Observations of Sundry Prisoner-Footslaves
A collection of pithy observations by various male prisoner-footslaves as they languish and labour at the booted feet of their glorious female guards!
We male, solitary confinement footslave-prisoners only get fed once a day – in the mornings; a tasteless bowl of bland and nutritionless mush.
But we nevertheless very much look forward to our individual feeding times, and not just because we are hungry – but because of the method whereby our goddess-mistress prison guards feed us. Please feel free to observe blonde goddess-mistress Alina as she feeds me my daily bowl of tasteless mush.
Her blonde graciousness doesn't need to enter my cell, of course, nor even to open the heavy, iron door to my cell. She just opens the ground-level, head-sized hatch from the outside for me to project my humble, prisoner head out of – facing downwards, of course!
The first thing I see in the relative brightness of the gloomy, dungeon corridor is officer-mistress Alina’s uniform-regulation, black leather, chunky-heeled and round-toed, zip-up, calf-length boots beneath her dusty, navy-blue uniform trouser hems.
How do I know they are specifically calf-length boots beneath her trousers? Be patient – all will be revealed!
Before anything can happen I must kiss her dungeon-corridor-dustied boot-toes, one after the other, as they are imperiously presented to me for respectful kissing. I am not allowed to verbally praise and bless my blonde-haired, prison-guard mistress, as my life sentence includes a prohibition on verbal communication with anyone (especially a superior, female guard), so I must convey my admiration and respect for her superior, blonde-femaleness through my worshipful bootkisses.
Next, the blonde and slightly chubby (for she herself is well fed) goddess-guard mistress Alina disdainfully pushes my bowl of slave-mush to the area of the dirty corridor-floor where the dusty soles of her boots have just been. Although I can't look up at her pretty, round, blonde-framed face, I can sense her turning her nose up at the sight of the unappetising mush she is presenting to my kneeling and bowed head; she wouldn't feed this horrible mush to her pet mongrel – but I am lower than her pet mongrel, and so she has no young-womanly compunctions whatsoever about serving such mush up to me in a dirty, unwashed bowl!
Nor should she – I’m a male prisoner being punished!
The best bit of the feeding procedure comes next however, for prison regulations dictate that I am not permitted to 'tuck in' to my bowl of tasteless mush until my guard-mistress has graciously moved to stand directly over my bowl and head, with both her booted ankles digging cruelly into my temples. I therefore have the indignity of having to eat my meal whilst my head is firmly and painfully trapped between my chubby, blonde guard-mistress's lower legs!
This is how I know she is wearing calf-length boots beneath those dusty, navy-blue, uniform trousers – I can feel her dusty, black bootleather digging victoriously into my imprisoned, male temples whilst I eat my meagre meal!
Only when I have consumed every last drop of mush are the female-prisoner-officer boots relaxed from my temples and subsequently used to kick the empty bowl away from me before contemptuously pushing my face back in through the celldoor hatch.
The metal hatch then clanks closed and is locked from the outside, leaving me in pitch darkness, and pitch loneliness, for another 24 hours. Still, at least I have the memory of the sight, smell and feel of those chubby-blonde-girl boots on my mind – quite literally so – as my stomach begins to grumble and rebel against the unedifying muck that has just been so ignominiously foisted upon it!
She's the sort of girl I wouldn't look twice at on the outside – flat-chested, short and squat; with greasy and unkempt-looking, mousey-coloured hair; an overall appearance of scruffiness despite being in her smart, female prison-officer uniform consisting of a nominally white shirt and navy-blue, bootcut trousers.
Even her regulation calf-length, zip-up, prison-wardress boots, as she climbs up onto the treadmill-driver's seat of female power in front of me, look decidedly unkempt – creased, scuffmarked, unpolished and weather-beaten (a bit like their 30 year old wearer) – as they rest dominantly on the metal footrest directly in front of my male-prisoner face, Furthermore, although I can't see them, I just somehow know she'll be wearing a pair of unwashed, manky old bootsocks inside those scruffy, uniform boots– probably a bland, beige-coloured pair of half-worn-away socks. For officer-mistress Sharon just doesn't seem to give a damn about her personal hygiene or appearance – as is her perfect right, of course, as a free, young woman living in the Gynarchy!
