A Torrid Time

So, I have been justly sentenced by the Female Court to ten, long days in the public kneeling stocks in the local town square – oh, and the small matter of forty lashes into the bargain; twenty lashes on day 1, followed by a further twenty on day 8 – two whole days before my eventual release from the stocks!

My maleslave crime? That doesn’t matter; I’m so ashamed! Suffice it to say it was a relatively trivial, sock-related offence – otherwise I would have been sentenced to life in the foothole dungeons; or, even worse, to perpetual hard labour in the underground slave-mines!

Day 1

I’ve never been confined in the public stocks before, and the first thing I notice, as the navy-blue uniformed, blonde-ponytailed, Female-Police officer mistress leads me on my hands and knees behind her dusty, anklebooted heels towards the town-square stocks, is how rough and ready, and therefore ignominious, the set of stocks looks. This is no fine-art, street furniture! It is the degrading, low-quality, wood of shame – designed to lower and humiliate; to mock and despise; to imprison and punish; to hurt.

I am in for a truly torrid time!

The pretty, blonde police-officer mistress’s dusty, block-heeled, round-toed, black leather, zip-up ankleboots seem to dance with joy in the dust beneath my kneeling face as she forces my male neck, and arms, into their respective holes in the heavy, unvarnished wood of the kneeling stocks.

The first thing I notice as the upper crossbeam descends onto my scrawny, maleslave neck and arms and is firmly padlocked shut, is that the insides of the holes have deliberately rough and jagged edges which dig into my Adam’s apple, the nape of my neck and my wrists respectively. Any movement is at best painful – at worst, impossible! I am well and truly forced to look at the dusty ground just inches away from my now confined-in-wood face – or, in the present case, at the triumphant, black leather ankleboots, beneath the dusty, navy-blue-uniform, trouser hems, of the bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, blonde police-officer mistress, whose name I don’t even know; she is just ‘all-powerful, blonde, police-officer mistress’ to me.

The dancing boots move around behind me to inspect my bondage and ensure it is secure, before moving round in front of me again, and presenting themselves – toe first and one at a time – to my skilfully imprisoned lips for respectful kissing.

And I do kiss them most respectfully, for these are not only the boots that shall be imprisoning me; these are also the same pair of boots that shall be whipping me, as the unhooking of the brown leather punishment-strap from the shapely, blonde waistline above me now confirms!

An eager and unsympathetic crowd of female onlookers, and their freemale partners, has gathered to witness the first of my two public floggings in the stocks – some even appear to have brought picnics with them – and in my peripheral vision I can see literally dozens of female boots, sneakers, sandals and shoes all getting dusty and impatient in the waste ground of the town square as they excitedly await my public chastisement with the dreaded, female-police, punishment strap!

Some of the female footwear is standing rather coyly next to sturdy, male footwear, but I try to focus my fevered thoughts on the dainty, female shoes and boots, since they are the ones I shall no doubt be kissing and fawning to over the next ten days of my public incarceration in the town square!

Ominously, the black leather, chunky-heeled, female-police ankleboots move behind me again, this time with the male end of the female, brown leather, punishment strap dangling next to them. I am about to be whipped!

…………………………………………………………………………….

Never let it be said that the strap is less of a weapon of pain than the cane or the whip – not when it has deliberately rough edges, and is wielded by a diligent and enthusiastic, professional whipmistress like the blonde-ponytailed police-officer mistress standing behind me!

I imagine, with every stinging bite of the strap across my bare and exposed, male-prisoner back, that the beautiful, fit and healthy, young officer-mistress’s sweet, blonde-ponytail is swinging in the autumnal, town-square air every bit as much as her dusty, navy-blue trouser hems are now swinging with abandonment around the tops of her equally dusty, black leather ankleboots in tandem with each and every cutting stroke of the strap. I even get to see a flash of feminine-black anklesock, set against soft, pale white legskin, on some of the more vigorous pain-strokes!

By the end of the twenty, punishing strap-strokes, both the whipper and the whipped are quite breathless – but I somehow think the burst of female applause and cheering that echoes around the square is for the blonde-ponytailed whipper; not for the suffering, blubbering prisoner-slave in the stocks!

