Sneaky Peeks into the Gynarchy
She used to be a blonde-haired, pint-sized stunner back in her heyday; back in her twenties.
Now that she is fat and in her forties, her bleach-assisted blonde hair looks somewhat faded; but I still get a cheap thrill from kissing her scuffmarked, black leather ankleboots as she exits the ladies’ restroom in the office where I have grown even older and greyer in my capacity as the permanent, ladies-restroom, ornamental footkisser.
That’s because mistress Kathryn’s black leather ankleboots still look fresh and young, despite, or perhaps even because of, their grey scuffmarks around the toe-areas! A nice, shapely pair of chunky-heeled, round-toed, zip-up, matt black leather ankleboots can hide a multitude of sins, including fat, on a middle-aged woman’s ankles; and a glimpse of stretched, elasticated, black cotton anklesock-top set against a sea of still smooth and creamy-white, youngish, feminine legflesh below the arrogantly hitched-up hem of a smart, black cotton, bootcut trouser-hem can likewise continue to present a pleasing sight for sore, elderly, ornamental-footslave eyes like mine!
How many times must I have paid my labial respects to mistress Kathryn’s office-booted feet over the years? I know there was a gap of some 15 years whilst she took a career break to raise her family, but given that she was working in this building for at least 5 years before that, and has now been back at work (albeit part-time) for some 5 years since, I must have kissed her boots literally hundreds of times over the years, always after she has been to the office toilet, of course!
I can even remember some of her bootsocks from her pre-maternity-break days – in particular a fetching pair of bright purple cotton bootsocks she always used to wear with her then stylishly fashionable, wedge-heeled, black leather ankleboots (sadly her socks always seem to be just boring old plain black now – deliberately more sober and mature, I suppose, than a twenty year old’s garish, but memorable, bright purple bootsocks!) And the very fact that I can recall such seeming banalities as the colour of her long-ago socks just goes to show how much I still admire and revere the now fat, middle-aged, faded beauty of office-mistress Kathryn.
Indeed, I’m glad she has grown fat – and is now a faded beauty! For even in her middle-aged, blonde-haired, chubby-faced frumpiness she is a million times my superior and better – being female and upright, as opposed to male and prostrate like me. She has never, in all these years, once deigned to speak to me – not even to order me to kiss her outstretched, black leather boot-toe. She clearly considers herself much too high and mighty to ever converse with an office-toilet slave – even though she has always been quite short and delicate!
And, of course, she has every right to feel superior to me – for she is my infinite social better. After all, she is not the one who has been buried up to the neck in an office-restroom wall for over 40 years, obliged to kiss the dirty boots and shoes of several generations of haughty office-females as they exit the necessary office-facilities! Moreover, she has truly lived through all these years – and achieved so many wonderful and admirable things in her life, including, evidently, eating well (which is why she is now so fat); whereas I, who have been nowhere and made nothing of my life, am still gaunt and thin, and living on a meagre diet of slave-mush, mixed in with feminine shoe and boot polish.
Including her boot polish – seasoned with the memory of her bright purple socks. What a pathetic, risible creature I am, as I kiss her silently outstretched boot-toes yet again, one after the other; yet again furtively admiring her plain, black cotton sock-tops!
No wonder she has never spoken to me – and never will!
Blonde Goddess Customer-Mistress Daisy (whom I have always fancied): Slave, I’m getting married to Stewart next month. How would you like to come and live with us as my personal, household footslave?
Me (with my mouth full of her black ankleboot-leather): Oh pray, mistress Daisy! Oh bless, mistress! Oh truly this slave would be honoured to be the beautiful, blonde mistress’s personal boot and sock slave, madam, if it would be so pleasing to you madam! But is the lucky master-sir, master Stewart, agreeable to such an arrangement, mistress?
Blonde Goddess Customer-Mistress Daisy: Ha! Ha! Of course he is, you silly slave! Stewart agrees to everything I say. I’m the boss in our relationship, after all!
Of course she is, being the female in the relationship, and even though – at just 22 years old – she must be only half master Stewart-sir’s age!
Me: Of course, pretty mistress! How silly of me, pretty mistress! But, will you be able to square it with the local authorities, mistress-madam? I mean, I am contracted to work on this street corner as a public footslave for the rest of my life, madam!
