No Contest!

Arguably his best story yet! Here is the latest contribution from regular reader, slave Paul, complete with illustrations. Enjoy!

No Contest!

By Slave Paul

The sheer humiliation of his unholy and demeaning predicament was almost impossible to comprehend, for him anyway. He simply knelt alone on the highly polished wooden floor of the stylish third floor apartment, quietly sobbing and trying to work out where it had all gone so wrong.

Until quite recently everything was going so well. He had a beautiful young girlfriend, a good job, and a very trendy, stylish, modern apartment. This was the self-same apartment he now knelt in as a broken wreck of a man!

Three months previously, life could not have been better. The young couple had both been given pay rises and had a very active social life. His girlfriend, Sandra, was a very lively and intense character who enjoyed going out in the evenings to wine bars with friends and active holidays etc. He simply doted on her; everything she wanted she got! In his eyes, she was simply a goddess.

She had shoulder length, fiery red hair and oftentimes the temperament to match it! She had a pale, white complexion that made her look like a china doll. People could be forgiven for referring to her as a ‘biker chick’ due to the clothes that she wore. Nobody could recollect a time when Sandra was not seen out wearing her standard uniform consisting of black biker’s leathers, pleated leather skirt and her biker boots. She always wore thick black woolly tights beneath them, even in the height of summer! The couple had been together now for three years and living together in his apartment for two years, and had never been happier.

Things all started to change, however, when Sandra started to see some of her old school friends. She never exactly said who they were and always dodged the subject when it came up in conversation. Paul, the former free male companion of Sandra (now kneeling alone on the floor as a broken husk of a man), attended the same school as her and thought that this was a little odd. He was a year older than her and could not understand why she was so evasive about the subject.

Sandra would often return home in the early hours, drunk and with a bad temper. Paul would try to keep his distance when she was like this, as his presence was often a catalyst for her fiery temper! As the months rolled on, this cycle grew steadily worse. Sandra would go out every Friday, and return drunk and in a foul mood. Eventually this foul temper manifested itself in the form of violent behaviour towards Paul! It seemed that everything he did annoyed her (on a Friday anyway). The rest of the week, she was perfectly normal!

Paul decided that he would try another tactic. He asked Sandra to return home early for next Friday, as he had a surprise planned for her. She seemed to agree to his request and the couple went their separate ways to go to work in their respective jobs. The week progressed normally and finally Friday evening came to be.

Paul helped her on with her coat and wished her a good evening. She simply turned and kissed him on the cheek and left. While she was gone, Paul set about preparing the apartment for her return. He had laid out the table for a romantic meal, and lit candles and put on soft music. Fortunately for him, Sandra remembered her promise and returned home early, though still drunk!

She seemed suitably surprised with his efforts, but said nothing. The couple sat down in almost total silence to begin their meal. Eventually he asked the question he had been putting off for such a long time now:

‘Have you been seeing someone else?’

It was hard for him to get the words out, as he was terrified of the response. The reply came in a very simple return comment:

‘Just leave it. I am very tired and already have a headache, okay?’

He simply had to press her further:

‘But I simply must know!’

This provoked a more emotional response than before:

‘I said, just leave it, you idiot!’ and with that she threw a glass at his head to punctuate her annoyance with his continued interrogation!

Paul jumped up to defend himself and grabbed both of her wrists, and forced her to the floor banging her head as he did so! She screamed in protest and lashed out:

‘Get off! Get off! I’m calling the police!’

He immediately panicked and ran to the front door in a confused state of terror! He took flight down the stairs to see one of the neighbours in the apartment below opening the door to see what all of the commotion was about. Paul simply pushed the innocent bystander out of the way and thundered past!

As dawn broke over the streets of the Gynarchy the next day, Paul realised that he was most likely going to be charged with assault on a female of the State! This was an extremely serious crime that carried a mandatory sentence of life in the underground mines, or worse - the foothole dungeons!

