Stock Reports
Reports from a pathetic, male prisoner confined in the sink-estate stocks.
This work (Pillory, by Pearson Scott Foresman) is free of known copyright restrictions. Modified by Patheticus.
Don’t just automatically assume the worst about everyone!
Not everyone has it in for you when you are confined in the wooden kneeling stocks on the middle of a suburban sink-estate – though most, admittedly, do come to gloat and revel in your misfortune.
Take the slim, dark-haired, young oriental madam, for instance, who is approaching me with a dominant smirk on her pretty Korean features; wearing her bright yellow T-shirt; her leopard-skin shorts; her beige-brown, kneehigh, cotton socks; and her chunky brown, platform-heeled, laced-up ankleboots. She looks like she has a kindly, if somewhat unsympathetic, oriental face – at least, from where I’m kneeling she does!
She steps up to my set of stocks and taciturnly positions her platformed, right ankleboot onto the dirty ground directly beneath my face for me to kiss; which I humbly do – right on the thick, rounded and scuffmarked boot-toe.
So far, so good!
Her beige kneesock, I notice, is substantially creased around her upper ankle as she looks down on me, creating a somewhat slovenly, devil-may-care attitude in her overall appearance (helped by the leopard-skin hotpants)
Again, so far, so good!
She makes me repeat the process with her left ankleboot.
Again, so far, so good!
But then she goes further than any of my other stocks-visitors thus far; she actually turns around and stands with her back to me, before raising her chunky, right bootheel back towards my face for me to respectfully kiss.
So far, so very good! For it isn’t often I get to kiss scuffmarked boot heels; not even during my day job as a public footoire slave; the focus always seems to be on the toes!
I savour the moment (as well as the brown bootleather) as I ardently kiss the backs of the oriental mistress’s boots – admiring in footslavish shock-and-awe the wrinkles and creases in the backs of her beige-cotton kneesocks caused by the backwards unnatural and unorthodox projection of her bootheels up to my kneeling and imprisoned face. It’s like my own, personal, boot-prisoner fashion show, with me kneeling in the (admittedly somewhat uncomfortable) front row seat!
Her long, dark, Korean hair is plaited, and dangles like a whip above me as she coyly turns to face me once again. I sense her lips pucker above me as if she is preparing to stoop down and kiss me, but instead they expel her sweet, young-womanly mucus and saliva down from high above onto the top of my middle-aged, balding, prisoner-pate, in a gesture of blatant, young-womanly contempt.
And rightly so – for I am being punished.
But you can’t tell me that such a sweet and kind young, Korean woman is full of nothing but hatred towards me! After all, she has very deliberately taken the trouble to turn her back on me and present me with her precious bootheels for kissing – rather than just the normal, scuffmarked boot-toes. And she has declined to straighten her socks for me, caring not one jot that they are creased and folded at my kneeling-face level, and thereby afford me an exciting opportunity to count her sock creases.
Some would call her a ‘slut’ for what she has just done – a boot and sock slut; and a tease! But I would call her a spit-goddess, who has honoured me not only with her boots, both backs and fronts, but also her priceless, feminine, oriental spit. I shall wear it with pride on top of my glistening prisoner-head!
So far, so good – and I’ve only been in the stocks for three hours. Fifteen hours to go!
To torment me in the stocks with chunky-heeled boots and slovenly kneesocks is one thing – but to torment me with sweaty, bare feet takes my public fear and humiliation to a whole new level!
The fly-looking, black girl in her early twenties, with the reversed baseball cap; the black leather bomber jacket over a bright red T-shirt; and the pencil-sharp, knee-length, black polyester skirt, is unashamedly sockless inside her cheap, shiny, black plastic, Velcro-fastened, high-top sneakers with the thick, bulky tongues. But that doesn’t stop her from casually slipping her dainty, right foot out of its synthetic, high-top sneaker and shoving her sweaty, bare, black footflesh right into my imprisoned face.