Blonde Goddess Customer-Mistress Daisy: Tch! Stop looking for excuses, dirty slave! You’re moving with Stewart and me into our new marital home as my personal footslave; and that’s final! And – my God – don’t you be thinking for one second that your life will be any easier in my household than it is out here on the streets! I’m going to work your tongue ragged on my boots, and you’ll be forced to sniff my stinky, black bootsocks, and wash them inside your pig-ugly mouth, day in and day out! Ha! Ha! And then you'll have to lick-massage my sticky, bare feet and swallow all my dirty toe-jam. Ha! Ha! I guarantee you that after just a few weeks you’ll be begging to be allowed back onto your street-corner, public-bootlick stall! Ha! Ha! But you won’t be able to come back – for I’m going to make you my personal feet and footwear-slave for life! Ha! Ha! Just wait ‘till you see the new whip Stewart and I have bought for you! It’s a real stinger, and Stewart just loves to whip slaves! Ha! Ha! He will soon humble you and teach you your place at his lovely new wife’s feet!
Me: Yes, goddess-mistress Daisy! Thank you, goddess-mistress Daisy! Please don’t have me beaten, mistress. I’ll be a good slave to your personal footwear, mistress, and totally respectful of your husband, my master-sir, most magnificent young mistress madam!
She jubilantly kicks my face away with the toe of her freshly-lickshined, black leather ankleboot, and heads off home to her whip-thirsty fiancé.
All in all, it’s a decent proposal – and seemingly one I can’t refuse!
'Whenever you kiss my wife or daughter's feet you will do so repeatedly and with respect, dirty slave. That means you will reverentially cup your hands around the foot you are kissing, and will repeatedly bob your head up and down at least 10 times over each foot, with your lips making contact with the toe-area of their shoe our boot. However, I don't want your eyeline to be raised above their ankle each time you lift your head up from their shoe. You are not worthy to raise your eyes above my wife and daughter's ankles. Do you understand me, slave?'
'Yes, master-sir. This slave will obey you, master-sir.'
'Hmm... I don't think you do understand! Just to make sure I'm going to give you 70 lashes of the whip - and beat some respect into you! Go immediately to the whipping barn and bare your back for me while I go into the house and fetch my wife's whip!'
'Yes, master-sir. At once, master-sir.'
..........................................................
Nervously, I kneel, back-bared in the barn, awaiting the arrival of the master-sir with the instructive female whip.
But it is his 19 year old, blonde-ponytailed and fresh-faced daughter - miss Emily - who pokes her head around the barn door, and then, laughingly enters the barn in front of me:
'Ha! Ha! Why are you waiting to be whipped, slave?'
'Oh pray, mistress Emily, if it pleases you, miss Emily, your father is about to teach me how to kiss your feet, and your mother's feet, with proper respect, and to ensure, by beating the message into me with the female whip, that I not only reverentially cup your feet with my hands when I am kissing them, but that I also keep my eyes at your ankle-level whenever my head bobs up and down over your shoes, young mistress madam.'
She laughs gleefully at me, steps forward, and shoves her right foot out on the dusty floor of the barn directly beneath my face:
'Show me, slave!'
Miss Emily is wearing shorts on her shapely, bare legs, and pink and white striped, low-top, lace-up sneakers with plain, white anklesocks turned over at the cuffs - so I know my eyeline must never exceed her white cotton socktop in between each kiss to her flaky, white sneaker-toe.
She giggles as I first worshipfully cup my dirty, and shaking-with-fear, maleslave hands around her outstretched sneaker, as I have never been required to do this previously whilst kissing her feet.
I then lower my lips to her dry sneaker-toe, kiss it, raise my head slightly off the sneaker - but crucially not raising my eyes above her folded-over, white anklesock top - before once again lowering my lips to the flaky and chapped, nominally white sneaker-toe.
And I repeat the process ten times in total - as instructed by her father, my master-sir.
'Why have you stopped, slave? I was enjoying that!' remarks miss Emily, her white anklesock clearly angry and frustrated by my sudden termination of the sneaker-kissing process, as her sock creases and flexes in tandem with her disappointed ankle-muscles.
I daren't take my eyes off her socktop, and keep my gaze low:
'Oh pray, mistress Emily, if it pleases you miss Emily, this slave has stopped after 10 kisses to your lovely sneaker-toe because your father instructed him to do so earlier, if you would be so kind and understanding miss Emily madam? Would you like me to kiss your other sneaker 10 times, miss?'
At this precise moment her father enters the barn with the fearsome, single-tailed, coiled-up, brown leather cowhide whip:
'Is everything alright, Emily darling?'
'No, papa! This slave is answering back to me!'
'Very well, dear. I'll soon beat some respect and humility into him! You go back up to the house, please; his bare back is about to get messy!'
'Yes, papa!'
Such a polite and respectful young woman - to her father!
But to me - a vixen; and the harbinger of a severe whipping!