The other realisation hit him that he had no money or documents. This was also an offence in the Gynarchy, as all freemales must carry identification. He had nowhere to go and no means of getting there.

Every time a police car came past he thought it was for him. He paused by a news stand and looked at the front cover of the ‘Femina Gazette’. The headline read:

‘Head of police to close down last slave refuge later this year!’

A ‘slave refuge’ is a dank, underground tunnel or passage where honest, professional footslaves are allowed to congregate following dismissal or the loss of their mistress as a result of death, or change of circumstances. Paul needed a place to hide for a few days and think things over. He would be fed and sheltered, and be temporarily safe.

He made his way across town to the refuge. Unfortunately for him, in order to blend in, he had to strip off first and cover himself in dirt. No clean slaves would be present in the underground gloom! He crawled in and made himself a space to sleep.

The night passed slowly, and he got little time to sleep, as some of the other slaves got into a fight over a pair of women’s socks which one of the other slaves had brought into the tunnel! These poor, pathetic creatures have been driven to this existence by those mad women outside, he thought to himself!

The next morning the peace was violently interrupted by the arrival of the female police force carrying powerful torches and accompanied by sniffer dogs!

‘This is a raid; everyone freeze!’

The police then set about scanning the necks of the slaves nearest the entrance to the tunnel. Some of the slaves were now actually micro-chipped like dogs! It was the newest way of keeping track of the growing number of slaves in the Gynarchy.

Paul felt happy to be scanned, as he would not have anything to fear; being a ‘free man’, he was never likely to be fitted with a micro-chip! One of the female police officers walked over to him and said:

‘I see that we have a designer slave here, then?’

She was pointing to the designer underpants that he was wearing. He noticed with the added light from the police lanterns that all of the other slaves were wearing plain, white cotton, slave shorts! A couple of the officer’s colleagues laughed in the distance, still scanning the slaves.

‘Your turn,’ she said.

And with no further explanation the officer waved her detector over the back of his neck.

BEEP!

The device had actually registered something!

‘Over here! I’ve got him! Bring the cuffs!’

This was impossible, he thought! Then he remembered, about two years ago, on holiday with Sandra, he passed out drunk at the base of a tree and was bitten by a mosquito on the nape of his neck. Or so he was told! Sandra must actually have fitted him with a chip, listing him as her personal property! This was most likely done as a joke at the time, but had sealed his fate now for sure!

Needless to say, he soon found himself in a police cell under lock and key. He had been branded as a violent criminal and fitted with a straight jacket to await sentence. He knew what was about to come. He would most likely never see the sun again and, worse still, his precious Sandra! He was crippled with a sense of longing and depression.

Paul was held for one week in detention awaiting the postal verdict from the court. It was decided that he was too dangerous to move from prison to court, so the postal judgment system would have to suffice!

Eventually, two officers entered his cell and announced that they were to read his sentence. First of all, he had to abase himself at their ankle booted feet, as written in the prison rule book he had been reading for the last week, helpfully plastered all over his cell walls.

The first of the two guards stepped forward:

‘I am Guard Mistress Anna.’

Somewhat podgy; black, with a pony tail; approximately thirty; not overly attractive; he instantly made his own judgements about the young officer!

He dutifully kissed her boots and awaited further instruction.

The other guard stepped forwards:

‘And I am Guard Mistress Roz.’

Taller; white, with auburn hair; late twenties; with acne. Again Paul was quick to form his own opinion of the young lady! It is, perhaps, inevitable - as he only ever had eyes for his beloved Sandra!

Once the formality of kissing Miss Roz’s boots was over, the guard-pair giggled as they opened the wax seal on the envelope.

Miss Anna had won the toss outside his cell to announce the sentence, much to the annoyance of Miss Roz!

‘Dirty, convicted prisoner, it is the sentence of the court to condemn you to a life of foot slavery!’

Hooray, he thought! Anything other than the slave mines!

Guard Mistress Anna went on to say:

‘The court was duty bound to sentence you to life in the Gynarchy salt mines, however the intervention of Miss Sandra Brent, and her eloquent plea for clemency on your part, was most impressive! So much so, that the court has further added that you will become her footslave for life!’