Temporarily, the acute, burning pain in my freshly whipped back and shoulders outweighs the jagged pain in my neck and wrists. But after some three hours or so, both these pains are replaced by a deep, gnawing pain in my shoulder and neck muscles, as the true torment of the unrelenting kneeling stocks really starts to kick in.

And that’s not the only kick I am getting out of life right now! I am, in fact, receiving numerous kicks from unsympathetic passers-by – both male and female – though it’s only the kicking female boots and shoes that I am obliged to subsequently kiss, and thank, for kicking me!

I am gratified to see that so many of the kicking mistresses are wearing thick, woolly socks inside their dusty, autumnal boots or shoes, as it means that their delicate, feminine toes are well-protected against any inadvertent, painful damage from kicking me!

And so ends the first day – a day of whips and kicks; and lingering, gnawing pain.

I don’t sleep much that first night, though the townsfolk seem to sleep soundly in their beds, for I am left well alone after dark.

Day 2

Day 2 sees the arrival of my first ‘slave-spotter’ – a young, taciturn, slightly podgy, black woman who has even brought her own portable, fold-up chair to sit in. She gaily positions it in front of me, and sits with her short, stocky, black legs stretched languorously out in front of me below her black leather miniskirt, so that her matching black leather, loafer shoes, and plain, black anklesocks, are directly beneath my cringing face – close enough for me to be able to smell their mustiness and admire their lackadaisical scuffmarks and creases.

The smell of her footwear is soon overwhelmed, however, by the aroma of fresh coffee as she opens her flask above me, and some flaky crumbs of comfort food start to fall onto the ground around my face as she tucks into a warm, buttery croissant.

The smell of the coffee, and the sight of the wasted crumbs, reminds me that I too am now hungry – having not eaten for over 12 hours. But I don’t expect the silent (apart from greedily slapping on her food), young, black madame above me has any intention of sharing her early-morning sustenance with me. After all, ‘Don’t feed the prisoner-slave’ is emblazoned in big, bold letters on the crossbeam imprisoning my head – and so she is only obeying the town’s by-laws!

I sense her cock her pretty, black, Afro-hairstyled head above me to one side as she tucks into her breakfast, no doubt curious to see how my whip-wounds (or strap-wounds, to be more accurate) are faring. Meanwhile I, for my part, study her black sock creases around her stocky, black ankles, partly because I am unable to look anywhere else (due to my being in the kneeling stocks), and partly because her socks appear to have been rather hastily put onto her feet this morning. One of them even appears to be inside out!

I expect she was in a bit of a rush to secure this prime location in front of me this morning. It is, after all, the best seat in the house for any young woman whose hobby it is to ‘spot’ slaves in the public kneeling-stocks, and to record their suffering – both in her slave-spotter notebook, and on her mobile phone which she, occasionally, uses to film me, in between licking crumbs of croissant off her pretty, black lips.

She stays with me for some three hours, stuffing her fat face throughout with various snacks and beverages. And during her elongated breakfast she says not one single word to me. It seems like her socks are doing all the talking for her, as they crease and fold with glee beneath my kneeling face, wrinkling in tandem with every tasty morsel she consumes; or with every little feminine belch she involuntarily lets out above me.

I’m glad when she eventually finishes eating and licks her sticky, feminine fingers clean, for the agonising smell of warm food is once again replaced by the musty smell of her scuffmarked, black loafer shoeleather – though, if truth be told, I am now every bit as hungry for the taste of her unappetising, musty shoeleather as I am for the much more appetising crumbs now festooning the dirty ground beneath my kneeling and bowed face.

But the crumbs, like the black shoes and socks, remain cruelly out of reach of my lips – for this morose, young, black woman is not disposed to raise either her shoes, or crumbs, to my mouth. It seems I can look, but not touch whatever is resting on the ground beneath my downcast face, and that this is all part of my public torment.