Deaf-Mute, treadmill-mistress Ffion doesn’t need to verbally communicate with me in order to do her job of making me work hard, and humiliating me, effectively.
She has developed a system whereby a blow from the whipping stick across my bare shoulders as she is seated on the treadmill-driver’s chair above and in front of me indicates that I am to start walking the treadmill, and all subsequent blows indicate that I am to walk harder and faster; and similarly a kick to my face from the rounded, reinforced toecap of her black loafer shoe indicates that I am to stop walking, and start kissing her feet. She then uses the whipping-stick to point to the area of black uniform shoe, or sock, she requires me to kiss, and I must continue to repeatedly kiss her designated area of prison-officer shoe or sock until the next painful blow of the whipping stick across my red-raw shoulderblades indicates that I am to stop kissing and start walking again.
The Prison authorities are so impressed with deaf-mute officer-mistress Ffion’s methodology, they have actually introduced it for her speaking colleagues, as they like the idea of my having to work in abject silence without the meagre joy of my having verbal communication with the fairer sex!
The whip, the kick to the face, and the lips to the shoes and socks are therefore my only contact with my female supervisors and betters – and my lifelong punishment on my individual dungeon-treadmill is thereby made all the harsher!
Regular, Chinese commuter-mistress – miss Li Qiu – is carrying a huge bunch of flowers this evening as she stops off at my railway-station, public shoelick stand for her regular shoeshine on her way home from the office:
‘Ha! Ha! You like smell flowers?’ she asks me, prior to presenting her first foot for tongue-shining.
‘Oh, yes please mistress. If you would be so kind, pretty mistress Li Qiu.’
She makes to lower the flowers to my expectant, kneeling face, but then promptly pulls them away from it and laughs, mockingly, at me:
‘Ha! Ha! You not worthy smell real flowers. Ha! Ha! They a gift from Li Qiu boyfriend to Li Qiu. He a real man! Ha! Ha! Not like you – you just a common, dirty slave! You fit only smell flowers on Li Qiu nice, white anklesock!’
And with that she promptly extends her pretty, right leg and ankle, from beneath her knee-length, pinstriped, office skirt, onto the humble wooden footblock beneath my face!
I see what she means – her white, rolled-over-at-the-cuff anklesock, which I don’t believe I have ever seen before, has a pleasing pattern of little pink flowers with green stalks running all through the body of the sock; and so, I take it that I am to sniff those pretty sock-flowers before I turn my attentions to her familiar, leather-bow-decorated, green suede, chunky-heeled, slip-on, workday shoes this evening?
I therefore extend my nose to the uppermost flower on her right anklesock – just below the rolled down cotton cuff – and audibly sniff it.
She giggles high above me:
‘Ha! Ha! How it smell, slave? How you like smell of Li Qiu pretty sock-flower?’
To be honest, it smells only of cotton; it is much too high up her ankle to smell of sweat. But some of those lower sock-flowers – the ones just above the shoeline – I suspect they may smell more of her sweet feminine foot-fragrance after a long hot day at the office!
But she clearly wants to hear that I am humiliated by her cotton sock-smell. And so, as always, I tell my customer-mistress what she wants to hear:
‘Oh pray, goddess-mistress Li Qiu, if it pleases you sockgoddess-mistress Li Qiu, truly your sock-flower smells fragrant, if you will forgive me most respected and honoured sockmistress Li Qiu?’
‘Ha! Ha! You not like smell of Li Qiu stinky sock! Ha! Ha! You carry on smell sock! I make you learn to like! You my slave! Ha! Ha!’
‘Yes, mistress Li Qiu. At once, goddess-mistress Li Qiu!’
As I continue to publicly sniff her flowery-patterned socks I hear her talking to her male partner – the one who bought her the bunch of real flowers - above me, on her cellphone:
‘Ha! Ha! Thank you, Guo Zhi! Flowers lovely! And thank you for flowery socks too – I make public footslave smell them now! Ha! Ha! He grow to like them! Ha! Ha!’
I also am indebted to the master-sir on the other end of the phone:
a) For buying his girlfriend flowers and putting her in a lovely, romantic mood; and
b) For buying her her flowery-patterned anklesocks, which she is now making me smell on his behalf; for he has thereby made me into his Chinese girlfriend’s sock-sniffing queer, for her entertainment and amusement whilst she awaits her commuter train home.
I therefore sniff vigorously on each of her pink sock-flowers, paying particular attention to the smellier, sweatier flowers lower down her sock, whilst she enjoys the much more perfumed aroma of the real bunch of flowers, from her ‘real man’, above me!