Paul did not know whether to feel relieved, or humiliated!

Two days later, he found himself being thrown to the floor of his former home in the living room. He was now clad in the official, slave shorts issued by the Gynarchy, and his micro-chip had been re-programmed in prison to read something else (something much more fitting he was told, sarcastically).

He knelt there nervously awaiting the entrance of Miss Sandra. What should he do? Jump up and kiss her? Kiss her feet and thank her? Beg for forgiveness? Or simply look on in silence? He chose the latter.

Soon after, he espied the ubiquitous, black leather biker boots of the powerful Miss Sandra approaching! She simply pulled herself up in front of him and said calmly, and quietly:

‘Kiss them’.

His heart raced and a heavy sweat set in on his brow. He felt so ambivalent. On one side, he was so happy to have been spared the mines and wanted to thank her; on the other side, it was all her fault anyway, and he wanted to punish her!

Miss Sandra sat down in what used to be their sofa and began to address her new slave:

‘I suppose I owe you an explanation? I was seeing another man! You see, I was trying to save hurting your feelings, and things got out of hand. Anyway it’s all too late now. I feel that I have balanced the scales by getting you out of a living hell in the slave mines! You will have to be my slave now for real, or we will both be in trouble with the court.’

She said it all so calmly, as if she felt better to have confessed her sins! Not that they were sins! She had done nothing wrong in the eyes of the Gynarchy!

‘I suppose I had better introduce you to your new master? Come in, honey, he’s arrived!’

With that, in walked a tall, overweight, brutish looking man smoking a cigarette.

‘This is Dean, or, as you will refer to him now, Master Dean!’

Paul looked briefly at the man’s face. To his utter horror, he did recognise the man! It was the same Dean from the school that Sandra and Paul had attended. Dean was no old school friend! He was the typical bully that every school seems to come equipped with! He had made Paul’s early years an absolute misery! Now it seemed that he would be making his later years a living hell also!

‘Well, howdy butt face!’

Dean still remembered the charming nickname he had for Paul.

Miss Sandra went on to further explain:

‘I have signed over your apartment to Dean. He is also listed as your official master, after me of course! In case you have not been able to work it out yet, Dean is the other man! I had intended to tell you gently, and just go our separate ways, but you changed the plan that night you hit me! Now you will treat Master Dean with the utmost respect at all times, do you understand?’

Paul was enraged! His face burned red with a jealous anger! Yet, as a slave, he was now obliged, by law, to respond submissively to her question. It took all of his control to formulate a small reply through gritted teeth:

‘Yes, Mistress Sandra.’

There, he had said it for the first time! Now he truly belonged to her, body and soul!

Mistress Sandra then went on to explain in more detail her new slave’s routine:

‘As you are aware, we only have the one bedroom, and I do not want you invading our privacy! Master Dean has decided that you will sleep in the stocks. Unfortunately, as we live in an apartment block, we are not allowed to erect a pillory in the communal areas. Master Dean has therefore suggested that we purchase a set of internal stocks that will be kept in the living room. As we don’t want to keep the neighbours awake with the sound of creaking wood on the floor, we will be purchasing a set of the new novelty stocks for you. HA!’

‘Novelty’ stocks are normally only used for indoor applications. They are made of a sort of light weight, composite resin, but are almost indestructible. As they are made from resin, they can be moulded into any shape. They are all the rage in the Gynarchy at the moment. The joke is that, in most cases, they are made in garish colours and take the form of boots or shoes etc.

Mistress Sandra had not finished her introductory speech:

‘Master Dean has also pointed out that you may find it difficult to concentrate on my feet, as we were once more than mistress and slave. Master Dean thinks that you should be fitted with a heavy cangue to assist you in your duties as a footslave. I must say that I do agree with him!’

