Professional Punishment
Author’s note: I am indebted to a regular reader for the inspiration behind this particular storyline.
Professional Punishment
I can’t believe I was so rude to my sweet and kind mistress!
The incident happened yesterday evening when she arrived home from work. As per usual, my 24 year old, upper-caste Indian mistress, miss Manisha, had been on her feet all day on the shop floor where she works, and she had just slumped herself down on her living room sofa, kicked off her shoes, and summoned me to attend to her bare, brown feet.
Her petite and dainty feet, again as per usual, were pedicured, but rather sweaty, as miss Manisha likes to go barefoot inside her black, leather courts when she is at work. Her pink-varnished toenails were, therefore, beginning to look a bit chipped beneath the hems of her grey-pinstriped, flared, trousers as she ordered me to place her sticky, Indian toes inside my mouth and ‘refresh’ them for her.
I do so love sucking on my Indian mistress’s shop-soiled, sweaty toes at the end of her long, working day – especially as she has no compunctions whatsoever about imposing her sweaty, feminine toetaste on my mouth, and even scrapes her harsh toenails against the roof my mouth with absolutely no regard for the damage they might be doing to the inner lining of my sensitive slave-mouth! My mistress Manisha only has concerns for the well-being of her sweaty, Indian-girl tootsies, and, quite frankly, she doesn’t give a flying fig if my mouth is injured in the process of refreshing her hot and tired, workaday feet.
So far so good, but what upset my mistress Manisha was when, after some 5 minutes or so of my mouth-massaging her hot, tired toes, she withdrew her bare feet from my mouth in order to go to the lavatory, leaving me with orders to smell the insides of her sweaty, court shoes until she came back.
This wouldn’t normally be a problem, since I am trained to obey my mistress, and sniffing the warm and moist insides of her shop-shoes is a routine chore for me. But what happened this time was that she returned to the living room sooner than I had anticipated, and caught me grimacing at the rank odour of the fresh, raw sweat which had seeped onto the beige-coloured, inner linings of her black, leather courts direct from her female-Indian foot pores!
Because my mistress Manisha tends not to wear socks or nylons inside her court shoes, her feet perspire directly into the lining of her shoes throughout the long, working day – and the smell, as a consequence, is rank! My poor, footslave-nose is effectively entrapped in the strong, musty odour of inner, Indian-girlshoe leather which has been recently moisturized by fresh, feminine footsweat. The smell is truly sickening and, quite frankly, makes me want to barf!
It is inevitable, therefore, that even an experienced and devoted personal footslave such as myself will grimace, and instinctively turn his nose up at, his mistress’s freshly liberated foot-air inside her hot, unprotected shoes; the secret is to hide that disgust from the mistress, and to give the impression that one is honoured and privileged to be smelling her residual, stinky footsweat!
Normally, I am quite good at doing that – when my mistress is physically present and watching me smell her shoes. But this time she caught me off-guard – I thought she was still in the bathroom, and so, regrettably with hindsight, I was making no effort to disguise my distress at the repulsive, sweaty, inner-shoe smells invading my poor, maleslave nostrils!
I really do think, you know, that most mistresses believe we footslaves actually like the smell of sweaty, human-female feet. We don’t! What we like is the humiliation of having to smell them – for that is what puts us in our place and reminds us of how lowly and insignificant we are!
But there can be no excuses for my behaviour. I insulted my sweet and kind mistress Manisha by being caught out turning my nose up at her sweaty workshoe-stink, and she immediately expressed her righteous wrath and indignation at my footslavish insolence:
‘INSOLENT SLAVE! I WILL BE HAVING YOU MOST SEVERLY PUNISHED FOR YOUR DISRESPECT. I WILL BE HAVING YOU SOUNDLY WHIPPED! BUT NOT BY ME – IT WILL BE BEING BY A MAN FROM THE SLAVE-WHIPPING COMPANY! I AM GOING TO BE RINGING THEM RIGHT NOW, YOU IMPUDENT SHOE-PIG! WE SHALL SOON BE SEEING HOW MUCH YOU ARE COMING TO RESPECT THE SMELLS OF MY SWEATY SHOES AFTER YOU ARE BEING EXPERIENCING THE HARSH PAIN OF A PROFESSIONAL WHIPPING! HA! HA!’
The ‘Slave-Whipping Company’! I had heard of them! Their very name sends a shiver, and ultimately pain, down the spine of every household slave in the Gynarchy, for they visit a mistress’s home on demand, and for a small fee, in order to deliver a severe and professional punishment to any recalcitrant or disobedient, male slave. The company’s employees are, by all accounts, thick-set, brutish, free men who just love to apply the whip to the backs of their weaker, maleslave cousins! And they bring their own, company whips, apparently – three-tailed, black leather whips with harsh leather knots in the end; only just legal to use in the Gynarchy!
