Gynarchy Glimpses (i)
Glimpses of daily life in the glorious Gynarchy of Barbaria
Dark-haired, swarthy-skinned, beautiful, Romanian, sink-estate mistress Georgeta knows that, however rough and nasty her own life may be on the run-down, suburban housing estate, she is still much better off than you – the lowlife, sink-estate, public footslave.
Especially on a cold and wintry day such as this – when she is well wrapped-up against the bitterly cold wind and snow; and you are having to kneel, as always, semi-naked but for your flimsy, white cotton slave-shorts, in the middle of the litter-strewn, sink-estate, waste ground, licking the dirty shoes and boots of any local sink-estate, young women who deign to stop by you in such inclement weather and put their dirty feet onto the snow-covered, wooden footblock below your perma-kneeling face!
Superior young goddess-women like miss Georgeta!
She snugly stretches forth her right, black leather, low-heeled, round-toed, single-strapped, mary-jane-style shoe beneath your shivering, male face, and smugly points out to you that she is actually wearing three pairs of female socks on her Romanian-girl feet today – short, black cotton anklesocks directly over her bare, Romany feet; covered by her dark nylon tights, which reach all the way up to below her short, black leather skirt above you; and the long, thick, over-the-knee, purple woollen socks which are now towering masterfully above you on her shapely, nyloned legs, beneath her long, warm, black woollen overcoat! You therefore have the public-footslavish indignity of knowing that the purple socks you are in awe of are not even in direct contact with her personal footsweat! Miss Georgeta’s precious, Romanian-girl footsweat (if there is any sweat on her soft, East-European feet on such a bitterly cold day as today!) is trapped inside her unattainable, plain black cotton anklesocks, and sheer, dark nylons, within the purple woollen, over-knee socks!
Ha! Ha! How she laughs at the disappointment and distress writ large on your gormless, and warmless, public-footslave face – for miss Georgeta knows that you just love the smell and the taste of her sweaty, Romanian-girl feet! You’ve been openly sniffing her, oftentimes dirty, bare feet inside her brown leather sandals, throughout the sink-estate summer!
But, let’s face it – you have no right to feel bitter, now that it’s freezing cold in the dead of winter! Her sweet-young-womanly foot comfort and warmth is much more important than your selfish and slavish, sweaty-sock thrills! And you are here to lick shoe; not sniff sock! You should be grateful that you at least have sight of a nice pair of feminine, purple, over-knee sock on your Romanian, sink-estate mistress’s outstretched, right leg, since she doesn’t have to stand here – half-freezing to death – just so that you can lick her dirty street-footwear clean! She could be wrapped up as snug as a bug in a rug in her nearby, cockroach-infested, high-rise apartment, all cuddled up on her second-hand sofa in the arms of her second-manly, nose-picking, Romanian-builder brute of a boyfriend, the magnificent master Dragoș sir!
So show the young, dark-haired lady some respect! Yes, her doubled-socked and single-nyloned feet may make her Romany-girl ankles look even more podgy than normal; yes, her sweet feminine foot-aroma may be completely inaccessible to you at present; and, yes, her cheap, black, snow-soiled, strappy shoeleather may taste like the winter weather which is currently whistling around you on your exposed, sink-estate, footslave pitch – bitter and foul! But these are still the East European shoes and socks of your female better, and they are, therefore, deserving of your maleslave tongue-worship and adoration!
And besides, you know from past bitter experience just how hard master Dragoș sir can whip, whenever his girlfriend reports you to him for insolence, and for disrespecting her! A shiver runs down your spineless as you contemplate how the biting sting of the whip would soon warm your bare, naked, sink-estate back!
And so you diligently lick the snow off her scuffmarked, Romanian shoe-toe!
I get that sinking feeling as I espy her boots and socks walking towards me across the dusty, sink-estate, waste ground.
23 year old, sink-estate footmistress Isabella, who is of Venezuelan origins – is wearing her ubiquitous, soft brown, suede-leather, metal-studded, ankleboots which, at first, may appear to be perfect beneath her white, calf-length socks and short, pleated, sky-blue, summer skirt. But, on closer inspection, the inevitable flaws start to emerge:
· One or two of the metal studs decorating the outsides of her brown-suede ankleboots are missing
· The thick, rounded toe-areas of her boots are darkened and scuffmarked
· There is a tiny, loose stitch sticking up from the sole of her left boot, along the instep
· There are thick mud-stains on both the bootsoles (miss Isabella has evidently been walking through the nearby fields!)