Sandra said this whilst holding Master Dean’s hand, and kissing him on the lips! Master Dean laughed at this point and added his own comment:

‘Ha, and another thing, butt face, I don’t want to see that ugly butt face of yours, so I have commissioned a special footfool mask just for you! That way I will not be put off my dinner while you face massage your mistress’s feet in the stocks, while I watch your television and sit in your arm chair above you, What do you say to that, geek?’

Oh Lord, give me strength, Paul said under his breath:

‘Oh pray, Master Dean, this humble slave greatly appreciates your helpful suggestions in making this slave more effective and useful to Mistress Sandra… YOU FAT SMELLY PIG!!’

That last bit did not come out, of course!

Mistress Sandra then said that it was time to get things ready for the new slave. This was signalled by a knock at the door and the inrush of several young women carrying bags and boxes.

One of the pretty, young women said:

‘You, the slave, come over here. I need to fix your mask on!’

She produced a box that had the words Slave makeover agency written on it. She ripped the box open to reveal the mask in all of its gaudy glory. It was made from green latex rubber, but it had something else attached that he could not see.

The humiliating ensemble was quickly thrust unceremoniously over his head, and the back was sewn up. Unfortunately for Paul, the young lady was in a hurry and managed to get three of the stiches straight into his head, much to the amusement of Master Dean!

Once the stiches were in place, a quick setting, colour matched, rubber cement was applied to the row of interlocking threads making the mask a permanent feature! The mask felt lop sited for some reason! He did not dare to complain, though, as this may have seemed ungrateful on his part!

The sewing lady left him for a while, and he could see the other girls erecting his kneeling pillory. Master Dean took great delight in crouching down to his level and announcing that he too had chosen the design of the stocks! A large model of a woman’s booted foot would be pressing his head and arms into the base of the pillory! How humiliating!

A tall black woman, who had stood in the background until now content to supervise the activities, suddenly exclaimed:

‘Who has the slave’s new cangue?’

‘I’ve got it in this box’, came the female reply.

Another box was hastily opened, and a traditional looking wooden cangue was produced. The young, blonde girl bent down to open the cangue and was about to secure it on its new victim when Mistress Sandra suddenly shouted:

‘WAIT!’

Paul thought for one joyful moment that she had changed her mind about the horrible contraption!

‘I think Master Dean should fit it to the slave, as an act of bondage to his new captors!’

‘Great idea, honey!’

Master Dean needed no further encouragement in this act of oppression! He slammed the weighty collar shut, catching on the skin of the foot prisoner and causing him to scream in pain OOOWW! The young couple laughed at his pain. Finally, the other women left the couple to examine their new slave and his toys.

Slave Paul shuffled closer to look at the comical, novelty stocks in disbelief at their hideousness. Surely they will not actually use these?

‘Here you are, butt face; let me help you into them!’

Kind, old Master Dean made an offer that slave Paul could not refuse; literally!

The resin-formed woman’s boot was raised like some kind of outrageous billboard! He lowered his neck and arms into the contraption and noticed the recess to take the cangue! It would make confinement even more unpleasant, as there was absolutely no play around his scrawny neck whatsoever!

The comedy crossbeam came crashing down! Master Dean pointed out that he did not like the use of hasp, and staples, and padlocks on the stocks, as they allowed for a certain amount of movement when locked. He produced instead a tapered, steel peg, about one inch in diameter, and proceeded to bang it into the hole that linked the two halves of the stocks together, making their unbearable grip even tighter with every bang of the mallet!

The couple stood back to gawp at his misfortune! Ha, what a fool!

Mistress Sandra then went off to get a mirror to show the new slave his ridiculous, footfool mask!

To his horror, it was luminous green, and had all of the usual adornments such as the pig shaped nose; and the sad, downturned mouth; and flattering notes, such as ‘TOEJAM’ and ‘STINK’, with helpful arrows showing where to put these charming items of footslave life!

The mask also had some other kind of addition. It looked like a dunce’s cap, and had a red bell on the end of it! It was unbelievably heavy!