But, as she grabs hold of the treadmill-driver's whip, it is very much in my own best interests to start ‘admiring’ her – and to flatter and fawn towards her – in an effort to elicit some residual, young-womanly compassion from her not very feminine, almost boyish, exterior, if I am to somehow avoid a very painful three hours walking the treadmill under the constant sting of her prison-officer whip!
And she knows it – which is why officer-mistress Sharon just loves being on treadmill-supervisory duties!
I begin by verbally praising and blessing her for honouring me with her female-supervisory presence:
'Oh pray, goddess officer-mistress Sharon, if it pleases you goddess officer-mistress Sharon, truly this dirty prisoner-slave is blessed and honoured by your presence on his treadmill, most beautiful mistress, and will work hard for the mistress today, mistress, if it will be so pleasing to you most respected officer-mistress. Please don't beat me, most esteemed officer-mistress Sharon; I’m in your power, miss!'
And with that I feverishly kiss the manky, old toes of her unkempt and scuffmarked, black leather boots.
Like I said, on the outside I wouldn't give officer-mistress Sharon the time of day, but in here I have no choice but to admire her and submit to her!
The bullying, greasy-haired officer-mistress cuts me hard across the face with her black leather, riding-crop-style whip, and sneers at me through her nicotine-stained teeth:
'Shut the f**k up, slave, and start walking!'
She's not dumb, and recognises footslave-prisoner bullshit when she hears it. She still likes to hear it, though, as it enhances her sense of absolute, female power over the male-prisoner trash at her all-powerful, protectively booted feet!
'Yes, officer-mistress Sharon! At once, most glorious and kind officer-mistress Sharon! Thank you for beating me, mistress!'
Begging not to be whipped, and then giving thanks for being whipped – all within the short space of a few moments! Such is the bizarre and contradictory existence of a pitiful and helpless male prisoner-slave at the absolute mercy of a uniform-booted, female-empowered, Gynarchy prison wardress!
My own, shot-to-pieces, bare feet start to move, and the treadmill beneath them begins to creak and groan in tandem with my 50 year-old prisoner muscles.
Miss Sharon, meanwhile, lights up a cigarette above me, thereby ensuring that my already strained lungs are obliged to work even harder in the now smoke-filled, dungeon air as she relaxes whilst I toil relentlessly beneath her under the constant threat of the prison whip.
As I do so, I endeavour to focus on her unkempt boots, and to grow to love them, since I shall be spending the next three hours of my life in close proximity to them, and whatever pair of socks she has on inside them. At least the acrid smell of her exhaled smoke blots out the unpleasantly musty aroma of her unpolished and uncared for bootleather – bootleather which, to my shame, I have just unashamedly kissed in abject submissiveness!
But what choice do I have? Down here she's my lord and master!
Some of our prison-treadmill supervisor-mistresses are very sweet and feminine girls.
Miss Lara is one such girly mistress - early twenties; blonde-ponytailed; slim and svelte; and with a pleasant personality to match. Indeed, one has to ask whether she is really suited to be a severe, prison-guard mistress in a male prison, but one wouldn't want to ask it out too loud, given that she looks really cute in her crisp, white, uniform blouse and navy-blue, uniform trousers, and we male prisoners therefore just love it when it's our turn to be supervised by her on our individual punishment-treadmills!
Well, I do at any rate; I suppose I shouldn’t speak for the others, some of whom may be gay!
Most days when the delectable miss Lara climbs up into the treadmill-driver's chair in front of me she is wearing her regulation, black leather, calf-length, female prison-officer boots (I'm guessing with black socks inside them as, on the one previous occasion she hitched up her navy-blue, bootcut trouser-hems in order to coyly straighten her socks right in front of my face, they were definitely black!)
But today, as she jauntily climbs up onto the raised chair of power and places her pretty, young-womanly feet onto the metal footrest at my confined face-level, I am blessed by the unusually sexy and revealing sight of her shapely, white ankles clad in a pair of tan-nylon tights or stockings, and a pair of equally sexy, navy-blue, high-heeled pumps.
Definitely non-regulation, but colour-coordinated and very feminine!
I cannot believe my luck as I watch the finest denier, flesh-toned foot-nylon wrinkle and crease ever so slightly around her well-turned anklebone, beneath the hems of her ubiquitous, navy-blue-uniform trouser hems, as she makes her feet comfortable on the treadmill-supervisor footrest.
