Sent to the Whipping-House

My 30 year old footmistress – mistress Jodie – is such a sweet and kind, young woman. Slim; petitely-built; a universally acknowledged, pretty redhead – but without the customary fiery temper!

Indeed, in the all the 5 years that I have been her personal footservant she has never once raised a finger towards me; she doesn’t even own a whip! She normally just expresses her displeasure with me verbally – by rebuking me; or possibly denying me my customary, daily ration of her cold, congealed leftovers, and making me survive instead on a bowl of bland, tasteless slave-mush. That’s the harshest punishment I can normally expect to receive!

Of course, being male, I naturally take advantage of her gentle, feminine nature – and have admittedly become slack in my foot-service towards her. Things came to a head just last week, when she summoned me into her living room.

She was seated in the centre of the room on a wooden chair, stony-faced, in her bright yellow T-shirt, blue denim jeans, and black anklesocks; her beige-brown, calf-length ugg boots were lying forlornly on the floor beside her feet.

I may have become slack and lackadaisical over the years, but I was still respectful of my non-whipping mistress, and immediately crawled over towards her on my hands and knees and started kissing her dainty, black-socked feet:

‘You summoned me, mistress?’

I had been, supposedly, lickshining her black leather and pink-striped, low-top, lace-up sneakers in the kitchen (but, as they were still a bit smelly after her early morning run, I had actually instead been foraging for more breakfast leftovers in her kitchen pedal-bin; she knows that I do it, and normally turns a blind eye!)

‘Yes, slave. I am very disappointed in you! Just look at the state of my uggs!’

I look at the pair of beige-brown, misshapen uggs lying in a crumpled heap on the floor next to her freshly-kissed, socked feet – feet which, as ever when she is seated, are coyly and girlishly turned in towards one another at the toes.

The uggs look alright to me, as I continue to kiss my mistress Jodie’s naked, black-socked feet – a bit crumpled and dark-stained in places, as per usual; especially around the broad, rounded toe-areas. But what do you expect from a young woman’s well-worn, favourite pair of beige-brown, sheepskin, ugg boots?

Cheekily, I say so:

‘What’s wrong with them, mistress? They look alright to me!’

She sighs exasperatedly:

‘What’s wrong with them, slave? I’ll tell you what’s wrong with them! Just look at the sole of my right ugg boot for a moment, would you please?’

Curious, I stop kissing her socks, and move my bowed head over to look more closely.

‘Well, what do you see, footslave?’

Now I know that my mistress Jodie is genuinely very angry with me about something! She never calls me ‘footslave’ unless she is really fuming (the term ‘footslave’ is very much regarded as a term of abuse in the Gynarchy – a reminder that a slave is the lowest of the low; a nothing; a nobody; a mere servant of feet. This indicates that there will be no leftover-supper for me tonight!)

I still can’t see anything wrong with the ugg boot concerned, however:

‘What’s wrong with it, mistress?’

She angrily reaches down and grabs me by the neck – shoving my face closer to the heavily-ridged, beige rubber sole of the offending ugg.

Physical violence – by my mistress Jodie! This is a most strange and unusual situation! As I said before, it is so rare for her to ever lay a finger on me!

And she raises her voice to me:

‘SMELL IT, FOOTSLAVE! TELL ME WHAT YOU CAN SMELL!’

Ah – now I see what’s wrong – a piece of sticky, darkened chewing gum stuck into one of the thick ridges of the ugg-boot sole; almost imperceptible to the semi-naked, footslave-eye due to the sole of the ugg-boot being made of such thick, beige rubber, but, thanks to the physical violence of my mistress Jodie, I can definitely smell its minty aroma!

I confirm that I have now identified the problem:

‘Oh, I see mistress! You’ve got some chewing gum stuck to your ugg-boot sole! Ha! Ha! You must have walked in it, mistress!’

She lets go of the nape of my scrawny neck:

‘Oh, so you think it’s funny, do you, footslave?... That’s odd, because I don’t think it’s funny that the remains of anything I may have inadvertently walked in on the street are still stuck to the sole of my boot even after I ordered my so-called personal footservant to lickshine my ugg boots clean!’

I am shocked that my normally tolerant mistress Jodie is making such a fuss over such a small matter. I can easily lick it off now!

‘Relax, mistress! Keep your red hair on! It’s only a small piece of dried in chewing gum! I can easily lick it off now, if you like, mistress?’

She sits back in her chair – but does not seem at all ‘relaxed’; quite the opposite!

‘No – it’s alright, footslave! I’ll tell you what - I’ve got a better idea! I want you to take this note down to the local whipping-house. They’ll soon teach you a lesson you’ll never forget!’