I am, indeed, powerless in the face of such wicked, black-girl, foot power – and must succumb to having her wipe her sweaty foot-grease all over my pasty-white, facial features, depositing little bits of her sticky, black toejam and decayed inner-sneaker lining up my nostrils and onto my lips.
Her foot deposits taste, and smell, divine – but are unfortunately somewhat overwhelmed by the acrid taste and smell of her dope above me.
She can smoke dope in public all she likes, of course – for it is perfectly legal for females to smoke dope in the Gynarchy; in fact, the Female Police are likely to join in, if they happen to be passing (though this particular estate is a bit of a ‘no-go’ area for the Female Authorities – such is its fearsome reputation!) This fly, young black woman is not only above me; she is above the Law, and she knows it, being one of Female Society’s elite – young; black; fly; beautiful; and now indecently barefoot!
Though only one bare foot at a time; she slips her ethnically and facially cleansed, right foot back into its high-top sneaker before extracting her equally perspiring left foot out of its fly, plasticky covering, and double-coating my face with her sticky, feminine footsweat.
My face must now truly reek of her soft, black feet; but she doesn’t care. I’m just a dope and a foot-patsy at her fly-black-girl mercy in the public kneeling-stocks. She despises me, for I am being something which she can never be – punished! And this is precisely why she is so contemptuously rubbing her sticky, warm foot-juices all over my gormless, male-prisoner face.
Again, I should feel honoured. And so I turn the other cheek, and thank her, and praise her, and bless her!
The rest of the afternoon is fairly quiet – with the free citizens, male and female, of the Gynarchy sink-estate going about their daily business all around me, but generally keeping their distance.
I actually feel quite lonely – for the agonising time spent in the stocks passes more quickly when one is having to penitently, and respectfully, kiss the feet of one’s sink-estate betters.
It is now early evening, and starting to get dark. A spotlight comes on over my head to light up my public shame even further.
I don’t think it’s meant to be a fashion-statement; it’s probably more of a fashion faux-pas – but the tall and slender blonde girl with the tight ponytail, and equally tight, flowery-patterned, white cotton leggings has one black anklesock on show, and one untidily hidden by her elasticated legging-hems.
I naturally gravitate towards the foot with the sock on show, as she sullenly gravitates towards me, but, as it is the sock on her left foot that is exposed above her shiny black, patent leather, kitten-heeled, laced-up shoe I must wait to kiss it, since the young woman presents me first with her more modestly attired right foot for kissing.
That’s how I know it’s a fashion accident – if she had wanted to specifically humiliate me with the sight of her exposed, black sock she would have doubtless presented me with her left foot first!
I think I’m getting to know women, and their shoes, boots, socks, and even bare feet, quite well thanks to my sojourn in the local sink-estate kneeling-stocks, and there is no way this young woman intended for her left sock to be exposed to the elements when she got dressed this morning. She looks much too sophisticated!
How ironic, therefore, that a passing fashion photographer should seek her female permission to photograph me kissing her left sock in the stocks. She is actually, by accident rather than design, making a sock-fashion statement. She is saying (I imagine in an East European accent, for she looks Russian) ‘worship and honour the humble, black anklesock – the sock I hadn’t even noticed was exposed – whilst you tongue-attend to my black leather shoe, you the pathetic prisoner-slave in the dirty stocks! Ha! Ha! I mock you with my sock! I force you to look at dirty, black sock even more closely than I, the wearer of sock, have ever looked at it. For me, it is just the humble item of underwear which keeps my foot warm inside the shoe, and garnishes the footsweat. Ha! Ha! But, for you, it looms large as you bow your hunkered-down head over my free foot, and taste the ground where I have been walking, off the dirty sole of my shoe. Ha! Ha! See how my female sock creases up with laughter at you, the pathetic, male prisoner, as I raise the left shoe up on its heel for you to lick the street-soiled shoesole? Ha! Ha! What a sucker – a sock-sucker slave! Ha! Ha! Ha!’
To add insult to injury, the photographer actually gives the attractive, young, blonde woman an ex gratia payment for the use of her shapely, socked ankle in his photograph; so she leaves happy.