And I am, of course, powerless to do anything about it. I am even forbidden to speak unless spoken to by her! It is only when she gets up to leave that I realise she is a deaf-mute, as she greets a passing female police-officer using sign language and whispered words! So, she can be forgiven for not communicating with me other than through the sadistic joy evident in her creasing and folding, black cotton anklesocks and black loafer shoeleather. She can hardly be expected, after all, to demean herself by leaning down from her portable chair and engaging in sign language with the likes of me – a dirty prisoner-slave! And besides, I wouldn’t be able to read what she is saying since I am thick and stupid, and, unlike the clever female-police officer, sign-language illiterate!

Having ticked me off in her slave-spotter’s notebook as yet another trophy, the fully sated, for now, deaf and dumb black girl gets bored with me and moves off. The passing police-officer mistress who evidently speaks sign-language (not the blonde-ponytailed one who inflicted the strap-damage on my back yesterday, but a young, brown-skinned, Muslim police-officer mistress of Pakistani origins) checks the padlock on my crossbeam to make sure it is still tight, and graciously allows me to kiss her dusty, rounded, police-uniform, ankleboot toes – my first taste of anything on this second of my 10 ignominious days in the public kneeling-stocks.

I lap up her clever-Muslim-girl bootdust gratefully, since I am now feeling very hungry. It was explained to me back in the police cells that I shall be reliant on scraps and leftovers from the great Barbarian public to keep me fed and watered throughout my ordeal in the stocks (even though it’s technically illegal!) – but, thus far, they appear to be unconcerned at their civic duty to force-feed refuse to the public prisoner.

Mind you, it’s early days yet!

As if to add insult to injury, as soon as the demurely-headscarfed, uniformed, Pakistani police-officer mistress moves away from me, some hungry pigeons fly in in order to devour the now police-bootsole-crushed crumbs of flaky, croissant pastry on the ground beneath my face – and one of the pigeons then even flutters up and nonchalantly defecates on the top of my bald head, much to the amusement of several female passers-by.

Still hungry, and covered in pigeon poo, I continue to stare at the ground, with only the occasional, kindly pair of dusty, female boots or shoes for company, as some of the more sympathetic mistresses stop by me to have their footwear kissed and bootmud consumed. One or two even graciously raise their trouser or jean hems to show me the elasticated tops of their sexy, female bootsocks, or sneaker-socks, as they feed me their outer-footwear mud – and I am truly grateful for such small mercies!

It rained that night – heavily; so at least I was able to quench my now raging thirst, and clean my lips of muddy boot and shoe dirt, as I languished overnight in the cruel stocks.

Day 3

I had to wait until day 3 for my first ‘proper’ meal – some congealed chip-fat kindly supplied to me by a petite and comely, dark-haired, Chinese waitress from a nearby takeaway restaurant. She even pinched my nose so that I had no choice but to open up my mouth as she poured the thick, cold, coagulated, white, liquid mess down my throat.

I must say, I admired her style as she did so – particularly her scruffy, greyish-white, lace-up, plimsoll-style sneakers and matching, grubby white sneaker-socks, beneath her turned-up and frayed, blue denim, jean hems. In fact, as I physically gagged on the congealed chip-fat, I mentally gagged on her scruffy, rubbery white sneaker-toes, knowing that they were covering such an undeniably grubby-looking pair of short, white, feminine-Chinese socks, though the socks and sneakers were never, actually, presented to me for kissing – either as hors d’oeuvres or as afters; it seems that the Chinese-takeaway mistress didn’t want her precious footwear to be sullied further by the residual, greasy chip-fat on my lips!

And rightly so (though it pains me to say so, for such manky, Chinese-waitress sneakers and socks would have been a truly tasty tidbit for a stocks-imprisoned footslave to partake of!)

Day 3 was also distinguished by my set of stocks being marked with the urine of a passing, stray dog – marking out its territory, no doubt. And so, to my additional shame, my stocks now stink of canine piss!

Day 4

The highlight of day 4 was the attendance of a familiar, friendly pair of ankleboots and socks beneath my face – the brown leather, cuffed, pixie-style ankleboots and dark grey, gold-studded anklesocks of my personal footmistress, mistress Tania (the one whose selfsame socks I had sinned against by inadvertently cutting my lip on one of the metal sock-studs, thereby sullying her precious grey sock-cotton with my dirty, maleslave blood; so, now you know!).

