In The Stocks
A trilogy of vignettes about footslaves in the kneeling-stocks
(i) Stocktaking
From Domina Island – home of the arcane cult of ‘The Righteous’
My longsuffering mistress OLGA (she whose name must always be capitalised as an indicator of her innate superiority over me) is inspecting a second-hand set of wooden, kneeling stocks, with a view to purchasing them for my punishment and humiliation. She is proposing to have the ancient stocks installed in the cold and lonely back yard of her homestead, where she can then make me languish for hours - or even days - at a time, bent over a pair of her discarded, black leather ankleboots, and forced to smell their moist innards.
I should explain that I am a slave on the religious island of 'Domina', and that my mistress OLGA is a member of the cult of the Righteous – a beautiful, brown-skinned, righteous woman, who is a fervent believer in the humiliation and punishment of the sinner-slave. Punish the sinner-slave, not the sin, is her cult's motto, and righteously so!
The would-be vendor of the stocks is also a beautiful, young, righteous woman – white, but dressed exactly like my mistress OLGA in the traditional garb of a Righteous domina consisting of a white bonnet; a white pinafore over a long, fully-sleeved, navy-blue, ankle-length dress; navy-blue, woollen tights; and plain, black loafers (only my mistress OLGA's skin colour and footwear differs from that of the vendor, in that my mistress is wearing her aforementioned, low-heeled, and equally demure, zipped-up, black leather ankleboots).
Both dominas by name, and by nature, if not by traditional 'domina' attire!
Moreover, I described the kneeling stocks as 'second-hand', but they have actually been in the vendor's family for centuries, as she happily explains to my mistress in the curious and arcane language of the Righteous:
'The stocks be quite ancient, madam - of several hundred years' vintage - and are a sturdy and fitting confinement for any sinful underling! My family are only dispensing with them as, on the morrow, we inherit another similarly ancient set from our deceased aunt, may God rest her soul!'
'Ha! Ha! It is pleasing to know, sister in the Lord, that many a recalcitrant and reluctant, male neck hath been obliged to strain and stare at the feet of his betters out of this lowly and ignominious, wooden window!' replies my mistress OLGA.
'Indeed, madam! Will thy slave be languishing often in the stocks? Requireth he more or less perpetual correction?'
'Indeed so, sister - and with a goodly number of stinging stripes across his back, for he frequently requireth the whip to remind him of his lowliness and embondagement at my feet!'
Being a slave, I am quite used to being spoken of disparagingly by others whilst I kneel silently by the dusty and dirt-stained ankleboots, and navy-blue dress hem, of my superior and righteous mistress OLGA. And quite right too - a slave should be spoken about, and not heard!
'Wouldst thou like to try out thy miscreant-slave in the stocks, madam?' asks the white-bonneted, black-loafered vendor.
'Indeed yes!' exclaims my bonneted and anklebooted mistress OLGA, gleefully. 'Slave, get thee in the stocks this instant!'
I am then forced to watch the navy-blue woollen tights of both Righteous mistresses creasing and folding atop their respective footwear as I place my neck in the jagged neck-hole, and my wrists in the adjacent, equally jagged, wrist-holes, and the heavy, wooden crossbeam is ignominiously lowered and locked onto my now confined head (the crossbeam is so heavy it requires both ladies to manipulate it at once!)
The heavy crossbeam is then securely padlocked about me, by dainty, if grubby (for these two, Righteous women are hardworking homesteaders) feminine fingers.
I now have no choice but to stare down the insides of my Righteous mistress OLGA's boots as she moves to stand triumphantly, hands on navy-blue hips, in front of me:
'Ha! Ha! How art thou liking it, slave? Doth thy new, immovable collar agree with thy neck? Ha! Ha!'
I struggle to respond to my mistress, due to the unfamiliar, wooden pressure on my voicebox:
'Oh pray, mistress...if it pleaseth you, mistress OLGA....truly thy slave suffereth at thy booted feet, and beggeth for thy sweet mercy, mistress!'
'Ha! Ha! Hold thy foot up to his trembling lips, sister in righteousness, that he may taste God's earth on thy boot! Ha! Ha!'
And with that my, no doubt beaming, mistress (for I can't see her demurely-white-bonneted, brown-skinned face) joyously lifts her muddy, right boot-toe up off the dirty ground and onto my confined lips, where I must taste it.
An ignominious foretaste of things to come, I’ll wager!
(ii) The Miscreant on display before the Mocking, Female Public (& their freemale partners!)