Needless to say, he pays me nothing for the use of my imprisoned and female-sock-humiliated, male, felonious face!
Even though I am really starting to suffer in the stocks now (it’s been 5 hours, and I still have 13 hours to go, so small wonder that my neck and shoulders are starting to ache and gnaw away at me!), right now I’m in sheer heaven – sheer, dark-nylon heaven, that is, as the Japanese girl with the dark, shoulder-length hair and short, dark miniskirt is sitting directly on top of me on the heavy wooden crossbeam of the stocks, her shapely, Japanese calf-muscles, clad in sexy, sheer, dark-nylon popsocks, wrapped around my imprisoned cheeks, and her flat, black, silvery-buckled, leather loafers dangling coyly beneath my chin.
Like the East European, faux fashionista before her, this Far-Eastern honey is posing for photographs – only these ones are being taken by her Japanese boyfriend on his mobile phone. She sits and smiles sweetly into the camera-phone – a picture of female happiness and empowerment over the imprisoned male. She even starts rubbing her finest-denier nylon kneesocks against my cheeks. I hope her nylons don’t snag or ladder on my ever-increasing, 5 o’clock shadow, for I would hate to damage these beautiful, but delicate, oriental-girl socks on my stupid, male-prisoner face!
If you’ll forgive my barefaced cheek, her nylon popsocks don’t exactly feel soft to the skin as she rubs her pretty, lower legs against me – the nylon material, despite being sheer, is quite rough. But then, so is the girl herself – loud, raucous and rough; not to mention a little inebriated. I can smell the alcohol on her breath over her nylon calf-muscles as she laughs at me and mocks me in, no doubt, effluent Japanese!
God I could do with a drink right now! But instead all I can do is drink in the vista of the dark-haired, Japanese girl’s dark nylon popsocks and black, silver-buckled loafers next to my face. Alcohol is not for the likes of me – I’m being punished; even though I’m in nylon nirvana!
It’s getting on for 8 o’clock in the evening now.
If this was the USA, the black-haired punk girl with the nose, lip and eye piercings - and the black, furry-lined kneeboots with the three inch heels over tight, pale blue denim jeans - would probably be heading straight to a rock concert.
If this was the UK, she would probably be on her way straight to her local pub for a pint of beer with her punk rock mates.
But as this is the Gynarchy of Barbaria, she is deviantly making her way up to my set of wooden kneeling stocks in the middle of the local sink estate where she lives, and where she smirkingly shoves her soft, black leather, fur-lined kneeboots into my confined and kneeling prisoner-face, whilst rubbing fiery itching-powder into my open back-sores (the sores left over from my pre-stocks whipping at the hands, or rather the leather punishment strap, of my angry customer-mistress – the one who caught me attempting to steal, and sniff, one of her dirty, white socks from her laundry-basket in the first place; I work as a sock-launderer on this busy estate!)
The itching powder cruelly reignites the flame and the sting in my back, and I cry unmanfully into my punk-girl tormentress's fur-lined, black leather boots - much to her delight! Her dainty, feminine fingers, I note, despite the nails being painted a gothic black, are incongruously soft and gentle with me as they rub artificial fire into my still-raw, whip sores.
Why is she being so cruel towards me? Because it pleases her to be so; and because I am fair game for the fairer sex! She has nothing against me personally, as she does not know me from Adam. But, as an imprisoned representative of Adam on earth, I can expect her to tease and torment me with her stylish boots and burning itching-powder. For she is the incarnation of Lilith - and thus of all slighted, young women who may have a grudge to bear; and she will impose her dirty bootleather on my face; she will decline to show me her beautiful, stinky socks inside her boots; and she will rub fire into my female-whip wounds - purely because she can; and because, being confined on my knees in the stocks, I am powerless to stop her!
Only when she is satisfied that I am suffering mightily will she gracefully move off to her Gynarchy rock concert or friendly neighbourhood public bar. For she has been feminine-itching to torment me with her cruel boots and powder all day - ever since she heard about me on her local, Femdom community news bulletin over her sink-estate, breakfast table.
