffled conversation about me takes place in broken English above me – though this time in two very different accents; one Indian, the other East European:
‘Well and…is the dirty slave being kept in this filth all the time?’ asks the Slavonic girl in a serious, studious tone – befitting a curious, young, intelligent woman from overseas coming to terms with Female Law and Order in the Gynarchy. She actually looks, and sounds, quite surly – but not because she sympathises with me; she merely wishes to know how anyone – even a dirty, male slave – could possibly survive constantly surrounded by such acrid filth and stench!
‘Ha! Ha! Yes indeed, madam, isn’t it? The dirty slave is being wallowing in this mud all the time, isn’t it?’
The Polish girl with the unpolished , white sneakers withdraws her right foot from my face, and replaces it with her – slightly dirtier, left foot (this sock actually has one or two mud-stains already on it!):
‘Whip him for me, please!’ requests the wearer of the mud-speckled, white sock.
My taskmistress Punita chuckles with glee – she always loves fulfilling a request to whip her prisoner-slave upon request, especially when his face is forced into the shoe and sock of the visitor-requester:
Swish…Thud!
The bruising, thick-girthed, bull’s-penis whip splats onto my bare back and shoulders, causing me to involuntarily scream into the young, East European woman’s left sneaker.
Now she is smiling!
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Everyday has its highlights – even down in the cesspit-grindstone – and today is no exception. At about midday my taskmistress Punita gleefully announces to me that ‘an old friend’ wishes to come and gloat over me!
She then introduces me to the spike-heeled, pointy-toed, cesspit-muddied, black leather ankleboots and black, bootcut trouser-hems of a middle-aged Asian woman (Asian as in oriental) whom, I must confess, at first I did not recognise – not until she spoke:
‘Ha! Ha! Remember me, slave?’
No!...It can’t be?...Not, my erstwhile mistress Jin-Sook?...The one who condemned me to the Cesspit-Cangue all those 27 years ago? (I remember, with shame, my hideous, male crime now – it was my unforgiveable failure to tonguepolish her sister’s boots to her complete satisfaction; there can surely be no more heinous crime than embarrassing one’s personal footmistress in front of her younger sister by one’s utter, footslavish incompetence?!)
I splutter with shock and surprise into goddess-mistress Jin-Sook’s imperiously presented, muddy, right ankleboot. For once, I don’t mind kissing a pointy boot-toe, since it is the first chance I have had in 27 years to express my contrition and regret to my former footmistress for my unacceptable and negligent behaviour towards her sister’s wedge-heeled ankleboots (I seem to remember that wedge-heeled ankleboots were all the rage amongst young women back in that dim and distant past!); and besides, I don’t even know if my footmistress Jin-Sook is wearing any socks inside her boots – her dainty, oriental toes may well be sweaty and bare, for all I know, inside her boots!
‘Oh p…pray, m…mistress!...Oh m…mistress…J…Jin-Sook!...Oh bliss, mistress!....Oh …b…bliss!’
As you can tell, I was pretty much lost for words! And hasn’t she aged well? She must be well into her late forties by now – yet still slim and svelte, albeit with a slightly rounder face (rather like sexy, middle-aged, mistress Punita! Asian mistresses do age well!)
I continue to shower goddess-mistress Jin-Sook’s cesspit-soiled, visiting, pointy ankleboot in humble, penitent kisses, since it is the best way for an inarticulate footslave to express his humility and penitence towards a mistress. Maybe she has come to pardon me – and release me, at long last, from my terrible cesspit-prison!
But no! She has clearly come merely to gloat and to mock! She teasingly hitches up the hem of her right trouser-leg to reveal the elasticated top of a plain, black anklesock, set against her bare, oriental legskin – thereby tormenting me with the thought that I am, indeed, missing out on kissing above her socked toes! (She clearly remembers all my little personal-footslave foibles!):
‘Ha! Ha! How are you liking it, slave? Are you enjoying wallowing in the dirty, stinking mud at my booted and socked feet?’
She always did speak perfect English, my mistress Jin-Sook, with only the faintest hint of an oriental accent! Hardly surprising, since she was born and bred a Gynarchy-girl!
Swish…Thud!
‘Dirty slave answer mistress!’ commands my Indian-taskmistress Punita, clearly determined to get the best out of me in front of our ‘honoured’, oriental guest (there is no way my Indian taskmistress is going to let me show her up in front of a visiting mistress!)
‘Aooow!...Oh pray mistress!...Oh pray mistress Jin-Sook!...Please don’t have me beaten, mistress Jin-Sook!...Truly this slave belongs in the dirt at your feet, mistress…and praises and blesses the mistress for consigning him to the Cesspit-Cangue all those years ago, mistress!...Oh pray, mistress Jin-Sook!...Oh pray!...I kiss your sock, mistress!’
And with that, somewhat daringly, I raise my quivering lips up onto her exposed, elasticated sock-top – taking her deliberate revelation of her black bootsock as an implicit command to kiss it (I remember now how she used to like me to regularly kiss her on the sock before, when she was younger!)
Taskmistress Punita is clearly ready to whip me red-raw for such perceived forwardness and insolence, for a quick succession of bulls-pizzle blows rain down upon my increasingly bloodied, sock-kissing back:
Swish…Splat!... Swish…Splat!...Swish….Splat!
Again, I scream into my former mistress’s boot in unison with each breath-taking stripe.
‘Ha! Ha! Don’t worry, taskmistress Punita – let the wretch kiss my sock! Ha! Ha! Let him taste what he has been missing all these years…and will continue to miss for the rest of his miserable life! Ha! Ha!...’
So there you have it – straight from the oriental horse’s mouth; no reprieve for me from my, clearly still angry, former footmistress! She is effectively condemning me to continued, lifelong drudgery on the grindstone-cesspit! She has, indeed, merely come to gloat, after 27 years – and to remind me how sweet my footslave-life could have been, had I only paid more attention to her South Korean sister’s, wedge-heeled ankleboots all those many moons ago!
Soon – all too soon – the plain, black anklesock and modern-day, ultra-pointy, black, stiletto-heeled ankleboot are withdrawn from my face, and I resume my circular drudgery to the tune of the bulls-pizzle whip. My only crumb of comfort is that I have just felt oriental-female sock on my lips – the humble highlight of my prisoner day!