And with that she hands down a sealed envelope to me.

The local whipping-house! I’ve heard of it – but I’ve never been to it! My mistress Jodie doesn’t believe in whipping slaves – everybody knows that!

Now, I’m truly nervous – and perplexed! I kneel forward to place my lips onto her black socks again, and to beg her pardon. But she hastily tucks her socked feet in below the chair:

‘GO – FOOTSLAVE! DO AS I SAY! TAKE THAT NOTE TO THE WHIPPING HOUSE – NOW!’

‘Y…yes, m…mistress! At once, m…mistress Jodie m…madam!’

Honestly – such a fuss over such a small, insignificant oversight on my part! I am, however, disappointed to have disappointed my sweet and kind mistress Jodie!

I wonder what the note says?!

……………………………………………………………………………………

I didn’t have too long to wait to find out – the local whipping-house, though ordinarily far from my thoughts, is only a 10 minute crawl away from my mistress’s home. Every Gynarchy neighbourhood has one – a house of correction, often attached to a maleslave prison, where unruly, disobedient or disrespectful household slaves can be whipped by professionals, should the slave’s owner feel a more serious punishment is merited than that which could normally be carried out within the cramped confines of a suburban home; or, if the sweet feminine slave-owner is too sensitive a soul to actually deploy the whip to a slave’s back themselves! A bit like my sweet-natured mistress Jodie – but I never actually thought she’d send me here over something so trivial as a piece of chewing gum stuck to her bootsole!

Perhaps it’s all a bluff; perhaps the note simply asks the whipping-house to scare me, but not actually to whip me? I can but hope!

As I crawl through the foreboding door of the unfamiliar whipping house and into the reception area, I wonder what the mistresses inside are like. Not at all like my petite and friendly mistress Jodie – I shouldn’t wonder? After all, these young women have chosen a career in which they get to whip recalcitrant slaves for a living!

Certainly, the young, blonde-ponytailed, police-lady on the door seems to fit the Gynarchy-stereotype of a brutal and cruel young mistress; even her pointy-toed, spike-heeled, shiny black leather, Female-Police uniform kneeboots look vicious and cruel – not like anything my mistress Jodie would ever wear!

‘What do you want, slave?’

Want?! I don’t want anything! I certainly don’t want to be in this unfamiliar and cruel-smelling place, and at the mercy of a pair of spike-heeled WPC boots!

Time for some respectful slavespeak, I think (mind you, I am always respectful when I talk to other mistresses; it is just my mistress Jodie whom I feel I can be more familiar with!):

‘Oh pray, officer-mistress; if it pleases you, pretty, blonde, officer-mistress; this slave has been given a note by his mistress, if you would be so kind, most respected and all-powerful, police-officer mistress?’

I make to hand the envelope up to her – whilst keeping my gaze respectfully low and on her pointy, black patent leather boot-toes. This is not the time to be surreptitiously looking up kneelength, navy-blue uniform, police-officer skirts, however appealing the wearer of the boots and skirt may be to the footslave-eye!

She doesn’t take the note – or even look at it:

‘Over there, slave!’ she responds brusquely – indicating a reception desk with her pointy, right boot-toe (just as well, therefore, that I was concentrating on looking at her shiny boots!)

‘Yes, officer-mistress. Thank you, most glorious officer-mistress!’

I crawl over to the desk, where another young lady – this time of Indian origins and with long, dark, shiny, shoulder-length hair – is seated on a high stool. She appears to be a civilian, as she is not in uniform, but rather is wearing a crisp, white blouse, and a fetching pair of low-heeled, matt-black leather courts and dark nylons on her skinny legs and ankles – again beneath a modest, knee-length skirt, though hers is black, and not uniform navy-blue like the officer’s on the door.

I do like kneeling before this demure and sweet-looking young Indian woman’s nyloned legs – they are so narrow and skinny-looking, and coquettishly crossed over at the ankles on the circular base of her stool!

‘Be giving me your note, slave!’ she snaps down at me in an unfriendly and somewhat officious, Indian-girl accent.

‘Yes mistress. At once, mistress!’

I hope I’m right not to refer to her as ‘officer-mistress’ – for she does look, and sound, like a civilian.

There is palpable tension in the air as I examine her skinny, dark-nylon-stockinged anklebones in front of my kneeling face whilst she is the first to read whatever is written on my mistress Jodie’s mysterious note to the Female Authorities. I notice how the slightly-built, Indian girl’s nylon-stockings seem to crease and fold with pleasure around her slender anklebones as she digests the contents of the note:

‘Punishment cell no. 6, slave – straight down the corridor. Follow me to heel, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, mistress. At once, mistress! Thank you, pretty Indian mistress madam!’