See how she picks apart a scab on my left shoulder-blade, just so that she can massage the powder into an open cut! I scream into her black, fur-lined bootleather, and beg for her young-mistressly mercy.
She laughs, and her boots crease up in laughter with her. A crowd of onlookers laugh too - approvingly.
I do hope - now that we have been introduced to one another, so to speak – that this black-haired, punk girl will become one of my sock-laundry customer-mistresses, for I am itching to know what type and texture of socks she is wearing inside those fur-lined, soft black leather boots!
The next, hotheaded, white-leather-miniskirted, young lady to bless me with her booted presence – a fiery redhead to match the fiery, red sting in my newly picked-open back – is clearly not to be messed with!
Her boots make several, bold statements about her:
- They are white – not black – but nevertheless somewhat unkempt, with visible, black scuffmarks on the thick, rounded toe-areas; she has worn these boots many times before!
- They have huge, wedged soles – almost orthopaedic in appearance, but both equally high (I don’t know how she can walk in them!)
- They make her sweet feminine feet and ankles look tiny!
- They conveniently elevate her white, ruffle-topped anklesock to my kneeling mouth level
No wonder, then, that she orders me to worship and honour her sock, by respectfully kissing it!
It feels soft – almost ticklish – to the prisoner-slave lip, thanks to its frilly, lace trim; such an incongruously soft and feminine, white sock with such a heavy and clumpy pair of bright, shiny-white, but in places street-soiled, ankleboots!
I genuinely respect and admire the sock, for its accompanying tower-boots are making a further bold statement:
- They could crush me in an instant; grind my imprisoned, male head into the ground and crush it! The last thing I would see would be the scuffmarked side of the towering redhead’s left ankleboot as her right bootsole, and frilly white anklesock, bore down heavily upon my crushed temples!
So I apply all due labial respect to the frilly, white sock of the ginger-haired girl, beneath her shiny, white leather miniskirt and above her matching, shiny-white ‘Buffalo Tower’ boots; for I don’t want to die (though what a way to go!)
She graciously spares me – and walks off; unsteadily!
She’s got the word ‘nerd’ inscribed on her pink T-Shirt in big, black letters – but this next female-visitor to my stocks, who happens to be black, though she is admittedly dressed entirely in pink (pink glasses; pink T-Shirt; pink shorts; pink anklesocks; pink leather ankleboots; even a fetching, pink bow in her black, Afro-style hair!), is no nerd – not judging by the way she deftly slips her pink-socked foot out of her right, blocky-heeled and round-toed, zip-up, pink leather ankleboot, and rubs her poisoned, pink socksole all over my imprisoned face; ‘poisoned’ by her day-long footsweat, but deliciously so.
I am foolishly proud to have her stale, girly-pink sockstink adorning my face; it should complement nicely the raw sweatage from the earlier, more fly, black girl’s bare feet. They are both true sole sistas!
Raw sweat and sock sweat; fly girls and nerdy girls – all of them have a perfect right to humiliate me, the male prisoner-slave in the sink-estate kneeling stocks, with their sweaty black, white, brown or yellow feet. And I’m pleased to say they all seem to be judiciously exercising their young-womanly rights!
By the time this pink-spectacled, would-be, nerdy girl has finished with me, little bits of pink cotton sock lint are stuck to my face – thanks to the glue of her personal footsweat. I hope they don’t fall off anytime soon – for it is an honour for me to wear them!
As the pretty, tall and svelte, white girl with the shoulder-length, blonde hair puts her hands in her pockets and stretches forth her slender, right foot for me to kiss, I am acutely aware – thanks to the ever-increasing ache in my wood-confined, neck and shoulder muscles – that I am forbidden from looking up at her tits, or even her legs, even though her breasts are huge, and her soft, shapely bare, white legs seem to go on and on forever above me, until they eventually disappear beneath her short, blue denim hotpants!