Master Dean said in a deep tone:

‘It’s full of lead shot! It will pull your head down even lower when you are in the stocks. I wanted it on one side, so the neck spasms will be more intense on your left side than the right side!’

The bell was obviously to signal the slave’s approach, or so thought the naïve slave. Mistress Sandra then announced that the bell was, in fact, to signal movement:

‘If you struggle in the stocks enough to make the bell ring, Master Dean will whip you senseless. Ha!’

The masked slave in the novelty pillory was certainly something to behold! What an utter fool he looked! He was truly a broken, pathetic sight! There remained no dignity in his existence whatsoever. Maybe the slave mines would have been the better option after all!

Master Dean simply lit a cigarette and smiled as a deep sense of satisfaction filled his soul! Mistress Sandra, meanwhile, decided it was time to have the slave live up to his new name:

‘I hereby rename you Slave Sockface!’

She sat in the reclining sofa and elevated her feet to his face level. As his arms were very effectively secured, she had to remove her heavy tread, biker boots herself! The newly named ‘Slave Sockface’ felt helpless! He had never had to notice her footwear before, as a free man. He did not even know that on top of her woolly, black tights she wore a pair of crumpled, plain black, ankle socks!

He thought that this was to protect her feet and keep them warm, but it also had the undesirable effect of retaining more of her feminine foot sweat! The black socks did indeed seem to be damp and warm!

Her newly boot-liberated feet seemed to dominate his entire field of vision. In fact, all of his senses were now fully occupied with her feet. His nasal passages were being assaulted by the musty, vinegary aroma of female foot sweat.

Master Dean was watching this act of submission from afar, up till now. He moved closer, and knelt at her feet:

‘Hey honey, do ya mind if I take your socks off and give him a real sense of your scent?’

‘No, go ahead darling!’

All of this lovey dovey stuff was enough to make Paul’s stomach churn (it was deliberate of course).

Master Dean slipped both socks off Paul’s former girlfriend’s feet and then rolled them onto the hapless slave’s entrapped hands!

Why? Because it just made him look even more of a fool!

He could now see Mistress Sandra’s toes through the woollen tights. The woolly areas around the toes were thinning through near constant wear! She gaily wiggled her little toes to release more of the scent up her entrapped slave’s latex rubber snout! Mistress Sandra then moved further down the recliner to allow her feet to actually touch the slave’s artificial nose. A small moan of protest was heard.

This enraged Master Dean, who simply jumped up and went behind the kneeling slave. Much to the surprise of Mistress Sandra and Slave Sockface, master Dean then crouched down and put his arms around the slave’s chest. They were all expecting to be witness to the slave’s first whipping! Instead, Master Dean went on to literally squeeze the life out of the helpless slave. His face was turning red with breathlessness (or it would have been, if it were not for the green mask):

‘When you are told to sniff my girlfriend’s feet, you will do so without moaning! Do you understand?’

When Master Dean finally relented his bear-like grip, the slave began panting deeply.

‘Through the nose, you idiot! How many more times?...That’s it, honey; I’ve had it with him! I am going to our bedroom to get my whip!’

My girlfriend; my bedroom! These were all mine a few days ago!

Moments later Master Dean was preparing to do his best to impress Mistress Sandra with his strength and whipping prowess! He deliberately dragged the whip across the bare back of the imprisoned slave to heighten the nerve sensation!

Swish…Crack!

OOOOW!

‘No; please, no more Master, I beg you!’

‘After only one? You must be joking, slave!’

Mistress Sandra was indeed impressed at her manly hunk beating the life out of the down in the dirt slave! She issued her statement, briefly halting the proceedings:

‘I don’t think he has ever been whipped before; most slaves I have seen can make it to five lashes before crying out! You are a real man, Dean. Don’t spare him! Lay it on! Ha! I will make it up to you later, Honey!’

Master Dean simply laughed and continued with the harsh lashing. Mistress Sandra pushed her feet into the face of the confined slave in a state of almost ecstatic joy at the spectacle! This went on for some time.