My mistress Tania laughed at me, and asked me how I was liking it in the stocks? Was I enjoying the view from my ground-floor, wooden window? She pointed out to me that her erstwhile bloodied sock was now clean again – though no thanks to me, as she had had to launder it properly in an automatic washing machine (the first time in years one of my mistress’s socks has had to be machine-washed, since, ordinarily, my mouth does the job, prior to my handwashing them; I feel shame and contrition at the expense my beloved footmistress has had to go to, just to extract my dirty slave-blood from her clean, female sock!). She twists and turns her right anklebooted foot beneath my face in order to show me the newfound cleanliness of her gold-studded, fully-pulled-up, grey anklesock (as she is wearing black cotton, ankle-length leggings, the sock is fully exposed above the cuff of her pretty, brown leather ankle-bootie!)

I praise and bless the mistress for kindly showing me her cleansed sock, and once again apologise profusely for soiling her superior, female sock with my inferior, male blood. She graciously says that she forgives me for my sock-indiscretion, and bravely allows me to kiss the studded top of her sock once again. Needless to say, this time I take great care not to cut open my lip on the decorative, gold-metal studs!

My mistress Tania then laughs at me again before walking off; she informs me that she’s off for a stroll around the town as she wishes to stretch her legs – something I too would dearly love to do right now, but can’t, of course, owing to my being imprisoned in the unforgiving stocks. Even crawling on my hands and knees behind my mistress Tania’s flat, pixie-booted heel around the dirty streets of the town would be nice! But no – I must stay here in the company of strangers; strangers who, unlike my kind and forgiving mistress, mean me harm!

Specifically, I’m referring to a gaggle of girlgang-members, and their freemale cohorts. No sooner have my mistress Tania’s familiar, brown leather pixie boots and gold-studded, grey anklesocks over black cotton leggings left me, than I am surrounded by the scruffy, unkempt, street-level, black leather ballet-flats, and black and white, converse, high-top sneakers, of a rough-looking bunch of inner-city girls (and their DM booted boyfriends!).

A lean and pockmarked, black girl in such scruffy, converse high-tops, who appears to be wantonly sockless inside them, is clearly the skank girlgang-leader, as she orders one of the young men, in a mixture of Jamaican patois and Gynarchy street-English, to kick me in the face with his dusty, steel-toecapped DMs. The mixed-race, free male instantly obeys his skanky-looking, but pretty, black girlfriend , of course – for this is a Gynarchy, and even macho, free males are obliged to obey their women (and, besides he probably enjoys kicking defenceless, maleslave scum like me in the face!)

How the gang of young people all laugh as my face quickly bruises, my eyes blacken, and my lips thicken. For my part I’m just glad that I got to penitently kiss my mistress Tania’s erstwhile bloodied, dark grey anklesock before my face was thusly damaged – for can you even begin to imagine the trouble I’d be in if my blood-thickened lips had sullied her sock yet again!

The Pakistani-Muslim police-officer mistress patrolling the square does nothing to stop my being beaten up by the freemale, gang member; in fact, quite the opposite! She marches up to the gang and, having saluted them, along with the rest of the females in the group verbally encourages the violent, young man to kick me even harder in my defenceless face with his steel-capped, bovver boots. And rightly so – the young police-officer miss is, after all, there to protect the free folk of the Gynarchy; not a dirty, imprisoned, male prisoner-slave in the stocks!

After my kicking, I kiss the mercifully soft, but disagreeably dusty, black and white, high-top, converse sneakers of the black-girl ringleader, whilst she shamelessly snogs her obedient, bovver-boy boyfriend above me, thanking him for showing me who’s boss. It is only now that, through my ever-thickening, right eyelid, I see that the attractive, young black woman is actually wearing a pair of short, yellow anklesocks deep inside her high-top sneakers – to match her yellow, tomboy shorts, presumably?

I feel guilty at ‘assuming’ she was nothing more than a sockless skank, and kiss her dusty high-tops with renewed respect and admiration (and a goodly amount of mouth-pain, thanks to my swollen lips!)