No, I am a prisoner-slave in the stocks; and therefore my neck is telling me I must focus on the sexy, young, blonde woman’s flat, white, laced-up, brogue leather shoe, with the fancy stitching around the slightly mud-and-grass-stained, toe area, and on the accompanying white anklesock with the frilly, white cuff.
What is it with frilly, white socks today? Are they considered de riguer for any superior, young woman wishing to sock-tease the hapless, male prisoner-slave in the punishment stocks? Is it because they amusingly tickle my forehead as I respectfully smooch the dirty, female shoe or boot- leather beneath them? Or are they seen as symbolic of the ultimate victory of the pure and chaste female over the disgusting male? Or is it just that they have heard, through the local sink-estate grapevine, that it was a pair of frilly, white anklesocks I was caught sniffing, when I should have been laundering them inside my public-laundry mouth?
Whatever the reasoning, I am ever so grateful for the mopping of my pained and fevered, maleslave brow by the young woman’s feminine-frilly, white anklesock, as I kiss-suck the dirt and dust out of her white-brogue, upper shoe stitches. Tit for tat, as they say – you scratch my ugly, male forehead with your frilly, white anklesock-top, beautiful, tall mistress-madam; and I’ll lickshine your pretty, female shoe with my raspish, maleslave tongue; and I promise I won’t look up at your tits!
I can’t believe it – it has actually started to snow; and heavily too! In springtime!
That wasn’t in the weather forecast, was it?
Anyway, needless to say, most of my tormentresses beat a hasty retreat, since snow is not only cold and unpleasant at this time of night – it can do serious damage to precious, feminine footwear!
Most, but not all of my tormentresses – for three hale and hearty young(ish) women have seemingly wrapped up warm, and are positively encouraged by the unseasonably wintry weather to come out and tease me in the stocks! What’s more – one of them is carrying a whippy-looking rod, which is presumably destined for my shivering, bare back!
The three snow-lovers are:
· A brown-skinned, black woman in her mid to late thirties. She is wrapped up in a long, black, ominous overcoat, and has a pretty pair of chunky-heeled, black leather ankleboots on her feet beneath her thick, black denim jeans
· A pasty-white-skinned, ginger-ponytailed woman of a similar age – wearing a silvery-grey bomber jacket and beige-brown (but rapidly darkening thanks to the snow-stains), calf-length ugg boots over plain, black leggings and a pair of thick, dark grey, calf-length, woollen socks
· A younger woman in her late teens or early twenties – also pasty-white, but with jet-black, shoulder-length hair; a black anorak; and a pair of knee-high, black rubber, wellington boots over some tight, blue denim jeans.
It’s funny how the snow makes everything seem ultra-quiet in the, now otherwise deserted, sink estate; apart from the scrunching of the three ladies’ footwear as they beat a path through the freshly fallen snow towards me!
I quiver not just with cold, but also fear – at the sight of the whippy rod in the black woman’s gloved hands. Initially, I had quite welcomed the descending snow – as it was doing a good job of not only numbing my still-fresh whip sores, but also of washing that irritating itching-powder out of them! But the thought of new, fresh whip-cuts on my prone and vulnerable bare back fills me with dread – especially as the black woman has a stony, determined expression on her otherwise pretty, dreadlock-framed, thirty-something face.
The trio surround me – their various-styled boots sinking into the now several inches of snow in front of my kneeling face. They then take it in turn to hold a snow-covered boot-toe up to my face, so that my lips may melt the snow.
Their boots taste cold, and their collective humour is too:
‘Whip him, Angeline!’ exclaims the youngest of the three women – the one in the black rubber wellingtons.
‘Ha! Ha! Yah – let him have it, Ange! Really hurt him, though! Ha! Ha! He’s just a prisoner at our mercy, innit though? Ha! Ha!’
If anything, the ginger-haired thirty year old sounds even more immature than her twenty-something, jet-black-haired counterpart!
But it’s the thirty-something black woman – the one cruelly glove-fingering the rod – whom I am really interested in hearing from; for, right now, she is, quite literally, the one holding the female-whip hand!