'Hi, prisoner-slave no. 5371', she blurts out excitedly in her high-pitched, blonde-girl voice. 'You'll never guess what I've just won?!'
I haven't even had the command to kiss her feet yet, so excited is the sweet, young lady about whatever it is she's just won! But I kiss them anyway - on the pointy toes of her navy-blue shoes (not even I would be so presumptuous as to kiss a blonde prison-officer mistress on the nylon-stockinged anklebone without her express, young-womanly permission!)
'Oh pray, young officer-mistress Lara...kiss...kiss...pray tell this dirty, unworthy prisoner-slave your good news, mistress...kiss...kiss...if you would be so kind, beautiful, blonde, officer-mistress Lara?'
She either ignores, or forgives, my unsolicited forthrightness on her court-shoed feet:
'Ha! Ha! Well, I've only gone and won a place in a salsa dancing competition, innit?'
I feign excitement for her good news, even though there is nothing in it for me; I certainly won't be permitted to see her dancing feet at the salsa competition somewhere on the outside, since I am chained up to the heavy, wooden treadmill in this gloomy, windowless dungeon for life. Still, at least I can pay some more oral respect to her talented, dancing-girl feet! I kiss them again on the navy-blue shoetoes, as I gush forth my ostensibly hearty congratulations:
'Oh pray, mistress Lara...kiss...kiss...truly that is wonderful news, miss!...kiss...kiss...Oh many, many congratulations, miss Lara madam!...kiss...kiss...'
'Ha! Ha! I know! Isn't it wonderful, slave? ...'
Swish...Crack!
Before I can answer her exited, rhetorical question her tan-nylon stockings on both her feet suddenly crease quite violently as she leans forwards to strike me unexpectedly, and somewhat capriciously, across my bare and vulnerable, male-prisoner shoulderblades with her supervisory, prison riding-crop:
'Ha! Ha! Now get a move on, dirty prisoner-slave! Turn the treadmill or I'll peel the skin off your bare back with my whip, innit though?'
'Aoww! ... Yes, mistress Lara! At once, officer-mistress Lara! Thank you, mistress!'
Clearly the time for sharing in her celebration is over, and it is time for me to get down to some hard labour!
Her nylon-stockinged, court-shoed feet seem to dance a jig of joy in front of my perplexed face as they start to shake on the metal footrest due to the vibrations of the lumbering treadmill, as I obediently start to walk the wooden wheel – now utterly fearful of the excitable, young, blonde-haired officer's dancing whip!
She's not as scary as she looks, the gaoler's 19 year old daughter miss Navanithy!
I think it's mainly because of her flame-red hair set against her beautiful, dark Tamil-girl skin, and the fact that she dresses all in black – usually with a pair of domineering, heavily-buckled, black leather, calf-length, biker boots over her shapely, skin-tight, black denim jeans – that she has developed an undeserved reputation amongst the more ignorant and timid male prisoners for being a cruel and vicious young woman. But I happen to know that beneath her scary, Tamil Goth-girl exterior she's actually quite a sweetie!
How do I know that?
Because, the last time she entered my cell in order to tease and torment me with her untouchable, young-womanly presence (being the gaoler's spoilt daughter she has free rein to enter the prisoners' cells whensoever it pleases her in order to mock and torment them in their male bondage) – though at first I was afraid, I was petrified, as she towered over my kneeling, male body whilst I languished before her in my solitary-confinement cell kneeling-stocks – my fear soon dissipated as she gleefully began to unbuckle her tight, calf-length boots in front of me in order to rub, as she put it, 'her sweaty-socked feet all over my gormless and ugly, male prisoner face!'.
For as soon as the heavy and dominant-looking boots came off, what did I see but the sweetest pair of pure, girly-pink anklesocks with lots of fluffy little white sheep motifs on them!
Hardly the socks of a sadistic dominatrix, though they did mightily stink out my face, and my cell, as she smilingly rubbed her ingrained, dusty, pink-sock footsweat into my helpless and confined-in-wood, male-prisoner-slave, facial pores!
This morning blonde officer-mistress Michelle has some good news for me! As part of the preparations for my release back into the Gynarchy community I am to accompany her to black leather, wedged bootheel out of the dungeon and into the town square where I shall begin my ‘re-education’ as a public footslave!