Punishment stocks are in daily use throughout the Gynarchic lands – not just on the Island of the Righteous.
Here is another male-miscreant’s penitent account of his pathetic sojourn in the public, town-square stocks, occurring in the glorious, capital city of the modern, mainland Gynarchy - Barbaria!
I must say, it’s a good, female crowd that have turned out to witness my public punishment in the town square kneeling-stocks – and to have their pretty feet kissed, one after the other, by my penitent-prisoner lips on this fine, spring day:
Ø a pair of dusty, and musty-smelling, black leather ballet-flats worn with an incongruously bright pair of ankle-length, multicoloured, cartoon-themed socks (one of the cartoon animals on the side of her socks – apparently a dog or coyote of some sort – appears to be mockingly sticking its bright red tongue out at me, as if vicariously conveying the female wearer’s contempt and disdain for me as I pay homage to her dusty ballet-flats beneath her long, flowing burka; I therefore kiss the sock-animal on her ankle, out of respect for the sock’s righteous contempt for me);
Ø A stylish pair of patent black leather, spike-heeled, pointy-toed, zip-up kneeboots; unfortunately I am unable to determine the nature of the hosiery, if any, being worn by the Arabic lady concerned, due to the light being severely limited beneath her long, black burka. And besides, it’s none of my business what she has on above the knee – my duty is to keep my gaze low, and focussed on her proffered, pointy shoe-toe, as befits a prisoner doing public-penance at the booted feet of his betters.
Ø A pair of pink and white sneakers, worn with ruffled, pink and white anklesocks – again, such an unexpected, but pleasing, contrast with the seeming severity of the black burka (and, indeed, with the smooth brownness of the Arab lady’s bare ankleskin!)
How everyone – whatever their ethnic origins and cultural mores – laughs at me, and enjoys their jolly, female day out in the capital, making fun of the helpless and totally powerless, male footslave-prisoner in the kneeling stocks, and having him kiss their dirty, dusty, outdoor footwear.
And tomorrow I shall be having to do it all again, with an even sorer neck – as I am sentenced to a full 48 hours in the stocks!
(iii) Sock-Dreaming?
From the ‘Black Gynarchy’ – another satellite-State of the glorious Gynarchy
The young, slender, petitely-built, black woman in her early twenties, wakes me up in the stocks in the dead of night, by kicking me in the face with the scuffmarked, rounded toe of her soft, yellow ballet-flat.
She is noisily devouring a packet of potato chips.
There is nobody else about.
‘Why are you being punished in the stocks, slave?’
‘Oh p…pray…m…mistress… if it pleases you, black mistress, I am being punished because I looked away from my mistress’s s…socks, mistress…if you will f…forgive me, b…black mistress?’
She throws back her pretty, black head in order to shovel the rest of her potato chips down her female gullet, prior to screwing up the now empty packet and nonchalantly chucking it down onto the ground next to my face. I can smell the salt and vinegar flavour.
She wipes her lips.
‘Look at my socks, slave.’
‘Y…yes m…mistress!’
I obey her, through still sleepy and startled eyes – since I have no choice in my ignominious, kneeling position in the stocks.
She belches, gently, into the post-midnight air of the deserted town square.
‘What do you see, slave?’
I study her socks for a second or two. She is wearing full-length, white anklesocks – with plain, vertical stitching and folded over at the cuffs – on her otherwise bare, black legs beneath her black cotton hotpants:
‘Oh p…pray, m…mistress…if it pleases you, b…black m…mistress…I see the creases in your white anklesocks, around your p…pretty anklebones, m…mistress!’
She sucks on her sticky, vinegary fingers and uncaringly picks some remains of potato chips out of her teeth:
‘Are you hungry, slave?’
I am ravenous! All the more so now that I can smell her empty potato-chip packet!
‘Y…yes, m…mistress…if it p…pleases you, b… black m…mistress?’
She cocks her pretty head to get a better view of my suffering:
‘Are you thirsty, slave?’
I am parched! My mouth is ultra dry!
‘Y…Yes…mistress… if it p…pleases you, b…black m…mistress?’
She raises her street-dusty, right, yellow-ballet-flated foot up to my confined-in-wood face. It smells musty.
‘Kiss my sock, slave.’
‘Y…yes, m…mistress… Thank you, m…mistress…As it p…pleases you, m…mistress!’
I kiss her white sock – on the aforementioned creases around her shapely, black ankle; not lasciviously, but respectfully – as befits a footslave-prisoner undergoing public punishment and humiliation in the stocks.