· The boots smell musty
· Her scrunched-up, white anklesocks are uneven on her shapely, young-womanly anklebones – with the left sock higher than the right (thanks to excess sweat-slippage on her right foot, no doubt!)
I can lick off the offending mud-stains on her soles, and straighten her sweet, white anklesocks; but the remaining footwear flaws are beyond my public-footslavish ability to repair:
· I have no replacement metal studs to glue onto her boots
· The darkened scuffmarks on the rounded toes of her weather-beaten boots are pretty much indelible
· I daren’t risk pulling at that loose sole-stitch with my teeth, lest I make it worse!
· No amount of brown-suede bootlicking will remove the musty aroma of miss Isabella’s Venezuelan boots; indeed, it might even make the boots smell even mustier, and damper!
I therefore brace myself for the whip – for fiery, flame-haired, perfectionist, Latina-girl miss Isabella always finds fault with my imperfect, public-footslave performance. That’s why my heart sinks whenever I see her boots and socks marching up towards me!
Sink-estate girls are not merely a bit rough; they can, and do, often scrub up well!
Take the baseball-capped, dark-haired, young woman who is availing herself of my humble, sink-estate, shoelicking facilities right now. Miss Melanie is her name, and she’s what many free persons would most definitely describe as ‘a bit of a scrubber’!
Don’t get me wrong – she’s perfectly clean! And to me, of course, she’s a goddess; a skank-goddess towering over me! It’s just her footwear that lets her appearance down – a pair of scruffy, grubby-white, partially laced-up plimsolls with twisted and bobbled, black anklesocks below her stylishly turned-up-at-the-ankles, black denim jeans. Her black socks are totally uneven on her shapely, exposed, white anklebones, with the left sock being folded over at the cuff, whereas the right sock is unfolded and creased.
Mind you – I suppose if her footwear was perfect, and didn’t need a good scrubbing, she wouldn’t have any need for me to tongue-tidy it for her!
She noisily slaps gum as she nonchalantly stares down at me from on high and beneath her reversed baseball cap, clearly enjoying my public abasement at her scrubber-goddess feet. She evidently enjoys knowing that such seemingly inconsequential things as her twisted, black anklesocks loom large in my pathetic, footslave life; that I am having to taste the sink-estate wasteground where she has been casually, and unemployedly, walking all morning; that she can pick up the adjacent, rough-edged, public whipping-stick at any time and beat me with it on a young-womanly whim; that I am completely in her female-scrubber power and at her sweet feminine mercy – such a contrasting experience to her time spent with her domineering, but manly, boyfriend, with whom she is nevertheless utterly smitten.
I too have been smitten by him – several times – for allegedly not affording enough footslavish respect to his pretty girlfriend’s street sneakers and socks! And so I shall tongue-scrub the ingrained, sink-estate grubbiness off her nominally white plimsolls (as best I can); I shall tongue-tighten her equally grubby-white sneaker-laces; and I shall tongue-straighten her plain, black anklesocks.
I am determined that goddess-mistress Melanie shall leave my public shoelick-stand with her footwear in a much better state than that in which it arrived. For I am a good and conscientious, public footservant – who fears the whip; especially the whip of a sweet, sink-estate customer-mistress’s angry boyfriend!
So what if Miss Melanie’s white rubbery, canvas sneakers taste rough to the tongue, and her black socks are all manky and bobbled? They are still my infinite betters, adorning as they do the bare, greasy, white feet of a true sink-estate goddess, who cohabits on said estate with her bullying and belligerent boyfriend. I therefore attend to her scrubber shoes and socks with all due diligence and respect – as befits a weak and spineless, male slave!
Glorious, baseball-cap-wearing miss Melanie contemptuously spits out her used chewing gum onto the top of my balding head, before turning her back on me and walking away in her temporarily spruced-up, everyday shoes and socks.
The wet chewing gum rolls off the top of my head and onto the dirty ground beneath my kneeling face. My reward, I guess – for scrubbing her shoes and socks up well! I shall treasure it in my own mouth for as long as I possibly can i.e. until my next sink-estate footmistress comes along – at which point I shall be obliged to hastily swallow the soiled chewing-gum, since attempting to lickshine a lady’s footwear with discarded, female chewing-gum in one’s maleslave-mouth would be a serious criminal offence here in the Gynarchy!
At the Gynarchy slave-market.