I am so excited, as this shall be my first such outing in nearly three years! Indeed, it will be my first sight of daylight in three years!
My first glimpse of sunlight hurts my eyes as we venture outside, forcing me to focus on the relative bleakness of the backs of officer-mistress Michelle's dusty, black leather bootheels as I crawl submissively through the Gynarchy dust and dirt to heel behind her – which is no bad thing, since a prisoner-slave could do worse than have to focus on a pretty, uniformed, blonde-girl's wedged bootheels beneath the backs of her prison-officer, navy-blue, bootcut trouser-hems!
However, it doesn't take long before I must squint my eyes as, as part of my public rehabilitation, I am required by my supervisor-mistress Michelle to kiss the sunlight-reflecting, bright white, laced-up, low-top, canvas sneakers of a dark-haired, twenty-something, Italian tourist-girl – the first pair of non-black-leather, non-booted footwear I have been privileged to kiss in the three years since my initial incarceration!
I know she's Italian partly because she is gabbling away in Italian to her mates – joyfully mocking me, no doubt, as I am obliged to kiss her white, keds-sneakered feet in public, though I don't speak Italian myself and therefore have no idea what she's actually saying; partly because her otherwise plain white, rib-stitched and neatly-pulled-up anklesocks have a cute, little logo consisting of the Italian flag on the sides – just visible beneath the thick, grey, turned-up hems of her blue-denim, designer jeans; and partly because her plain white, and somewhat grubby, well-worn, rubbery sneaker-toes nevertheless look incredibly stylish on her – she could surely only be a fashion-conscious Italian girl in such deliberately dress-down sneakers worn with expensive, designer jeans!
A fourth clue to her Mediterranean ethnicity is her pretty, aquiline nose which I couldn't help notice her turning up at me as officer-mistress Michelle explained my crime to her in English – stealing a pair of female socks for unauthorised sniffing!
Oh how my heart pounds as I get my first close-up and personal view of a pure, feminine white sock on a shapely, female anklebone in three long years!
Don't get me wrong - the female prison-officer, regulation-uniform, black leather, calf-length boots are nice enough to kiss and study; but I have been almost totally starved of girlsock whilst languishing in the Gynarchy dungeons, since the officer-mistresses never have occasion to unzip their boots, or hitch up their trouser-hems, in front of a male prisoner. I don't even know, therefore, what colour of socks pretty, blonde officer-mistress Michelle has on right now inside her supervisory, wedge-heeled calfboots – though I'm guessing they will be black; that's certainly the rumour amongst the prisoner-slaves (apparently one male prisoner once had the balls to ask her about her sock-colour preferences, but we don't know if he was whipped for his impertinence, so the rest of us just prefer to guess the colour of officer-mistress Michelle's bootsocks and imagine their angelic smell inside her fully zipped-up and trouser-covered boots!)
But back to the dark-haired, Italian-civilian girl's socks – as I said before, white; ribbed; and flagged up as Italian! Such an unutterable joy to behold as I kiss her rubbery, grubby-white, foreign-tourist sneaker toe! I just love the way her sock involuntarily creases in reaction to the pleasurable flexing of her shapely, young-womanly, Italian-girl anklemuscle underneath my lips as my unworthy, prisoner-slave mouth makes worshipful contact with her well-worn sneaker-leather, and as she giggles and laughs above me!
It doesn't take long for her to imperiously switch canvas-sneakered feet beneath me, this time even affording me my first furtive glimpse in three years of soft, bare, feminine ankleskin atop her white, Italian sock (and what delightful, olive-toned, Mediterranean skin it is too!)
I am quite exhausted with unsated sock-lust by the time I have finished kissing the Italian girl's grubby-white and scuffmarked, non-designer sneaker-toes – and, sadly, you have to ask whether I've actually learnt my lesson since being inside, for I would happily steal this tourist-girl's pure, white anklesocks off her olive-skinned feet for some heavy-duty sniffing, if I thought I could get away with it!
I am down on my hands and knees scrubbing the dungeon-corridor floor with a bucket of water and a scrubbing brush, when whose boots should loom into view but those of the prison-governess herself – goddess-mistress Josephine!
I recognise it’s the governess’s boots because she alone, amongst all the female prison staff, is non-uniformed. Instead she prefers to wear her civilian, black-leather, chunky-heeled and round-toed, zip-up ankleboots beneath a pair of plain, black bootcut slacks. She still looks smart – but in a civilian businesswoman-like way.