Blonde mistress Felicity is delighted with the results of her instant boot-scan, which has revealed the presence of all the following bacteria on the surfaces of her street-soiled, blocky-heeled, black leather, zip-up ankleboots:
Shigellosis 10%
Salmonella 5%
Serratia Marcescens 15%
Klebsiella 12%
E. Coli 13%
Staphylococcus Aureus 20%
Candida 10%
Listeria Monocytogenes 15%
She immediately makes her way over to the adjacent, public footslave and imposes her bacteria-booted feet on his subordinate mouth, forcing him to lickshine them.
After his efforts, she scans her boots again, and finds that the above bacteria are greatly reduced on her boots, though they now contain a high concentration of both Prevotella Hiticola and Streptococcus Pyogenes – presumed to have come direct from the footslave’s dirty mouth.
She therefore beats him hard with the communal-use whipping stick for spreading his oral slave-germs onto her nice, clean boots!
And rightly so!
In the French quarter of Femina, the second city of the Gynarchy, they have a number of so-called ‘footoires’ – round cubicles, similar to the ‘pissoirs’ of certain French cities, but designed instead for a lady to walk into and have her shoes or boots shined in some privacy, whilst standing up!
I am one such ‘footoire-slave’ (note the feminine ending – since I am for use purely by women!), and, I must say that – cold, and bare, and open to the elements though they may be (for they don’t have a roof) – the footoires do, in my humble view, provide a lady with a goodly bit of privacy, and successfully hide her bootsocks or bootnylons away from any lecherous, prying, male eyes, apart from mine of course, whilst she is being footwear-attended to!
Take, for example, the tall, thirty-something, blonde-haired businesswoman in the long, grey raincoat and smart, black trouser-suit, whose black leather, spike-heeled and pointy-toed, zip-up, officewear ankleboots I am currently tongueshining with all due diligence. Passers-by may well be able to see her pretty, blonde-framed head and face as she stands in the midst of the circular-shaped, white-tiled footoire having her ankleboots lickshined by my dirty tongue; but (unlike me) they are not afforded the cheap thrill of seeing her black, elasticated bootsock-top set against her alabaster-legskin as she graciously hitches up her right trouser-hem to afford my tongue unimpeded access to the upper rim of her stylish, black ankleboot!
Indeed, unless they observed her walking in to the footoire they won’t even know whether she is wearing boots, or shoes, on her pretty, businesswoman feet (though they could probably take an educated guess!)
All the casual passer-by knows is that an unseen and anonymous, public footoire-slave – owned by the local Female Council of Femina – is busily lickshining her unseen footwear beneath her as she stands there staring dominantly downwards – probably at her city newspaper, or perhaps in order to inspect the humble slave’s tonguework on her late-afternoon, city shoes or boots!
And that’s all they need to know! Everything else, like the detail on her city sock, is between me and the mistress-madam!
Isn’t that exactly how it should be?
Because my 21 year old, Japanese mistress is wearing brown leather, strappy, high-heeled sandals with her brown miniskirt and white, cotton anklesocks, I can see the solidly-stitched bottom halves of her socks, as well as the fancily-stitched uppers – which are designed for public consumption!
Don’t get me wrong – I like the latticed-stitched uppers of her socks; the criss-crosses in the pattern of the stitching remind me of the criss-crossed whipmarks on my bare back! But – in my humble foot-minion opinion, the whole of her white anklesock serves to beautify my mistress’s shapely, right, leather-sandalled foot as it rests in front of my kneeling face on the dirty ground whilst she is seated on a bench at the bus stop, waiting impatiently for the bus to come and take her home from work!
Who says that socks with sandals aren’t sexy? They are when my mistress Mimi is wearing them – both the latticed-stitched uppers which provide tantalising little glimpses of her oriental ankleskin; and the thin-stitched lowers which protect her feet by absorbing her precious, lower-foot sweat. And the more impatient she becomes waiting for her bus; the more she subconsciously jigs about her feet in front of my face – the more creases and folds are formed in her snowy-white anklesocks. Creases and folds which I can study and admire in their entirety, from top to bottom – thanks to her sock-revealing sandalwear!
I shall probably be whipped later – not because I am so opinionated when it comes to my mistress Mimi’s socks, but simply because her bus is running late, even though it’s got nothing to do with me! My white-socked, Japanese mistress tends to take all of her young-womanly frustrations out on me with the copious use of the female whip (hence my lattice-patterned back!)