Purchasing A New Footslave by patheticus on GoAnimate
‘Just because I’m wearing my slacks and ankleboots, does that somehow excuse you from thinking about my hidden bootsocks inside my boots, slave?’
It is a perfectly legitimate, if rhetorical, question from my personal footmistress Olga, deserving of a suitably obsequious, slavish response:
‘No, mistress Olga. If it pleases you, mistress Olga.’
‘So, why then did you stop thinking about my socks for three seconds earlier on today?’
There’s no point in my denying it; I did lose focus in my sockslavish thoughts earlier today, and allowed my mind to wander off the subject of my mistress Olga’s pink-polkadotted, brown cotton, ankle-length bootsocks hidden inside her brown leather, lace-up ankleboots beneath her grey-pinstriped, trouser hems – though only for a few seconds as that beautiful, young black woman in the well-turned, white anklesocks and strappy, brown leather moses-sandals was walking past us, arm in arm with her handsome boyfriend.
Nevertheless, my mistress Olga has the irrefutable evidence of my disloyalty – in the form of her sock-concentrator print-out which shows several short, sharp bursts of pain to my forehead as my mind had wandered off my mistress’s pre-programmed, out-of-sight, brown and pink-polkadotted, ankleboot socks!
‘Oh pray, sockmistress Olga! Pray forgive me, most glorious sockmistress! Please don’t beat me, mistress!’
‘Fetch the whip, slave! I will not have you slacking in your sock-concentrating duties towards me, just because I have chosen to wear slacks! You should have been thinking about the various creases and folds in my socks – all the time I was wearing them, and even though they were hidden from your view!’
‘Yes, mistress Olga. I apologise most profusely to you, most glorious sockmistress Olga! Thank you for taking the time to correct me, mistress!’
During the ensuing painful whipping, I imagine her increasingly sweaty, brown and pink-spotted anklesocks creasing and folding behind me inside her low-heeled, brown leather, lace-up ankleboots, from her strenuous exertions with the female whip!
It’s already getting on for 10.00 A.M. but to the thirty-year-old, tousle-haired, blonde skank mistress from nearby no. 42 it’s like the crack of dawn!
Goddess-mistress Dawn (to give the skank-mistress her real name) has popped out as per usual to the local shops – unashamedly still in her pink dressing-gown and flowery-patterned, household flip-flops – for a pint of milk, armed, again as per usual, with a cigarette in one hand, and her mobile phone in the other.
Having purchased her milk for her ‘early’ morning cup of tea, skank-mistress Dawn kindly stops off on her way back to her sink-estate flat to have her feet cleaned by me – her local, public footservant.
Her pasty-white feet are clearly unwashed, as her toenails are dirty and chipped, with flakes of last week’s red toenail varnish still peeling off at the corners of her toes. I deduce from this that she has not showered yet this morning, which is presumably why she feels the need to have her skanky, white feet mouthcleaned by the humble, but free-of-charge, public footslave!
I mean, she hardly needs her cheap plastic, germ-laden, flowery-patterned flip-flops to be lickshined, does she?
Her phone rings as I am tongue-attending to her left foot. Her toes taste salty, and her language is, as ever, fruity as she remonstrates with a male voice on the other end of the phone. Probably some disgruntled, freemale punter – wanting his money back.
Sounds like he’s got no chance!
Yes, there are many men who have been up at the crack of Dawn! But I shall never be one of them – being a mere impotent, male footservant. The only cracks I get to taste are the cracks between her pasty-white toes.
I do prefer it when she’s fully dressed, later in the evenings when it’s dark – and she visits me in order to have her shiny, red, stiletto heels tongue-polished, and her sheer, black nylons nose-sniffed and mouth-straightened!
Even though it’s the dead of night, the twenty-something, auburn-haired, black African girl in the black denim shorts and white T shirt appears to be out on the prowl, looking for trouble.
She happens upon hapless old me in the town square stocks and, emboldened by the fact that absolutely no-one else is around, decides to satisfy her natural, young-womanly curiosity by approaching me and asking me pertinent questions.
As she speaks to me I am obliged, by the heavy, wooden crossbar of the kneeling stocks, to look at her dusty, black leather, low-top, lace-up sneakers, and her black cotton anklesocks with the lacy, white trims as she stands directly above, and in front of, me; at least the town-square spotlight – designed to illuminate my public shame and humiliation during the hours of darkness – also illuminates her pretty feet and footwear, so that I can observe each and every stitch and crease in both her sneakers and socks:
‘Why are you in the stocks, slave?’