Not that she seems old enough to be a successful businesswoman – at just 23 years of age she must surely be one of the youngest prison-governesses in the Gynarchy?! But that only makes we male prisoner-slaves fear her all the more – she must be a particularly cruel and all-powerful, young woman to have reached the dizzy heights of a prison governorship at such a tender age; either that, or she has slept with all the right people!
Her reputation for cruelty and power is only enhanced by her great beauty – slim and svelte; flame-red hair; and a deceptively high-pitched and girlish voice, which has been known to condemn prisoner-slaves to vicious and brutal floggings on the most capricious of feminine whims!
I therefore start to quake as I see the all-powerful governess-mistress Josephine’s black leather ankleboots loom into view down the freshly-scrubbed corridor – and can only hope that she doesn’t slip on the wet floor; can you imagine the flogging I would receive for causing the flame-haired and fiery-tempered prison-governess to slip and fall on her pert, young-womanly backside?!
Thankfully she remains proud and upstanding as her black leather ankleboots march right up to my hardworking, kneeling and bowed face. The right boot is then stretched forwards as an indication that I am to kiss the young, redheaded prison-governess on the proffered boot-toe.
This is a huge honour, of course (even though her black, bootcut trouser-hem does not ride up quite high enough to enable me to catch a glimpse of her prison-governess bootsock which, I’m guessing, is plain black to match her boot, and probably her mood) and so I do so with alacrity.
We then repeat the process with her left, civilian ankleboot:
‘Scrub this floor again, prisoner no. 7865. It’s still not clean enough – and I will not have my officers walking on dirty floors! Do I make myself clear, though?’
‘Y…yes…g…governess…m…mistress Josephine. P…pray forgive m…me, most f…feared and r…respected g…governess m…mistress Josephine!’
I don’t normally stammer – but being in the presence of such a strong and powerful, redheaded young woman is making me nervous, especially since she evidently knows my name (prisoner no. 7865). You’ve got to admire her intelligence and ability to remember every unimportant, male-prisoner’s individual number; I mean, there must be hundreds of us in this God-forsaken, but goddess-saturated, place!
I kiss her civilian boot-toes again in a further acknowledgement of her supreme, young-womanly power and authority over me, and my complete and utter submission to that authority.
‘Now get back to work, 7865!’
‘Y…yes…g…governess-mistress! Th…Thank you…g…governess m…mistress Josephine! G…God bless you, m…mistress-governess!’
I am genuinely appreciative of her executive decision not to have me flogged on the spot for my inadequate floor-scrubbing, for that is very much within her remit; she can have me whipped to a pulp at the click of a sweet-feminine, red-varnished fingernail.
But instead she walks on; and I scrub on!
I feel decidedly ill.
I've got all the symptoms of influenza – a high fever; nausea; splitting headache; weariness. No amount of shoulder-whipping by my unsympathetic supervisor-mistresses on my isolation prison-treadmill has spurred my flu-weakened legs into action!
The supervisor-mistresses are unsympathetic, of course, because they themselves, being female, are immunised every year against flu. Thus, whilst they may carry the bug (and one of them has clearly passed it onto me since they are my only human contact), they have never experienced the symptoms – so as far as they are concerned I'm just being lazy!
Come to think of it, I probably picked up the bug from the surface of one of their boots, whilst kissing it. The flu bug can survive on a girl's bootleather, can't it?
Anyway, eventually one of the supervisor-mistresses relents from whipping me and calls the prison doctoress – a pleasant-looking young, white woman with dark-rimmed spectacles and matching, black, curly-permed hair. Unlike the rest of my female contacts she is not wearing a navy-blue, female prison officer's uniform, but instead has on a long, white, junior doctor's coat and a stethoscope.
It is almost worth being ill just to observe her black leather, chunky-heeled and round-toed, civilian mary-jane shoes (with the single straps), and plain black civilian socks whilst she examines me; such a pleasant change from my supervisor-mistresses' ubiquitous, black leather, sock-hiding, calf-length, uniform boots (though, sadly, I only get to observe the junior, female doctor's shoes and socks from somewhat of a distance, since she is merely standing beside me on the treadmill, and not seated in the treadmill-driver's seat in front of me, with her mary-janed feet resting on the metal footrest just inches away from my sweating, suffering face; wouldn’t that be nice!).