Right – so, the note isn’t a fake then! Not unless this is a very elaborate hoax on my mistress Jodie’s part; and, to be honest, I don’t think she’s sophisticated enough to concoct such an elaborate bluff – she’s much too ‘timid’ to wind up the Female Authorities in such a way! So, I can only conclude that I am, indeed, about to be whipped!

Whipped for the first time in years!

The only remaining questions are:

• How many lashes?
• And with what type of whip?
• And is it the slightly-built, skinny-boned, young Indian woman, who is now leading me down towards the ‘punishment cell’, who shall be wielding the female whip? I fervently hope so – for she doesn’t look all that strong!

Not that I disrespect her civilian power and authority over me right now! Indeed, I meekly crawl behind her to court-shoed heel, very much admiring the temporal creases and folds in the backs of her dark nylons as she walks along the corridor – for I have always dreamt of being an Indian girl’s personal foot and leg servant! I just wish she wasn’t leading me right now towards a painful punishment cell!

On entering the cell three things immediately shock me:

1) There is a nasty-looking, wooden whipping frame in the centre of the dark, windowless cell (a cell which is, incidentally, big enough to swing a cat in!)

2) Draped over it is an equally nasty-looking, frayed and single-tailed, black leather punishment whip – about 3 feet long; just long enough to wrap around the ribs!

3) Seated on a wooden chair in the corner of the room, reading a paper and clearly waiting for someone to punish, is AN UGLY BRUTE OF A MAN!

He is clearly the whipper, and my heart sinks! I hadn’t expected that! A male whipper!

This is going to hurt!

The sweet Indian girl smilingly and flirtatiously hands him over the note:

‘Thanks, Zeena darling!’ he smiles back – clearly pleased to have someone to whip (and equally clearly shagging this Indian girl in his spare time!)

The Indian girl then unsmilingly turns towards me and places each dainty, court-shoed foot in turn beneath my kneeling nose for me to kiss, which I do instinctively as I am now very afraid!

She then exits the cell!

Oh pray, pretty mistress Zeena! Please don’t leave me alone with this brute of a man! This freemale sadist – who earns his living whipping male slaves! Please stay and witness my punishment – that I might at least focus on your pretty feet and ankles behind me during my whipping! And if you are, as I suspect, in a relationship with him, perhaps you can intercede for me, and ask him to go easy on me, pretty Indian mistress! For I’m not a bad person, mistress, and I am not used to the whip!

But my pleas fall on deaf ears – mainly because I don’t dare to verbalise them – and she exits the cell as soon as her dusty, black, low-heeled pumps have been kissed!

At least the Neanderthal man appears to be able to read, for he is now studying the contents of my mistress Jodie’s note! And , surprise surprise, he can read out loud:

‘Ha! Ha! Twenty lashes for incompetence; twenty lashes for disobedience; and twenty lashes for impertinence. Ha! Ha! That’s sixty lashes, slave – to be well laid on! Ha! Ha! Your mistress has specified that I am not to spare you!’

So the whipmaster-sir can count as well!

‘Get up onto the frame, slave!’

How humiliating – I am to place myself on the whipping frame, like a lamb to the slaughter! Mind you, when the big, fat and ugly master-sir comes closer in order to secure the manacles to my wrists the smell of his bad breath is enough to make me want to do them up myself as well!

He stinks! How can a charming young lady like miss Zeena possibly find him attractive? And yet, there had been a definite chemistry between them. I may be an impotent and celibate footslave – but even I can tell when a woman fancies a man who is in the same room as me (just as I could tell miss Zeena didn’t fancy me; but then, what young woman in her right mind would fancy an about-to-be-whipped slave?)

Once I am secured to the frame I feel truly vulnerable; my permanently naked, but hitherto unmarked, back has never felt so exposed!

Even the Neanderthal-looking – but clearly fully literate, numerate and sexually attractive to women – bad-breathed whipmaster-sir remarks upon it:

‘Ha! Ha! Looks like your scrawny back is not much used to the bite of the whip, slave? Ha! Ha! This should make for an interesting experience for you! Ha! Ha!’

And with that he cruelly dangles the leather tail of the whip all over the nerve-endings in my back, presumably in order to stimulate the pain receptors and make them even more receptive to the impending whip-pain!

I beg for mercy:

‘Oh pray, master-sir! Pray have mercy on me, master-sir! This slave is indeed unaccustomed to pain, master-sir, if you would be so kind and understanding, master-sir?’