Eventually the pair relented from this display of brutality and oppression and collapsed together on the sofa, with Mistress Sandra’s feet still jammed into the slave’s face. At least he could now make muffled moans and whimpers without getting into trouble!

After an hour or so of over the top displays of affection (all for Slave Sockface’s sake) Master Dean decided it was time for bed. He wasted no time in checking that the resin pillory was still tightly secured and disappeared next door. Mistress Sandra pushed her feet to the ground, folding up the reclining sofa as she did so, and said softly to the slave:

‘Have a good night in your stocks. I say your stocks, because they are yours. I am afraid that you bought them with your own money, as the court signed everything that used to be yours over to me, you see! Oh, and try not to make too much noise with your crying tonight; we don’t want to upset our neighbours downstairs. We owe them a great amount of gratitude. It was partly their evidence that got you convicted when you pushed your way past them at the bottom of the stairs that night! We will try to keep the lovemaking noise down too, although I cannot make promises!’

With that she slid her woolly tight clad feet across the living room floor leaving him confined alone. He felt sick with rage and pain!

The next morning came round agonisingly slowly for slave Sockface. The hideous, weighted mask did its job of pulling on one side of the neck and causing excruciating cramps! Master Dean was the first to stumble into the living room with a cup of coffee:

‘Morning, squealer! How are your whip marks today? Ha!’

Fortunately this was meant as a rhetorical question.

Nearly an hour later Mistress Sandra entered the room, fully dressed apart from her boots. She sat down and ignored her slave completely. She simply removed the socks from the slave’s hands and rolled them onto her dainty feet over the top of her thinning, black woolly tights; fastened her boots; and then stood up to leave, kissing Master Dean on the lips as she did so.

She turned and faced them both saying:

‘Play nice while I am at work, boys!’

‘Oh, we will,’ said Master Dean in a sinister manner!

Master Dean was a builder by trade, but work was slack at the moment. He spent the early half of the morning watching the ‘Slave Shopping Channel’, and buying new toys, such as something called a ‘foot clamp’ and a ‘spiked paddle’? All With Slave Sockface’s money of course!

The poor slave could not even see the television to bear witness to what he was financing, as his whipped back was facing it!

Around midday, something on the television gave Master Dean an idea. He disappeared for a couple of hours. The slave finally fell asleep listening to the shopping channel.

Master Dean returned with some power tools and what looked like a basket, shaped like a wicker globe? He never said anything, he just knelt down and began screwing clips on around the slave’s neck hole on the pillory. Once completed, Master Dean stood up and moved the basket over the slave’s face. It twisted and locked into position on the clips:

‘There, that’s more like it!’ he said triumphantly. He then went to the bedroom to collect something. The basket was removed and then refitted. Only this time, Master Dean had filled the basket with Mistress Sandra’s dirty, old, worn socks!

‘Sockface you are, and Sockface you shall be!’

At the end of the day Mistress Sandra returned home. She erupted into spontaneous laughter at the sight of the ‘slave in the basket’ that greeted her:

‘Oh, what a good idea, darling! You are so clever! Ha!’

The same routine of evening beatings and sock sniffing went on for another five days. The basket was always refitted when the couple were out of the room. Slave Sockface was now desperate to get out of this pillory! The close confinement was pure agony, and the humiliation was unbearable!

He finally got his wish on Friday afternoon. Master Dean looked down at the slave, sniffing his girlfriend’s smelly tights, and said:

‘Don’t you think we should set him to work on your bare feet, babe?’

‘Oh, okay darling! As long as you don’t mind?’

What about me, thought slave Sockface? What if I mind?

Master Dean bashed the metal peg out of the stocks and slave Sockface was free at last! Well, apart from the heavy cangue that is! He had forgotten about the cangue; it was almost as heavy as lifting the whole pillory!

Would he ever be able to rest again?

The slave was about to reach up and pull Mistress Sandra’s tights off when she kicked him in the face:

‘No! You don’t go there anymore! That is for Dean alone!’