Her tone is almost sympathetic, in a cute South-African kind of way!
I struggle to reply, as my mouth is parched, and the wood hangs heavy around my neck, digging into my Adam’s apple:
‘Oh pray, mistress… if it pleases you, black mistress… this slave is being… punished…black mistress… for the crime of… losing count of the number of…. flexes in the backs of his….. mistress’s socks…. as she walked along, mistress… if you will forgive me… black mistress?... Please don’t hurt me, mistress…’
She sounds genuinely shocked; and angry!
‘Tch! And what gave you the right to stop counting your mistress’s sock-creases, dirty slave? Tch!’
Ironically, her own frilly-white, black anklesocks crease and fold with disgust beneath my face as she tuts her contempt for me:
‘Oh pray, pretty black mistress…. if you will forgive me… pretty black mistress… this slave had no right to stop counting the flexes in his mistress’s socks, madam… if you would be so kind… and understanding… to a helpless, suffering slave in the stocks…. madam?...’
I do hope the young black woman understands the distinction between ‘flexes’ and ‘creases’? ‘Creases’ are to be found in a mistress’s socks when she is stationary; they only become ‘flexes’ (or ‘folds’) when she moves her feet and ankles. In fact, if you want to become ultra-technical about it, a ‘fold’ occurs when a crease changes length or shape in a mistress’s socks whilst she herself is stationary e.g. seated or lying down; whereas a ‘flex’ occurs when she is walking along.
But I don’t think this nocturnal, curious, young black woman is in any mood for such technical sock-niceties:
‘Tch! If you were my slave and lost count of the number of creases in my socks I would whip you, as well as putting you in the stocks, dirty slave!’
I feel like saying a couple of things to her:
1) They were sock-flexes that I had lost count of! Much harder to keep track of than sock- creases (for the reasons I have tried to explain above – though admittedly not to her!)
2) If she was my personal mistress I would never lose count of her sock flexes as she walked along, for she is a truly beautiful young woman, and her socks are adorable!
I feel like saying those two things, but I am prevented not just by the strain on my neck muscles, but by the fact that point one would amount to a criticism of a mistress’s understanding of the situation – which is illegal here in the Gynarchy; and point two would be presumptuous and forward of me – which is equally illegal!
And so I must bite my tongue, and continue to allow the punishing wood to bite into my Adam’s apple, restricting myself to a humble:
‘Yes mistress… thank you black mistress….’
She suddenly crouches down so that her pretty, black face is – almost – on a level with mine, and I see her black anklesocks crease ferociously as she gathers up some noisy phlegm in her mouth, and readies herself to expel it contemptuously into my imprisoned face.
The gob, when it comes, is thick and mucus-laden, and it slides slowly down my face and inadvertently onto the black girl’s, black-leathery sneaker toe.
She stands up in disgust and righteous indignation at my carelessness, and angrily shoves her dusty, and now mucus-stained, shoe-toe onto my kneeling lips:
‘LICK IT OFF, DIRTY SLAVE!’
Her raised African voice echoes eerily around the deserted square, as her raised African sneaker-toe rubs itself clean on my puckered mouth. I can’t even begin to keep track of how many creases and folds develop in her lacy, black and white anklesocks during this sneaker-cleaning process – which is, of course, my whole problem in the first place; I am incapable of counting superior, young women’s sock folds and flexes!
I have failed again – despite my earlier, unspoken, protestations to the effect that I would never lose track of the number of creases in such a sweet pair of African-girl socks!
Eventually – her flaky, black sneaker-leather restored to its original green-mucus-free glory – the curious, and anonymous, black mistress turns her back on me and walks off, showing me a dusty pair of black sneaker heels. One of her anklesocks – the left – is, I now notice, curiously further down inside the back of her sneaker than the frilly black sock on her right heel; but the backs of her socks are already too far away from me for me to be able to count the flexes.
Plus, of course, I am, unfortunately, in no position to follow her humbly to heel!
A Japanese mistress and her boyfriend are not disposed to show any mercy to the diligent kisser of her socks!
No Mercy for the Sock-Kisser by patheticus on GoAnimate
A glimpse at a pleasing little scene of domestic, wellington-boot-sniffing bliss in a typical Gynarchy household!
The Bootsniffing-Loser by patheticus on GoAnimate