She lowers her right foot to the ground, and holds up her left to my face:
‘And the other one.’
‘Y…yes…mistress!’
Again my parched and dry lips make intimate contact with the softness of her white-sock creases.
She then turns and walks off, and I drift back to my fitful sleep.
Or was I ever awake?
The empty potato-chip packet is nowhere to be seen in the morning; but then, it is quite breezy!
(i) Stocktaking
From Domina Island – home of the arcane cult of ‘The Righteous’
My longsuffering mistress OLGA (she whose name must always be capitalised as an indicator of her innate superiority over me) is inspecting a second-hand set of wooden, kneeling stocks, with a view to purchasing them for my punishment and humiliation. She is proposing to have the ancient stocks installed in the cold and lonely back yard of her homestead, where she can then make me languish for hours - or even days - at a time, bent over a pair of her discarded, black leather ankleboots, and forced to smell their moist innards.
I should explain that I am a slave on the religious island of 'Domina', and that my mistress OLGA is a member of the cult of the Righteous – a beautiful, brown-skinned, righteous woman, who is a fervent believer in the humiliation and punishment of the sinner-slave. Punish the sinner-slave, not the sin, is her cult's motto, and righteously so!
The would-be vendor of the stocks is also a beautiful, young, righteous woman – white, but dressed exactly like my mistress OLGA in the traditional garb of a Righteous domina consisting of a white bonnet; a white pinafore over a long, fully-sleeved, navy-blue, ankle-length dress; navy-blue, woollen tights; and plain, black loafers (only my mistress OLGA's skin colour and footwear differs from that of the vendor, in that my mistress is wearing her aforementioned, low-heeled, and equally demure, zipped-up, black leather ankleboots).
Both dominas by name, and by nature, if not by traditional 'domina' attire!
Moreover, I described the kneeling stocks as 'second-hand', but they have actually been in the vendor's family for centuries, as she happily explains to my mistress in the curious and arcane language of the Righteous:
'The stocks be quite ancient, madam - of several hundred years' vintage - and are a sturdy and fitting confinement for any sinful underling! My family are only dispensing with them as, on the morrow, we inherit another similarly ancient set from our deceased aunt, may God rest her soul!'
'Ha! Ha! It is pleasing to know, sister in the Lord, that many a recalcitrant and reluctant, male neck hath been obliged to strain and stare at the feet of his betters out of this lowly and ignominious, wooden window!' replies my mistress OLGA.
'Indeed, madam! Will thy slave be languishing often in the stocks? Requireth he more or less perpetual correction?'
'Indeed so, sister - and with a goodly number of stinging stripes across his back, for he frequently requireth the whip to remind him of his lowliness and embondagement at my feet!'
Being a slave, I am quite used to being spoken of disparagingly by others whilst I kneel silently by the dusty and dirt-stained ankleboots, and navy-blue dress hem, of my superior and righteous mistress OLGA. And quite right too - a slave should be spoken about, and not heard!
'Wouldst thou like to try out thy miscreant-slave in the stocks, madam?' asks the white-bonneted, black-loafered vendor.
'Indeed yes!' exclaims my bonneted and anklebooted mistress OLGA, gleefully. 'Slave, get thee in the stocks this instant!'
I am then forced to watch the navy-blue woollen tights of both Righteous mistresses creasing and folding atop their respective footwear as I place my neck in the jagged neck-hole, and my wrists in the adjacent, equally jagged, wrist-holes, and the heavy, wooden crossbeam is ignominiously lowered and locked onto my now confined head (the crossbeam is so heavy it requires both ladies to manipulate it at once!)
The heavy crossbeam is then securely padlocked about me, by dainty, if grubby (for these two, Righteous women are hardworking homesteaders) feminine fingers.
I now have no choice but to stare down the insides of my Righteous mistress OLGA's boots as she moves to stand triumphantly, hands on navy-blue hips, in front of me:
'Ha! Ha! How art thou liking it, slave? Doth thy new, immovable collar agree with thy neck? Ha! Ha!'
I struggle to respond to my mistress, due to the unfamiliar, wooden pressure on my voicebox:
'Oh pray, mistress...if it pleaseth you, mistress OLGA....truly thy slave suffereth at thy booted feet, and beggeth for thy sweet mercy, mistress!'
'Ha! Ha! Hold thy foot up to his trembling lips, sister in righteousness, that he may taste God's earth on thy boot! Ha! Ha!'