Day 5

I don’t know what was worse during the small hours of my fifth day in the stocks – the throbbing and swelling in my boot-battered face, or the throbbing and swelling in my unnaturally bent-over, back and shoulders.

But, thankfully, I had some more pain to think about – a different pain – on day 5. For the second of my ‘slave-spotters’ appeared – a beautiful, dusky-skinned, raven-haired, twenty-something, Romanian gypsy girl this time, complete with black leather, chunky-heeled, lace-up, granny-style ankleboots (they probably did belong to her grandmother many moons ago as they look very much like authentic hand-me-downs) and a pair of equally well-worn, thick, black woolly tights beneath her traditional, ankle length, flowery patterned, gypsy-girl dress.

She didn’t bother with a portable chair – but rather sat herself down in front of me on an old, wooden crate she had found nearby.

And she turned out to be not just a ‘spotter’, but a ‘picker’ – both a nose-picker and a crust-picker i.e. she delighted in first picking her nose, and then picking away at the crusts on my bare back left by the female police-officer’s punishment strap. Talk about opening up old wounds – that’s exactly what she was doing! And rubbing her nosepick into them, to granny-boot!

I had to admire her casual, young-womanly cruelty – as well as her black boots and woolly tights, of course; such a pleasing contrast to her brightly-coloured, flowery gypsy-girl dress! She sat picking holes in me for hours! She clearly had nothing better to do – but such is the lot of a prisoner in the stocks; you are at the mercy of all and sundry – even a supposedly itinerant gypsy girl with filthy habits!

And filthy boots!

Day 6

Fortunately it rained again on day 6 – washing any nosepick and dirt out of my freshly reopened back-wounds. The rain stung a bit, but it felt good to be cleansed. It also, incidentally, washed away the stench of stale dog-urine from my set of wooden stocks!

In fact, things generally started to look up, as I was able to somehow, despite the pain, raise my gaze a few inches to the tops of the knee-high, purple bootsocks of a brown-leather-kneeboot wearing, kindly Filipina mistress, who wanted to feed me some stale, blue-mouldy bread from her kitchen.

I felt ever so grateful, for, although the bread was well past its human use-by date, she could just as easily have fed it to the ubiquitous, ever-greedy, ever-defecating pigeons in the town square. But instead she fed it to me, and she smilingly demanded that I lickshine her kneeboots from top to toe, by way of an expression of my gratitude towards her! That’s why I did my ankle-level best to raise my game, and thus my sore neck, up to the top of her outstretched kneeboot (and was duly rewarded with the sight of her creased, purple, Filipina-girl, kneesock top!). Fortunately, being a slightly-built oriental woman, her kneeboots were not actually all that tall – though they did still seem to tower over me mightily as she crouched down to my level in order to feed me!

She then supplemented my bread meal with some dry, dead leaves from her garden (my ‘greens’, as she called them – though ‘browns’ would be more accurate as the leaves were well and truly dry and dead!). And then, to top it all, she kindly helped me to wash down the stale bread and dead leaves, by pouring a bottle of dirty water, which she told me she had gathered from one of her household drains, onto her street-soiled, brown leather boot-toes, and letting me lap it off her boots. I couldn’t help but think of her sweaty, purple, reinforced cotton, sock toes deep inside her boots as I gratefully drank her dirty, Filipina-household, drain water off the lower parts of her street-soiled, brown leather kneeboots.

Day 7

Day 7 saw the arrival of a West African, female tour group – some sort of religious party who had come to witness the righteous punishment of a sinner-slave in the Gynarchy whilst preaching down to him, quoting scriptures about how a slave must always obey his master, and how the whip and the stocks await the lazy and recalcitrant slave.

Tell me about it!

I was then obliged to kiss their beautiful, natural-smelling, black-womanly footskin as they took pictures of me in turn on their African cell phones and praised the Lord, in between spitting contemptuously down onto my downcast face. One, rather plump, middle-aged, hat-wearing African woman even noisily gathered up phlegm and snot in her mouth before righteously expelling it directly into the centre of my face!