The slave looked to the left just in time to see Dean’s fist hurtling towards his masked face.

WHACK!

All was dark!

When he came round, the couple were cuddling on the sofa watching TV. Mistress Sandra was now barefoot. He did not know how, or who, removed her tights; but they were gone!

He could never recall actually seeing her bare feet before!

She looked down at him and said:

‘Now you have finished sleeping on my time, would you mind doing your job?’

She pulled a lever, and up went the footrest:

‘Start by getting all of that greasy toejam out from under the nails, and then you can move on to a full pedicure.’

Master Dean had to butt in by saying:

‘OHH boy! Aren’t you lucky to have such pretty feet to look after, slave?’

Sockface did not fully agree. He preferred to kiss Sandra’s beautiful, soft hands and her almond-shaped finger nails! Now he was presented with her size eight feet, that looked like they had not seen the light of day all winter. Her nails were long and jagged, and needed lots of attention. He also noticed a small trace of blue nail polish that had all but chipped off over the last months. But he had no choice but to proceed with the unenviable task of cleaning the feet of his former girlfriend turned tormentress, in full view of her current sexual partner!

It took well over an hour to get them sufficiently clean. Next he was ordered to mouth trim her nails to a uniform length. This done, Master Dean pointed out a useful addition to the mask - a sheet of emery cloth that was fixed to the forehead:

‘You can use this to get all of that hard skin off your heel, babe!’

Oh the humiliation! The bell tinkled as his head was thrust back and forth by the motion of Sandra moving her foot up and down his masked forehead! This also made his neck and shoulders ache due to the weighty wooden collar. He literally had the weight of the world on his shoulders! The dead, feminine footskin from his artificially abrasive forehead, rolled down into his eyes and up his nose!

A-A-ACHEW!!!

The bell on the mask rang loud and clear! Mistress Sandra exclaimed:

‘I heard that! You made the bell ring, and you will be sorely lashed for that later, slave! Ha! So you do not like the smell of my foot dust? That’s tough, you vile little creep!’

It seemed that she too was attempting to impress her new partner (even if it was at the expense of her old partner!)

Now came the task of painting the toenails with a bright green polish. The slave was helpfully fitted out with a mouth brush for this stage of the pedicure proceedings. He gently moved the brush up and down her pampered nails. Even slave Sockface was impressed with the results! Her feet looked beautiful!

Mistress Sandra herself was amazed:

‘Wow, we have found something you can do well at last, footslave! What do you think, honey?’

Master Dean crouched down to inspect the slave’s handy work:

‘You moron, you have got polish on the side of her toe!...’

Where? I cannot see any, and I am so close to her feet I can smell them (Paul thought aggrievedly to himself).

‘…Back into the stocks until you learn your lesson, Squealer! Right, darling?’

‘Whatever you say, honey!’

Bang! Bang! Bang! went the metal peg securing him once again into the comedy kneeling pillory. Oh the ignominy of it all!

Saturday was once again upon the household. Mistress Sandra came into the living room barefoot. She removed the basket from his head giving him ample view of her naked feet once again. He had never seen so much of her feet before (or so little of her face). It seemed that Mistress Sandra was quite proud of her gleaming feet!

She sat down and began eating her breakfast cereal above him:

‘Oh, by the way slave, Mel and Ron are coming over later to take Dean and me out to dinner, okay?’

Oh no! Mel and Ron had been close friends of the couple for several years! Now they would be seeing him in this comedy kneeling pillory, with a masked face as a footslave! Mel was a police liaison officer with the local force. She was the most likely candidate for the micro-chip ‘gag’ that got him here in the first place. It was part of her job to programme slave chips and fit them as required! The shame would be palpable!

The evening rolled round and Master Dean thrust the basket back over the slave’s face! Hooray, thought the slave! I will get away with not having to see our old friends after all!

The doorbell rang, and moments later a stylish couple in their early thirties entered the room. Mistress Sandra introduced them to Master Dean:

‘And this is my new man; he’s a master builder!’ she said proudly.