The dark-curly-haired, bespectacled, junior-doctor mistress is not here to treat me, of course – male prisoner-slaves are not allowed to be treated or cured of injury or illness in the Gynarchy; it's the law!). No, she is here merely to confirm my diagnosis and, hopefully, exempt me from any further hard labour, and hard whipping, until I am better. In other words, she is examining me to confirm to my sceptical supervisor-mistresses that I am not merely skiving!
The pleasant, but suitably cold and professional, junior doctor-mistress therefore ignores my copious whip-wounds as she examines me with her stethoscope and takes my pulse and temperature. She doesn't care about my whip-wounds. But she does, mercifully, confirm my self-diagnosis of flu, and signs a prison chit exempting me from any further hard labour on my individual punishment-treadmill for 4 days (if she hadn't, I would have continued to be whipped until I eventually did find the strength from somewhere to move my legs – or until I passed out!).
I could praise and bless her compassionate, black mary-janes and socks by kissing them, if only they had been close enough to my fevered brow – but as soon as they have examined me they are gone, leaving me, under doctor's orders, alone in the pitch dark of my solitary-confinement cell without food or water.
Or paracetamol.
Of course, once I am better, I shall have to make up the lost hours of nugatory, hard labour on my prison treadmill. If I was on a time-limited sentence it would simply be extended by four days. But, as I am a 'lifer', I shall have to work 22 hours a day, instead of just 20, until I make up the lost time caused by my illness.
There is no respite for the wicked, male prisoner-footslave – not here in the Gynarchy, at any rate!
But at least it will give my treadmill supervisor-mistresses a nice opportunity to notch up some paid overtime.
The fat, middle-aged, blonde woman climbs up into the treadmill-driving seat in front of me, and plonks herself down with an undignified grunt.
I have no idea who she is, or why she has seated herself on my treadmill, but I do know that she must be a senior prison-officer for two reasons:
1) The regular guard-mistresses all saluted her when she entered my cell;
2) Although she is uniformed like them, on her podgy, bare white feet she is wearing a somewhat scruffy and unpolished-looking pair of flat, black leather, civilian-style loafers; comfortable shoes instead of heavy, uniform boots – surely a privilege of rank!
And speaking of rank, those shoes do smell incredibly musty so close up and personal to my prisoner face!
I hear her laugh at me:
'Ha! Ha! Don't you recognise me, prisoner no. 481?'
My God, I do recognise that voice!... In particular that Scottish accent! Surely it can't be?...Officer-mistress Morag, one of my erstwhile guards from nigh on 30 years ago?! God she's changed! She used to be so slim and svelte – a real blonde bimbo! All the prisoner-slaves fancied her!
Mind you, I'm not surprised she's put on weight - she must be in her mid-fifties by now! (I'm in my early sixties!).
Didn't she leave on promotion all those years ago? Looks like she's been climbing the greasy caber ever since, for, as I said, she has the air of someone in very high authority right now – a prison governess, perhaps?
How kind of her to remember my name!
I gush forth my prisoner-slavish delight in seeing her feet again after all these years, for, now that I know she is the erstwhile sex-bomb goddess mistress Morag , her faded, middle-aged, Scottish beauty seems strangely attractive!
'Oh pray, mistress – mistress Morag mistress? Oh mistress! God bless you for remembering me, mistress!'
'Ha! Ha! Don't get too excited, 481! I just happened to be passing and thought I'd pop in for a bit of a gloat, since I knew you'd still be stuck in this same cell, and on this same, old treadmill after all these years! Ha! Ha! Och aye, we had some good whipping and foot-worship sessions on this very treadmill, didn't we though, prisoner no. 481?...'
It's all coming back to me now – her professional cruelty with the whip; her deliberate hitching-up of her navy-blue, uniform trouser-hems to torment me with the upper-rims of her chunky-heeled and round-toed, black leather ankleboots and, indeed, her navy-blue-uniform socktops, as I feverishly kissed her boot-toes and pushed the treadmill round and round, hour after hour, day after day! (officer-mistresses routinely wore ankle boots in those halcyon days, a bit like prison-galley taskmistresses often do today – a deliberate ploy so that the prisoners can get an occasional glimpse of their inspirational, sweet socks as they pull on their oars!)