But the cruel whipping shall be worth it, for the delay in the bus’s arrival is allowing me to examine her impatient, white anklesocks in much more detail than is usual at this time of the day – the time of day after she has been on her feet all morning and afternoon on the shop floor, and just wants to get home, kick off her sandals, and put her sweaty-socked feet up on the sofa in front of my kneeling face. She might, even, through sheer boredom, order me to soothingly kiss her on the sock in a moment – right here and now, at this deserted bus-stop; hopefully on the side of the sock, where the rough and open stitching of the sock’s upper half merges with the soft and downy stitching of the sock’s lower half! I can then have one lip on each hemisphere of her white sock!
In my humble, footslave-minion opinion that is the most exciting place to kiss a beautiful young woman on the sock, as it provides two simultaneously different sensations on the lips…
Damn! She’s getting up; the bus is arriving! Still, at least I shall be getting to spend the next 15 minutes or so of the bus journey home lying beneath her high-heeled, brown leather sandals and pure, white anklesocks. In my minion-opinion that’s where a footslave should properly be – beneath his female master and better’s feet and footwear, looking up at them; not kneeling beside them, with his face almost on a par with them. For he is not their equal – he is self-evidently lowlier than them!
That’s my view, anyway; or it soon will be!
You know your life as a free man in the Gynarchy is well and truly over when:
· The young police-officer mistress in the heavy, black leather, lace-up ankleboots and navy-blue uniform trousers uses a soldering iron – instead of a padlock – to permanently lock your scrawny, male neck into the wooden kneeling stocks in front of her feet, in line with the sentence of the female courts
· When the deliberately jagged inner-edge of the neck-hole immediately digs into your Adam’s Apple, thereby robbing you of the power of male speech, and making it difficult even to swallow
· When after just nine minutes in the permanent kneeling stocks your neck and shoulders start to ache – and continue to ache ad nauseam for the next nine years!
· When the ‘customer-mistresses’ who step up to your set of stocks to have their footwear lickshined reciprocate your enforced muteness by only communicating with you by kicks to your face – some gentle, some harsh; one kick for ‘start licking my boots or shoes, dirty prisoner-slave!’; another for ‘stop licking my boots or shoes, dirty prisoner-slave!’
· When, driven insane by the never-ending, throbbing pain in the nerve-endings of your neck and shoulders, and by the lack of any true female contact, you start to obsess about a tiny piece of white fluff stuck to the surface of your mute customer-mistress’s plain, black anklesock; or about a single loose stitch jutting up from the rim of her black leather ballet-flat
· When you grow old watching the changing footwear styles of your regular customer-mistresses, year in and year out, and yet you still don’t know the names of those mistresses
· When you realise that after you die in the stocks, you will simply be buried in them on the same ignominious spot. They shall become your unmarked grave, for some female archaeologist of the future to dig up and laugh at as she uncovers your still-imprisoned, skeletal remains – still trapped in the thick, but now rotting, wood; still looking downwards at her archaeologist’s, beige-coloured, heavy hiking-boots and thick, brown, woollen bootsocks – your lifeless skull seemingly grimacing at a piece of white fluff stuck to the twisted top of her brown sock.
· When you spend the rest of eternity preserved as a skeletal tourist attraction for curious young women – for the Gynarchy still reigns, even after all these centuries, and absolute female power over the male is still very much celebrated, and shall be forever. Your skull is pictured next to many subsequent generations of gloating, female feet!
Then you wake up – in a cold sweat – and vow never to upset your Gynarchy wife, lest you suffer the cruel fate you have just dreamed of above!
Courtroom Drama
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My 23 year old, blonde-haired, beautician-mistress, miss Samantha, is much cleverer than me.
That’s why she makes me wear a permanent, green-rubbery, footfool mask with a twist. It has a bright yellow dunce’s cap on it (protruding at a 45° angle from my right, green-rubbery cheek so as not to interfere with my ability to kiss feet, and thereby simultaneously making me look slovenly and untidy), with the word ‘Dunse’ (sic) written all the way down the front in black eyeliner.
The word ‘dunce’ is deliberately misspelt on my footfool mask in order to emphasise my stupidity – or, at least, that’s what I like to think my blonde beautician-mistress had in mind when she wrote the word on it using an eyeliner pencil.
How all her female, beauty-parlour customers laugh at my queer, wonky-green mouth and askew, yellowy dunce’s cap as I humbly kiss their feet on the female command of my blonde-haired mistress Samantha! I am nothing but a female-dominated dunce; a rubbery-faced dunderdead; a diehard footslave-dimwit!
And no wonder they kick me in the face after I have paid my labial respects to their superior, feminine footwear! Even the bacteria on their shoes possess a higher degree of intelligence than I do!