Terrified, I threw myself onto my Indian shopgirl-mistress’s soft, brown feet, and showered them with penitent kisses. Even though her Indian feet were still covered in the same sweat and bacteria as the offending, court shoes (for she has not showered in the bathroom – just relieved herself), my fear of a professional whipping was enough to make me forget my dislike of foot odour, and to cause me to beg for mercy and forgiveness of my petite and normally merciful, Indian mistress.
Her very, Asian-girl petiteness and slightness of build is, of course, part of the problem. If she were stronger and more muscular she would doubtless whip me herself – content in the knowledge that she was capable of causing me the appropriate amount of suffering! But my dainty, Indian mistress is not physically strong, and whippings at her hand, whilst they may smart a bit, are not exactly what you would call ‘severe’.
So when ‘severe’ punishment is required – which, I humbly have to admit it most definitely is in circumstances such as these – what other option does my single and unattached, Indian mistress have other than to summon in a professional whipper?
My only hope is that the feel of my apologetic lips on her soft, brown feet will mellow her feminine anger, and that she might commute my sentence to several hours in the household stocks; or perhaps even give me a suspended sentence!
But it is not to be. My feverish kisses to the pulsating, blue vein along the top of her right, angry Indian-girl foot are, sadly, in vain. My mistress Manisha is tired and tetchy after a long, hard day being nice to her, often obnoxious, customers on the shop floor. She is, quite simply, in a foul mood; she feels insulted by her personal footslave, and is therefore determined to see me suffer!
She picks up the phone directory along with her mobile phone and dials the number for the ‘Slave-Whipping Company’, whilst I continue to penitently, but futilely, kiss her warm, sticky and smelly feet.
………………………………………………………………………………..
It is the following day – a Saturday – and my mistress Manisha has the day off. She has therefore booked the professional slave-whipper for 11.00 a.m.
I am kneeling in front of her feet as she sits once again on her living room sofa, this time checking out the ‘Slave Whipping Company’s’ website on her laptop. They don’t just do whippings, it seems – but also canings and strappings. But my mistress Manisha has gleefully informed me she is definitely going for a whipping, as she says she likes the sound of the whip whooshing through the air, followed by the sickening splat of the leather across a slave’s bare back. I can even hear her playing videos of example whippings from the website on her laptop.
My mistress Manisha has changed into her casual clothes today, since she is not due at work, and very pretty she looks too – a pink top; tatty, black denim jeans; short, pink cotton, sneaker socks; and matching pink, mary-jane style, canvas sneakers with thick, Velcro straps across the tops of her pretty, socked feet.
She is wearing those sneakers and socks deliberately because she knows they’re my favourites. She is not wearing them to comfort me, however. Quite the opposite – she is wearing them to torment me. For she knows I shall shortly be obliged to scream and wail into them whilst I am being professionally whipped by some brute of a strange man at her dainty, pink feet!
I try not to think too much about my impending pain and suffering; I even try to shut out the sounds of the whippings playing from my Indian mistress’s laptop on her lap above me. Instead I concentrate hard on my dainty mistress’s feminine-pink shoes and socks. I study the creases and folds in her socks as she enjoys her videos. I even try to count the individual stitches in the pink, elasticated tops of her short sneaker-socks – a hopeless task I have attempted many times before, but never succeeded in completing due to the inevitable, periodic, subconscious movements in my Indian mistress’s feet. She doesn’t even realise she is disturbing my efforts to count her sock-stitches; and why should she? Is she not free to move her feet around at will?
As I study – I yearn; yearn to kiss her ankle-flattering, pastel-pink socks and pink, Velcro-fastened sneakers by way of a last-ditch attempt to invoke pity and clemency from my sweet and kind-natured, Indian mistress. But, sadly, she has already forbidden me to have contact with her feet – since I clearly find her feet so ‘repulsive’, as she put it – and I am instead under strict orders just to contemplate her feet whilst simultaneously contemplating my fate.
It’s all an integral part of my punishment for rudeness – pink sock and sneaker denial! But, in any case, no amount of sneaker and sock worship would be enough to illicit mercy in my still angry young mistress right now. She is all fired-up through watching and listening to the various videos on the ‘Slave Whipping Company’s’ website!
I wonder if they’ll be filming my whipping for the website?
Suddenly the doorbell rings and my desperate sockstitch-counting is interrupted by the sight of my mistress Manisha eagerly leaping up onto her feet and disappearing towards the front door in order to let in her ‘knight in shining armour’ – the professional whip-brute who has come to whip me.
I hear the man’s voice from behind me, for I must remain kneeling – barebacked in front of the sofa, and awaiting my unenviable fate – my face humbly lowered towards the living room carpet where I can still see the imprints of my mistress’s sneaker-soles.
The man is reassuring my mistress, as he enters the living room, that he will soon be beating some proper respect for my female betters into me. My mistress reiterates my crime, to my horror and shame:
‘The impudent slave really was being most disrespectful of my shoes, sir. I am telling you he was turning up his nose at my smell in a most uncomplimentary way! I am really being most offended by him!’