Mind you, goddess-mistress Morag appears to have gone sockless in her middle-age; I never realised she had such veiny feet!
But how typical of her personality to come back after all these years merely to gloat over me!
And gloat she does:
'... Ha! Ha! Aye, just think, prisoner 481, all those years of walking the treadmill, and where has it got you? Absolutely nowhere! Ha! Ha! You could have walked to the moon and back by now! Ha! Ha! And, in the meantime look where I've got to – deputy governess of a wee, male prison up North! Ha! Ha! I'm rich and powerful now – whereas you're still walking the treadmill under the female whip! Ha! Ha! What a loser! What a maleslave gowk!'
I suck up her successful, middle-aged gloating – as befits a loser lifer-footslave, tethered permanently to the cruel, prison treadmill whilst life goes on all around him:
'Yes indeed, goddess-mistress Morag! God bless you, deputy governess-mistress Morag – and many congratulations on your well-deserved promotion, rich and powerful, blonde mistress Morag, miss!'
She truly does deserve her promotion – for, whilst she may never have been the brightest of prison-officer mistresses, she was always one of the most beautiful and cruellest; and evidently still is!
Her next comment displays an uncharacteristic humility on her part, however, even if it is simultaneously another dig at my prisoner-slave wretchedness:
'Ha! Ha! Still, look on the bright side, no. 481 – at least all that exercise has kept you fit and trim; unlike me! Ha! Ha!'
'Yes, mistress Morag, mistress – but the mistress still looks lovely mistress, if it pleases you mistress?'
She laughs at my wee, white lie, and grabs hold of the treadmill-driver's whip:
'Ha! Ha! Giddy-up, 481 – for old time's sake! And kiss my feet while you're walking!...'
And with that she brings the riding-crop whip down onto my bare back and shoulders beneath her:
Swish...Crack!
I instantly start to move the treadmill with my red-raw feet, and simultaneously kiss her scuffmarked, black leather, Scottish shoe-toes, with her fresh whip-sting burning brightly across my upper back.
Like she said – it's just like old times, apart from her middle-aged, musty-smelling footwear! And so I obediently serve beneath her once again on the prison-treadmill , albeit this time with my creaking and groaning, elderly-prisoner bones ... for the sake of Auld Lang Syne!
She can't be any more than about 20 years old.
As the somewhat tall and gangly, dark-haired, prison-inspectress girl moves around me with her official clipboard, I am particularly impressed by her ultra-short, white, civilian socks inside her plain, black ballet-flats – for they are very modern! They are seemingly designed to look slovenly and as if they have slipped down the back of her bare, mixed-race heels – as if she wasn't already revealing enough of her bare flesh with her ultra-short miniskirt and long, bare legs!
But there is no sock-slippage – these ultra-modern, young-womanly, white anklesocks actually have no heels! They are designed to merely absorb the sweat from her toes and insteps inside her soft, black leather ballet-flats, and to leave her sexy bare brown heel-tendons exposed!
This is a rare treat for me down here in the footslave dungeons – a civilian girl's socks! It shows me how much female sock-styles have changed in the world outside during my forty odd years of incarceration in this solitary-confinement, treadmill cell, for such ankle-and-heel-revealing socks simply didn't exist when I was still living on the outside!
I only wish this tall and gangly, young, mixed-race woman would climb up onto the treadmill in front of me, and rest her dusty, black ballet-flated feet on the metal footrest in front of my face so that I could informally inspect her short, white socks in more detail as she formally inspects my whipped back. She is not here to check on my wellbeing, but rather to ensure that I am being sufficiently punished in accordance with the wishes of the Female Court; therefore she is laughing and joking – along with my cruel, black-leather-booted, uniformed, female prison-guards – at my glistening, male whip-wounds, and writing up a highly complimentary report for my taskmistresses on her official, prison-inspectress's clipboard!
I gather from her conversation with my female guards that she would quite like to be a treadmill-taskmistress herself one day – but, frustratingly for me, she doesn't climb up into the driver's seat to try it out for size. She's much too pressed for time - she has a report to write!
Even from a distance, however, I can see her shapely, pale brown heel-tendons flex, and her white-socked-insteps crease and fold, with undisguised female gratification at the obvious signs of my male-prisoner suffering.