The whip-man just laughs:

‘Ha! Ha! Well laid on your mistress said, slave! And don’t spare him! Who am I to disobey a woman? Ha! Ha! Ha!’

I feel like saying, but you are a free man, master-sir! Can’t you exercise some discretion in my favour, as a fellow male human-being?

But I know that would be pointless! The free man has little choice but to whip me hard – it’s his job!

……………………………………………………………………………

And, my God, was he good at his job!

Sixty, biting, stinging, cutting, bruising lashes – well laid on, just as my mistress had ordered – and which left me well and truly flayed!

I’m afraid I cried like a baby throughout the ordeal, so intense was the pain – but the effect of my unmanly screams echoing down the whipping-house corridor had at least one, small positive effect. Petite and comely, civilian goddess-mistress Zeena, attracted by my screams (and, no doubt, by the desire to see her ‘hunky man’ in action wielding the whip on some poor, unfortunate slave!), came to watch the proceedings – and was even invited by her cruel whipmaster-boyfriend to sit on the raised seating area in front of the whipping frame (I wondered what that seating was for), midway through my whipping, so that her pretty, nyloned and court-shoed, Indian feet were resting on a metal footplate directly in front of my face during my final, thirty lashes!

Just the close-up and personal sight of her nylon-stockinged anklebones, creasing and flexing in joyous tandem with my suffering, was enough to help me cope, somewhat, with the burning, bruising pain being inflicted on me by her brutish boyfriend, and through my agony I could hear her laughingly urging him on to ever greater efforts:

‘Ha! Ha! Harder, jailer! Much harder! You are hardly cutting him at all, isn’t it? You must be making the whip wrap securely around his ribs, isn’t it though? Ha! Ha!’

I’m sure she’s calling him ‘jailer’ just for my benefit; she knows his name – but she doesn’t wish to appear unprofessional, even though she is now sexually charged and yearning to make love to her manly jailer-boyfriend!

When it was all over, just before her ‘boyfriend’ assisted her to climb down from the seat of power in front of me (the seat where, presumably, my sweet and sensitive mistress Jodie could have been sitting if she’d wanted to), the clearly turned-on Indian girl leaned down to ask me a none-too-subtle question through her sweet-smelling, bared, white teeth:

‘Tell me, slave; does the whip really hurt? Young women are not being whipped, so I cannot be imagining what it must be feeling like, isn’t it?’

I was, I’m ashamed to say, unable to answer the curious, young civilian mistress’s perfectly legitimate question, being left so weakened and breathless by the whip (though you’d think she would already know the answer to that one, working as she does on the Reception Desk of a Whipping-House, and having an affair with one of the male whippers!)

Nevertheless, I did just manage to summon up enough strength, and courage, to kiss her now slightly wrinkled, nylon-stockinged anklebone on her bony, right foot – as a gesture of gratitude for her generous support and encouragement during my whipping! I even managed to kiss her sweaty, reinforced-nylon toes when she teasingly slipped her dainty, right foot out of its, somewhat scuffmarked, black leather civilian-pump, and shoved it disparagingly into my blubbering face!

I was, in effect, now swimming in a sea of whip-pain, and surrounded by an invisible cloud of Indian-girl, nylon footsweat, and I just wanted to crawl over into a corner of the punishment cell, curl up and die!

What I actually had to do, once civilian Receptionist-mistress Zeena had finished tormenting me with her stinky, nylon stockinged toes and rhetorical questions about the intensity or otherwise of my whip-pain, and once the brutish whipmaster sir had released me from my manacles and received a congratulatory peck on his cheek from his impressed, Indian girlfriend, was crawl all the way back to my mistress Jodie’s home – and show her my fresh, glistening whip-wounds.

To my surprise, she wasn’t at all squeamish about them, even fingering them! She was also wearing her beige-brown, rubber-soled ugg boots on her feet now – over her black socks, and still with the offending chewing-gum stuck to the beige, rubbery bootsole on her right foot. And so I now vigorously, and penitently, licked it off.

Like she said, I had fairly been taught a lesson in the local whipping-house, and would never make the same mistake again – the mistake of taking my gentle, redheaded mistress for granted, and neglecting to tongue-clean her well-worn ugg boots properly!

The whip-scars on my back would ensure I never did that again. For, now that my mistress Jodie had developed a taste for having me whipped, I would have to tread much more carefully in future; whilst my mistress herself would, of course, still be free to tread deliberately on some dirty, discarded chewing gum out on the female streets, should she so wish!