Ron and Mel sat down after laughing at the stocks. It was customary to see slaves in the Gynarchy, so nobody was surprised. Mel sat in Mistress Sandra’s seat affording slave Sockface a close up view of her tanned, pedicured, sandal clad feet through his sock basket. It felt very strange to be so close to the feet of a former friend!

Mistress Sandra left the room to finish changing, leaving an awkward silence behind. Master Dean was not much of a conversation man, and was not very engaging. After what seemed like an eternity, Ron commented:

‘So, did you ever hear what happened to Paul after the arrest and trial thing, Dean?’

Even Master Dean was not that cruel! Surely he won’t tell them?

‘He’s under the basket! Look, I will show you!’

No, you Neanderthal! (thought slave Sockface).

Dean removed the basket, and the peg holding the stocks shut. He grabbed the slave by the scruff of the neck and said:

‘Tell the nice people who you are, Squealer!’

The slave thought that he may get away without speaking. But Master Dean had other ideas; he got the slave in a violent headlock and pulled his arm half way out of its socket:

OOOW!

He was also digging his knuckles deep into the slave’s masked temples:

‘That’s why I call him Squealer,’ said Master Dean. ‘Now, tell the nice people who you were, boy!’

‘It’s ttt true, it is me!’

Mel laughed at the thought of a onetime friend being made to look so stupid. Ron was more sympathetic and tuned away in disgust!

Just then Mistress Sandra returned, now fully dressed.

‘Hey look, honey, I’ve got this cretin in a headlock!’

‘That’s nice, darling,’ was the reply! ‘We had better get ready to leave, or we will miss our booking!’

She eventually pulled an overenthusiastic Master Dean off of the slave, and personally placed the slave back in the stocks, pounding the metal peg back into the hole. Once secured, Mistress Sandra stood up and turned to Mel and said:

‘Did you bring that thing I asked for?’

‘Oh yes, here you go!’

Mel produced some kind of printout and handed it to Sandra, who then dropped it into the base of the basket. She then opened her handbag and produced her oldest pair of woolly, black, biker chick tights and dropped them into the wicker basket before screwing it onto his head!

Miss Sandra then took Master Dean by the arm and said:

‘Come on, darling, we can beat him later!’

The four left for a night at their favourite restaurant. Slave Sockface had to make do with sucking the moisture out of Sandra’s tights.

He eventually removed a majority of the foot odour from her tights and allowed them to drop a few inches to the bottom of the basket foot prison. He could then see the printout that had been dropped in with his mistress’s dirty hosiery. It was the new identity that had been programmed into the slave micro-chip in his neck, by Miss Mel! It read:

Slave Sockface; legal property of Miss Sandra Brent

How could she have been in on it? Mel was such a lovely person! I am a real slave now, he thought! What a total fool!

The couple did eventually return in the early hours of next morning somewhat drunk and merry.

Master Dean did not bother to remove the basket from the slave’s head. He simply collapsed into the sofa and fell asleep.

Mistress Sandra stumbled into the room behind her lover and slumped to her knees in front of the slave. She was swaying to and fro in a drunken stupor! She removed her high heels from her pretty, bare sweaty feet and placed them beneath his confined, basket clad face. She then moved directly to his ear and whispered:

‘I have got some really exciting news, slave; I am getting married! Master Dean proposed to me in front of Ron and Mel in the restaurant! How cool is that?’

Sockface was glad of the basket, for once, as it was hiding his contorted, anguished face! He had proposed to her twice in the past, and she had replied with a feeble ‘I am not ready for that sort of commitment yet’. He bit down hard on the stockings and used them as a self-inflicted gag. Now she would marry this Neanderthal creep, and he would be forever ‘Master Dean’!

Mistress Sandra then picked up the newly arrived, studded paddle and went to the rear of the stocks saying:

‘I wonder if I can make you squeal like Dean can?’

Swish…Crack!

OOOW!

No contest, Mistress! No contest!