The other prison-galley slaves all love it when taskmistress Jacqueline is on duty, for she hates me with a vengeance and constantly picks on me; and the more she is whipping me, or forcing me to kiss her prison-taskmistressly, dusty black leather, chunky-heeled ankleboots, the less time she is spending disciplining my galley-slave colleagues!
She says she must constantly whip me because I'm a lazy slave – and that I don't pull my individual weight on the oar. But we both know that her real motivation in making my life hell is that I foolishly rejected her amorous advances in my previous life, before my imprisonment and enslavement, when I was a wealthy and successful, free businessman.
If you're going to reject the advances of a pretty, young woman, make sure her future job isn't going to be that of a prison-galley taskmistress in the Gynarchy of Barbaria! For if she decides to take revenge on you by falsely accusing you of theft from her purse, and by planting the evidence on you, you could end up like me, following your summary conviction by the Female Courts, and find yourself labouring under her absolute, female power, and at her sweet feminine mercy, on the very prison-galley where she works!
And, as we all know, hell hath no fury like a young woman scorned...
It's not that she's unattractive – slim and petite; her dyed-blonde hair tied back in a fetching, tight ponytail; and with a feisty, fun-loving personality. The other slaves all think I must have been mad to reject her!
Maybe I was – but it was just that she's a heavy smoker and a drinker, and I was a non-smoker and teetotal, and so I didn't think we had enough in common. And besides, I was always very shy with women, and she scared me with her lustful, young-womanly advances. I was – am – still a male virgin; and it now looks like I always will be – for galley-slaves don’t get to have sex. They merely get whipped!
Whatever, I politely, but foolishly, turned her down – and now rue the day I did so! For now, instead of tasting her soft and luscious, young-womanly body and lips (albeit along with her smoker's breath and residual alcohol) I am obliged to taste her harsh and dusty, scuffmarked bootleather – and the only body-part I get to admire on her is the occasional glimpse of her soft, smooth, white legskin beneath her navy-blue, uniform trouser-hem and above her navy-blue, uniform anklesock, as she gleefully swings the stinging, single-tailed, prison-galley whip down upon my lawfully imprisoned back, or teasingly hitches up her slacks whilst presenting her deliberately dusty and unkempt, uniform ankleboots for me to kiss!
Serves me right for being such a prude and a wimp!
And so I cringe with fear and embarrassment whenever taskmistress Jacqueline is on duty – whilst my fellow, galley-slave colleagues can relax a bit, knowing that the blonde-girl bimbo, whom they would all dearly love to shag, will see to it with her whip that I pick up the slack(s)!
This afternoon, prison-galley governess-mistress Marian is visiting the galley to inspect her taskmistresses' work. My nemesis, taskmistress-officer Jacqueline, happens to be the officer on duty again, and so my bare back is, as per usual, particularly raw and sore compared to the backs of the other slaves.
The governess is very astute, and notices my pain as I take my turn kissing her black leather, chunky-heeled, single-strapped, mary-jane shoes and black socks as she passes regally down the line.
She queries it with officer-taskmistress Jacqueline who is standing on the central, galley gangway with her dusty, black leather ankleboots perilously close to my face-level (close enough for me to smell their mustiness):
'Why is number 33 so sorely whipped, officer?'
'Because he's a lazy sod, ma'am! He needs the constant sting of the whip to make him pull his weight! I hate him!'
I hear one or two of my galley-slave colleagues sniggering at taskmistress Jacqueline's disingenuous response.
But the galley-prison governess is totally satisfied with her diligent, blonde-ponytailed officer's explanation, and it is clear that no amount of black leather, mary-jane shoestrap kissing – or even female prison-governor, black sock kissing – is going to ingratiate me to the biased prison governess-mistress:
'Very good, officer! Carry on whipping him with my full authority. See to it that the lazy wretch pulls his weight, and likewise ensure that he repeatedly kisses your boots and thanks you for taking the time to discipline him!'
'Yes ma'am!'
Oh well, that's it then – I'm done for now! Taskmistress Jacqueline now has the galley-governess's full, explicit authority to whip me to hell, and to make me kiss her dusty, black leather boot-toes in the process!
But, right now, hell would seem like a nice and kind place compared to my place of perpetual bondage on this prison-galley slave-ship, for, as I indicated before, hell hath no fury like a prison-taskmistress scorned!