And with that my, no doubt beaming, mistress (for I can't see her demurely-white-bonneted, brown-skinned face) joyously lifts her muddy, right boot-toe up off the dirty ground and onto my confined lips, where I must taste it.
An ignominious foretaste of things to come, I’ll wager!
(ii) The Miscreant on display before the Mocking, Female Public (& their freemale partners!)
Punishment stocks are in daily use throughout the Gynarchic lands – not just on the Island of the Righteous.
Here is another male-miscreant’s penitent account of his pathetic sojourn in the public, town-square stocks, occurring in the glorious, capital city of the modern, mainland Gynarchy - Barbaria!
I must say, it’s a good, female crowd that have turned out to witness my public punishment in the town square kneeling-stocks – and to have their pretty feet kissed, one after the other, by my penitent-prisoner lips on this fine, spring day:
- The petite, dark-haired, office-girl in her early twenties with the shiny black, flat-heeled loafers and jet-black anklesocks beneath her black cotton trouser-hems. I noticed that her socks were creased as I kissed the dirty scuffmarks on the rounded toes of each black loafer shoe.
- The twenty-something, black-headscarfed, Pakistani girl with the block-heeled, and chisel-toed, black leather ankleboots worn, unusually, with partially undone, zipper-hemmed, navy-blue tracksuit bottoms. I spotted a glimpse of her well-worn and bobbled, white-and blue-spotted anklesocks inside her upper bootrims as she stretched forth each Pakistani-girl, booted foot in turn directly beneath my face onto the wooden ledge at the base of the kneeling stocks for respectful kissing.
- Her Indian business-mistress counterpart, with the surprisingly dusty and dirty, flat-heeled, creased-brown-leather, knee-high boots with zippers up the backs, worn with a fetching, white, halter top; a grey-pinstriped, knee-length business skirt; and opaque, black, woolly tights. Normally, I prefer a brown, woolly kneesock with a brown, leather kneeboot – folded over and creased below a shapely, bare kneecap – but the sheer amount of street filth and grime attached to the leathery contours of the Indian business-mistress’s boot more than makes up for that, as I am just able to get my neck far enough round to kiss those street-dirtied, creased sides of her boots – even though it pains my neck muscles mightily to do so!
- The black, laced-up (with thick, bright, pink laces), low-top leather sneakers, and contrasting snowy-white, rib-stitched anklesocks of the bright-yellow-miniskirt-wearing, twenty-something blonde-bimbo mistress. I only know she’s a bimbo because she is giggling girlishly in front of her gentlemanly, and much older, boyfriend as he helps to steady her whilst she holds the toe of her right sneaker up to my kneeling lips. She can’t even work out that she’s supposed to use the wooden lintel at the base of the stocks on which to rest her pretty, sneakered and socked foot, and then wait for my lips to descend onto her sneaker-leather! The thing I particularly notice about blonde-mistress’s ostensibly pure, white sock on her hovering, right foot is an almost imperceptible dust-stain on the outside of her socked anklebone – not that she will let me touch it with my confined prisoner-mouth. She seems grinningly intent on making me pay homage to her right sneaker-toe, the whole of her right sneaker-toe, and nothing but the right sneaker-toe, as is her perfect young womanly right!
- The much more sloppily-laced, pink canvas high-tops and contrasting black anklesocks of a gum-chewing, nose-picking, beer-swilling, exhibitionist black girl with a fetching iron-sword tattoo running out of her black anklesock-top and up her black calf-muscle on her outer, left leg. I only know she is picking her nose because she stoops down to contemptuously flick her sticky, dry nosepick onto my unworthy face – much to the amusement, and approval, of her black, freemale boyfriend, who is likewise drinking. The extracted ball of female snot actually rolls off my face and into a fold at the top of her left anklesock inside her pink canvas sneaker-top, so I make sure to suck it up with my lips whilst I am respectfully kissing the black mistress’s black sock, and swallow it – for it must not be permitted to sully the superior sock of a beautiful and sassy, black girl, especially whilst she is lasciviously, and a tad drunkenly, tonguing her boyfriend – my temporary master-sir – above me!