I, for my humble part, verbally praised and blessed the African mistresses as I kissed their dusty, bare, black feet inside their shiny black, Sunday-best, court shoes – for they had come a long way to mock and torment me (and besides, their warm and nutritious, female saliva was helping to soothe my still bruised, male face!)

I must have then passed out, as the next thing I knew I was being awoken by a sharp kick to the face from the demurely booted and headscarfed, Pakistani police-officer mistress who seemingly regularly patrols the area. She kindly explained to me, in her thick Pakistani accent, that male prisoners in the stocks are not permitted to sleep during the daytime, when the local female populace like to see them awake and suffering.

She then gleefully reminded me, as I apologetically kissed her dust-covered, somewhat officious boot-toe (the one that had just kicked me in the face), that I was to receive my second dose of the female strap the following day – day 8 of my confinement – and she opined that that would fairly keep me awake! She then laughed as she adjusted her black, dupatta-style, silken headscarf around her pretty, Pakistani features – not that I could see them, of course, but I know she must be a pretty officer since she is both a Pakistani girl and a Muslim.

Her gentle warning succeeded in keeping me awake for the rest of the day, as I was too scared to pass out again; the impending whipping was, in any case, now preying heavily on my mind, and I wondered, but didn’t dare to ask, whether it would be the fetching, Pakistani police-officer mistress herself who would be disciplining me with the strap next time?

I certainly hoped so – for I would love to catch a glimpse of her regulation, police-girl, black cotton anklesocks inside her police-uniform, Muslim-girl ankleboots as she swings the punishment strap behind me!

Day 8

Ironically, although I am legally permitted to sleep during the night-time, I didn’t get any sleep that night either – the night before my second strapping – and not just because I was ruminating on my impending pain and suffering, but because a third ‘slave-spotter’ (this time an insomniac, twenty-something, ginger-haired, freckle-faced, Irish girl) decided to crouch down beside me all night, breathing her bad breath into my face, and gloating about my forthcoming beating and how she was going to enjoy watching it!

She explained to me that the strap would almost certainly overlay some of my previous welts, which, she noted, were still surprisingly open and fresh. She guessed, correctly, that some kind soul had been picking at them, and I confirmed to the inquisitive, flame-haired, Irish mistress that a beautiful and kind, young Romany mistress had indeed picked at my wounds some several days previously.

The Irish girl herself was not an out and out sadist, and she didn’t pick at my welts herself, but rather rubbed them gently all over. She said that she liked fingering slave’s welts; it was her hobby. She then, I noticed, started rubbing herself beneath her skirt, and so I discreetly averted my eyes.

But she wasn’t all selfish – and permitted me to simultaneously indulge in my sexual hobby; that of kissing and lickshining her black leather, calf-length, biker boots. She even told me the colour of her socks – Irish green – deep inside her boots, as my tired and weary tongue weaved its humble way through and around her many decorative, boot straps and buckles, seeking out freckle-faced, insomniac, Irish girl bootdirt and streetdust.

I even found out her name – mistress Colleen (just ‘Colleen’ to her friends, but, I’m not her friend, obviously; I’m her prisoner – as her wandering fingers are still wont to remind me, even after she has rubbed herself off!)

Later that day she kept her ginger-haired promise, and stayed to watch, and enjoy, my second whipping. And she was right – the punishing strap did painfully overlay my earlier weals, much to everyone’s jeering merriment and amusement.

My only regret was that it wasn’t the Pakistani-Muslim, police-officer mistress who wielded the strap. She was busy on crowd control duties in the square. Rather it was a hefty, young black woman – in civilian clothes! (I later found out that it is common for civilian mistresses to bribe the Female Police into allowing them to punish prisoners in the stocks on behalf of the authorities. Nothing wrong with that, I suppose, if it helps to release a civilian mistress’s pent-up anger and frustration against the male!)

The belligerent, and extremely athletic, thirty-something, black mistress was wearing plain, black ballet-flats and matching black anklesocks on her feet beneath her black, corduroy jeans, so there was much dusty and creased, black feminine shoeleather and black anklesock for me to admire throughout my augmented suffering under the ‘civilian’ punishment strap!