‘Hja! Hja! Why is you in here, bwoy? Why is you all trussed up in them there stocks? Has you been a naughty bwoy, though? Is you bein’ punished, though?’
I stutter back, partly due to the cold; partly due to my fear and anxiety as to what the pretty, black lady might be about to do to me (she looks experienced with the rod; I suspect she owns it – judging by the way she is so lovingly caressing it!):
‘Oh p…pray, p…pretty, black lady…if it p…pleases you, p…pretty, black lady…this dirty, male p…prisoner regrets that he stole a p…pair of socks from his customer-mistress’s w…washbag, m…mistress, if it so p…pleases you…p…pretty, black m…mistress? P…Please don’t beat me, m…mistress!’
‘Ha! Ha! What a lowlife piece of slave scum! Ha! Ha! A sweaty-sock stealer! P…punish him, A…Angeline! Ha! Ha! B…beat him with your r…rod!’ mock-stutters the jet-black-haired, younger woman in response to my pathetic pleas.
The black woman appears to be in no hurry to begin my fustigation. Instead she smiles, and gently flicks some melting snowflakes off the top of my exposed shoulder-blades with the business-end of her punishment rod.
But the ginger-haired woman too is anxious to see, and hear, maleslave pain:
‘Ha! Ha! You heard her, Ange! Give him what for! He deserves it, innit though?’
‘Hja! Hja! Ok! Ok! Keep your hair on, Roxanne! I’ll start beatin’ him when I’s good an’ ready, though?’
Unfortunately for me, though, it seems that time has now come, as she next exhorts her white companions to stand well back, and then moves around to stand behind my exposed nethermost regions, leaving her black-leather, chunky-heeled bootprints in the snow beneath my kneeling face; I notice from the tracks in the snow beneath my forced-kneeling face that her bootsoles must be ridged – a bit like the fresh ridges she will soon be raising on my poor, vulnerable back!
It's showtime!
At last – a pair of socks I recognise, for they must have been inside my sink-estate, sock-laundry mouth dozens of times! They are the thick, black-uniform, viscose bootsocks of fat and blubbery, miss Emilia – the 25 year old, local traffic-warden. Of course she makes use of my mouth to launder her socks on a regular basis – they stink, thanks to her having to pound the beat in all weathers, including snow!
But, right now, they are firmly inside her traffic-warden ankleboots beneath her navy-blue, traffic-warden-uniform, trouser hems, keeping her African-Caribbean tootsies all nice and cosy and warm!
She laughs at how quickly the falling snow melts into my red-raw, warm whip-wounds, left by her black sista:
‘Hja! Hja! Aww – is you all cold, an’ that, footslave? Hja! Hja! At least yoh back looks nice an’ warm, though? Hja! Hja! Here – I’ll light a small fire next to you – help keep the rest of you warm, an’ that! Cain’t have you freezin’ to death out her in them dirty stocks, bwoy, innit though?’
And with that sweet and kind traffic-warden mistress Emilia gathers up some nearby twigs and litter, which she then scoops up into a dirty pile next to my wooden kneeling stocks with her heavy, black leather, traffic-warden ankleboots, giving me the occasional glimpse of black uniform-anklesock inside them beneath her uniform, navy-blue trouser-hems.
She then crouches down to light the fire with her lighter, and the warm glow that emerges is truly most welcome to my shivering, confined torso.
She laughs as the smoke gets in my eyes and causes me to cough. She then stands up straight again, tall and proud like a fat, black woman should, and presents her reinforced, traffic-warden-uniform, boot toes for me to kiss each in turn, before proceeding on her fat, blubbery way through the bitterly cold snow towards her nearby, centrally-heated flat. It must be the end of her shift!
All that can be heard now is the crackling of the flames beside me, and the howling of a stray, sink-estate dog somewhere in the distance.
It’s must be getting on for 1 o’clock in the morning now – only 7 more shivering hours to go!
At least the fire in my back, and now – thanks to off-duty, traffic-warden mistress Emilia next to my set of wooden stocks – will help to stop me from freezing to death!
At least, I ardently hope so!