- I am often obliged, of course, as part of my penance, to pose for the camera whilst I am kneeling and kissing feet in the stocks – and the crowd of veiled and burka-wearing, Arabic-lady tourists, whilst no doubt camera-shy themselves for reasons of cultural propriety, clearly have no compunctions about having their feet pretty, Arabian ankles pictured in front of my kneeling face for posting later, no doubt, on their social networking pages! They take it in turns to photograph and film me kissing their female-compatriots’ feet – clad beneath their provocatively hitched-up, black, ankle-length burkas, in the following order as they are presented to me:
Ø a pair of dusty, and musty-smelling, black leather ballet-flats worn with an incongruously bright pair of ankle-length, multicoloured, cartoon-themed socks (one of the cartoon animals on the side of her socks – apparently a dog or coyote of some sort – appears to be mockingly sticking its bright red tongue out at me, as if vicariously conveying the female wearer’s contempt and disdain for me as I pay homage to her dusty ballet-flats beneath her long, flowing burka; I therefore kiss the sock-animal on her ankle, out of respect for the sock’s righteous contempt for me);
Ø A stylish pair of patent black leather, spike-heeled, pointy-toed, zip-up kneeboots; unfortunately I am unable to determine the nature of the hosiery, if any, being worn by the Arabic lady concerned, due to the light being severely limited beneath her long, black burka. And besides, it’s none of my business what she has on above the knee – my duty is to keep my gaze low, and focussed on her proffered, pointy shoe-toe, as befits a prisoner doing public-penance at the booted feet of his betters.
Ø A pair of pink and white sneakers, worn with ruffled, pink and white anklesocks – again, such an unexpected, but pleasing, contrast with the seeming severity of the black burka (and, indeed, with the smooth brownness of the Arab lady’s bare ankleskin!)
How everyone – whatever their ethnic origins and cultural mores – laughs at me, and enjoys their jolly, female day out in the capital, making fun of the helpless and totally powerless, male footslave-prisoner in the kneeling stocks, and having him kiss their dirty, dusty, outdoor footwear.
And tomorrow I shall be having to do it all again, with an even sorer neck – as I am sentenced to a full 48 hours in the stocks!
(iii) Sock-Dreaming?
From the ‘Black Gynarchy’ – another satellite-State of the glorious Gynarchy
The young, slender, petitely-built, black woman in her early twenties, wakes me up in the stocks in the dead of night, by kicking me in the face with the scuffmarked, rounded toe of her soft, yellow ballet-flat.
She is noisily devouring a packet of potato chips.
There is nobody else about.
‘Why are you being punished in the stocks, slave?’
‘Oh p…pray…m…mistress… if it pleases you, black mistress, I am being punished because I looked away from my mistress’s s…socks, mistress…if you will f…forgive me, b…black mistress?’
She throws back her pretty, black head in order to shovel the rest of her potato chips down her female gullet, prior to screwing up the now empty packet and nonchalantly chucking it down onto the ground next to my face. I can smell the salt and vinegar flavour.
She wipes her lips.
‘Look at my socks, slave.’
‘Y…yes m…mistress!’
I obey her, through still sleepy and startled eyes – since I have no choice in my ignominious, kneeling position in the stocks.
She belches, gently, into the post-midnight air of the deserted town square.
‘What do you see, slave?’
I study her socks for a second or two. She is wearing full-length, white anklesocks – with plain, vertical stitching and folded over at the cuffs – on her otherwise bare, black legs beneath her black cotton hotpants:
‘Oh p…pray, m…mistress…if it pleases you, b…black m…mistress…I see the creases in your white anklesocks, around your p…pretty anklebones, m…mistress!’
She sucks on her sticky, vinegary fingers and uncaringly picks some remains of potato chips out of her teeth:
‘Are you hungry, slave?’
I am ravenous! All the more so now that I can smell her empty potato-chip packet!
‘Y…yes, m…mistress…if it p…pleases you, b… black m…mistress?’
She cocks her pretty head to get a better view of my suffering:
‘Are you thirsty, slave?’
I am parched! My mouth is ultra dry!
‘Y…Yes…mistress… if it p…pleases you, b…black m…mistress?’
She raises her street-dusty, right, yellow-ballet-flated foot up to my confined-in-wood face. It smells musty.
‘Kiss my sock, slave.’
‘Y…yes, m…mistress… Thank you, m…mistress…As it p…pleases you, m…mistress!’
I kiss her white sock – on the aforementioned creases around her shapely, black ankle; not lasciviously, but respectfully – as befits a footslave-prisoner undergoing public punishment and humiliation in the stocks.
She lowers her right foot to the ground, and holds up her left to my face:
‘And the other one.’
‘Y…yes…mistress!’
Again my parched and dry lips make intimate contact with the softness of her white-sock creases.
She then turns and walks off, and I drift back to my fitful sleep.
Or was I ever awake?
The empty potato-chip packet is nowhere to be seen in the morning; but then, it is quite breezy!