‘Don’t you worry your pretty, little head, love! By the time I’ve finished with him he’ll be begging to smell the sweatiest, stinkiest parts of your shoes and socks, you just see if he isn’t! Ha! Ha!’
‘Oh thank you, sir. You are being most kind! Where shall I be sitting, please? In front of him on the sofa?
‘Yes please, love. You just sit down on the sofa directly in front of the creep while he kneels at your feet, and I’ll take good care of his back for you! Ha! Ha!’
My mistress, now seemingly much more relaxed, laughs also:
‘Oh thank you, kind sir! And please to not be sparing the impudent fellow! I am wanting him to be most soundly punished for his impertinence, isn’t it?’
The man, who does look to be extremely strong and muscular from what little I can see of him standing behind me, shows my mistress his professional slave-whip:
‘Here you are, darling …take a look at this. You see those knots on the ends? I can assure you they’ll soon teach your slave respect for your smelly footwear. Ha! Ha! You just watch the change in his attitude after he’s experienced a few of these on his bare back…’
And with that the man delivers a few practice strokes through the air, whilst my mistress Manisha giggles and gushes at his evident manliness.
It’s such a nice change for her to have a real man about the house!
She settles down on the sofa in front of me, her pink sneakered and socked feet once again resting coquettishly side by side on the floor directly beneath my face.
Meanwhile I hear the professional whipper positioning himself behind me –measuring up my scrawny back and even running the leather strands of the whip up and down my skin in order to stimulate the nerve endings, presumably.
‘Brace yourself, slave!’ he warns me.
My mistress’s short, right sneaker-sock twitches with anticipation as we both hear the first stroke descend onto my back …
Swish…Crack!
It’s difficult to put pain into words. Suffice it to say that my instinctive reaction – as I feel the three initially numb lines across my bare back and shoulders suddenly transform into the most acute, shocking tripartite of pain I could ever possibly imagine – is to muffle my screams into my Indian mistress’s short, pink, sneaker socks.
How she laughed. And how the man laughed.
He was in no hurry either – evidently paid by the lash, and not by his time. He waited a full 60 seconds before delivering the, even more painful (if that’s possible), second triple-stroke.
………………………………………………………………………
By the end of my 25 minute-long whipping, I truly knew what it meant to be professionally whipped! I had nothing but respect and admiration for the brute of a man who had whipped me; for the three-tailed, knotted, black leather whip he had so expertly applied to my bare back and shoulders; for my sweet and kind Indian mistress who had ordered, and paid for, my flogging; and for her now tear-sodden pink sneaker-socks which were my dainty, slave-comfort blankets as I sobbed uncontrollably into their pink, cotton warmth.
It tore me apart, more than even the vicious whip had torn my back apart, when she got up to thank the master-sir for punishing me so expertly on her behalf, and in order to see him out.
To my dismay I heard him leave her a voucher offering a discount on his company’s weekly-whipping service, whereby an employee of the ‘Slave Whipping Company’ would call round once a week in order to discipline the slave regardless of whether or not he merited it. To my chagrin, I overheard my mistress Manisha say she would definitely sign up to the service!
But I was in no mood to argue – only to obey; and to kiss Indian girl sneaker and sock. And so, when she re-entered the room and stood in front of me in order to admire more closely the professional slave-whipper’s handiwork, I contritely kissed her short, pink socks and Velcro strapped, pink canvas sneakers with renewed footslavish respect and vigour.
Truly the whip had taught me a valuable lesson – always to show appreciation for my mistress and her stale shoesmells, even when she is not present. For she is my female master and better, with access to professional, freemale whip-strength and power on the end of a phone call – as the state of my weakened, maleslave back can now eloquently testify.
‘God bless you, mistress Manisha…kiss…kiss…sob…sob…and God bless your shoes and socks, mistress…kiss…kiss…sob...sob…Thank you for correcting me, mistress...kiss…kiss…sob…sob… Oh pray sweet mistress… kiss…kiss… sob….sob… please let me smell the insides of your sneakers and socks, mistress… kiss...kiss ...sob…sob… for truly I yearn to be pleasing to you, most sweet and kind mistress Manisha ...kiss…kiss…sob…sob.’’
It was just as the brutish master-sir had so confidently predicted. I now longed for nothing more than the sickening smells of my mistress’s sweaty feet and footwear – a transformation brought about by the magnificent power of the professionally-applied whip!
When all’s said and done, my mistress Manisha is a naturally forgiving young, Indian woman; she selflessly permitted me to unfasten her Velcro-sneakers and smell the insides of her pink shoes and socks. She even let me sleep with her sweaty, pink socks that night; as pillows on which to rest my weary, weeping head.
Not that I got much sleep!
The End