I also got to kiss my civilian-tormentress’s black leather ballet flats and black anklesocks after the beating – and very nice and sweaty they smelt too!

Day 9

This was a public holiday in the Gynarchy, and a day of rest, of sorts, for me too! Apart from a brief visit from mistress Colleen, who was sexually curious to feel what my freshly warmed strap-stripes felt like beneath her ever inquisitive fingers, I was pretty much left alone in my suffering, and managed to get in some good recovery time.

To be honest, I think most of the female townsfolk were getting a bit bored with seeing the same old whipped-back, and the same old, gormless, ugly maleslave face, languishing in their local stocks. For the most part they just passed me by now, and made straight for the newly erected fairground on the other side of the town square, though one or two stopped by on the way in order to smear wet, sticky rainmud on my face, making funny mud-moustaches and the like on my imprisoned features, which they could then photograph and film on their smartphones.

One young, dark-curly-haired woman, who appeared to be a tourist-girl of Latin-American origins, even delighted in sitting on top of my heavy, wooden crossbeam (thereby making it even heavier, despite her petiteness!) and tucking her pink-and-white-sneakered ankles around my chin whilst her macho, Latino boyfriend filmed her. He exhorted us both, in his manly Latino accent, to look into the camera and say ‘cheese’ – which wasn’t difficult for me as the young, curly-haired, Latina woman was brazenly sockless inside her grubby, pink and white striped, laced-up, low-top sneakers below her white cotton leggings, and consequently my kneeling nostrils were inundated with the cheesy aroma of her bare, sneaker-sweaty, Latina-girl ankleskin!

I could forgive her for being so unashamedly sockless inside her sneakers, however, as her soft, olive-toned skin creased and folded in lieu of her socks as her ankles wrapped themselves uncaringly around my chin.

What a picture I must have made – the whipped, bruised, and battered footslave-prisoner with his gormless maleslave-face stuck between the bare anklebones of a scruffily-sneakered, petitely-built, curly-haired, Latina tourist girl! Ha! Ha! No wonder her manly, Latino tourist boyfriend was laughing so heartily at me!

Day 10

My release day – at last!

Except – it wasn’t! In accordance with Gynarchy justice traditions my mistress Tania was summoned to the stocks and asked by the blonde-ponytailed, female police officer mistress (the one who had so deftly placed me in the stocks those 10 long days ago) whether she was satisfied with my punishment, and was prepared to sign my release forms?

Unfortunately for me, my mistress Tania said that she wasn’t yet satisfied, and requested that I be left to languish in the stocks for a further two days!

My heart sank – partly because I noticed that my mistress Tania wasn’t wearing her grey, gold-studded socks this time, but was instead wearing her boring old, ordinary white sneaker-socks inside her bright red, Velcro-fastened, low-top sneakers; and partly because my muscles were well and truly aching by this point! The thought of a further two, long, languorous days kneeling in the public stocks – exposed to the pigeons; and the flies; and the elements; and the tender mercies of the surrounding female and freemale populace – was almost too much to bear!

I whimpered, and was promptly told to shut up by the blonde-ponytailed, police-officer mistress, who then instructed me to kiss my mistress’s dusty, red sneaker-toes, and clean them; and then to praise and bless my longsuffering mistress for deciding to prolong my public agony in the stocks.

Which I dutifully did, of course – for one thing above all others that I have learnt whilst I have been ignominiously confined in the stocks, is that you are completely and utterly at the mercy of all those superior, free persons around you. They can do what they like to you, with impunity – finger you; rub nosepick on you; spit on you; feed you vile, chip-fat grease or dead leaves; preach down at you; kick you; and breathe their stinking, late-night halitosis all over your helpless, captive face as they pleasure themselves in front of you!

And that’s because you are become the lowest of the low – not just a footslave; but a footslave being publicly punished at their feet in the kneeling stocks!

Like I had anticipated on day 1 of my punishment, it’s a truly torrid time – being confined for a lengthy period in the local, town square stocks. And now, for me, at the capricious behest of my red-sneakered and white-socked, personal footmistress, it seems it’s about to get even longer!

But I’m sure you’ve had enough?!