The Crime Wave
Author’s note: I am very much indebted to a regular reader, Slave Nylonsniff, for the plot to this story!
Part 1 – Summonsed
30 year old Ms Aysha was FURIOUS!
Objects were angrily flying around, poltergeist-like, in her opulent living room, and smashing into walls; her dainty, besneakered, Pakistani feet were being stomped in young-womanly angst; and her longsuffering, personal footslave, slave Sockboy, was cringing in the corner of the room, desperate to kiss those same, stroppy-sneakered feet, but quite unable to do so – due to their constant agitation.
Aysha’s equally longsuffering husband – master Peter sir – came to see what all the fuss was about; again!
Ducking a crystal vase, he implored his pretty, but hot-headed, Pakistani wife to calm down:
‘Darling!...Darling!...Whatever is the matter?’
Through gritted teeth, Ms Aysha pointed to the ragged, cringing heap of frightened, male slave cowering in the corner:
‘THAT’S WHAT IS THE MATTER!’
Her husband sighed resignedly – he senses another whipping coming on; another whipping which he would have to deliver to the wretched footslave on behalf of his petulant, young wife:
‘Oh…What’s he done to upset you now, darling Aysha?’
Normally her response was along the lines of something quite petty, such as:
My socks are not straight on my ankles; or
My bootlace is loose; or
Just look at that filthy mark on the side of my white sneaker!
But today her response was much more substantial; even the sceptical Peter was surprised and shocked by his spoilt, young wife’s response:
‘THIS MORON HAS ONLY BEEN CALLED UP FOR WHIPPING-BOY SERVICE – FOR A WHOLE DAY! LOOK!’
She shoves a letter under her 50 year old husband’s nose – an official-looking letter from the Gynarchy Court Authorities, which he helpfully takes from her and reads out loud:
‘Dear Madam,
Due to the current female crime wave hitting the capital, we are obliged to recruit a number of personal, household footslaves as temporary Court whipping-boys.
Clearly, the Female Courts must ensure that justice is seen to be done – and no female crime can ever go unpunished. However, the pool of full-time whipping boys is currently limited, and the sheer number of crimes being committed means that additional whipping-boy resources are required as a matter of urgency!
To this end, the Female Court Service has decided to ask personal footmistresses to supply the courts with their personal footservants for a period of one day each, in the capacity as whipping-boys.
Whilst the nature of the work involved means that your personal footservant shall, inevitably, be returned to you in a striped and damaged condition, you will be fully compensated for this, and for the inconvenience of losing the services of your footservant for the day, with the sum of Fem 17.50.
Your personal, registered footservant – slave ‘Sockboy’ – has been designated his day of whipping-boy service at the Central Female Court in Barbaria on Tuesday 15 March. Reporting instructions are attached.
We would like to assure you that we are making strenuous efforts to recruit more, permanent whipping-boys, but in the meantime we trust you will appreciate that this emergency, short-term measure is necessary for the proper maintenance of Female Justice, and Law and Order in the Gynarchy.
Please note that this whipping-boy service is mandatory, and exceptions can only be made in very limited circumstances.
Should you wish to appeal against this decision please complete and return the attached form FD 100 to the above address, explaining in detail the reasons why you are seeking an exemption for your footservant.
We would like to apologise in advance for any inconvenience caused, and are grateful for your good citizenship and cooperation.
Yours faithfully,
The Female Court Service
Gosh, honey! What are you going to do about it? Are you going to appeal?’
‘APPEAL?! APPEAL?! WHAT IS THE BLOODY POINT IN APPEALING, YOU DAMNED FOOL? DIDN’T YOU READ WHAT THE LETTER SAID – THERE CAN ONLY BE EXEMPTIONS IN VERY LIMITED CIRCUMSTANCES? IDIOT!’
‘Sorry, darling – but, Tuesday 15 March , isn’t that when your parents are coming over with your aunts and cousins for a family get-together? Maybe you could use that as an excuse? After all, you’ll need the footslave to greet and wash your guests’ feet?’
‘I KNOW THAT, YOU DAMNED, STUPID FOOL! BUT DO YOU REALLY THINK A FAMILY PARTY WILL BE A GOOD ENOUGH REASON TO CANCEL WHIPPING-BOY SERVICE! THIS IS THE FEMALE COURT WE’RE TALKING ABOUT, BIRDBRAIN!’
Suitably rebuked, Aysha’s indulgent husband moves over to put his arm around his distraught wife, and comfort her:
‘There, there, honey! We’ll sort something out! We can use the money you get from the Court Service to hire another footslave for the day. It’s a bit ironic, I know – but that way we can fulfil our public duty and make sure that our guests’ feet are properly attended to! I’ll go and look up that ‘Rent-A-Slave’ website and sort something out for the 15th!’
His impulsive and highly-strung, young wife was breathing a bit easier now, and stopped shouting:
‘Thank you, darling! But I want HIM whipped at my feet first! His call-up is being damned inconvenient to me! Fetch the whip, husband!’
Again her husband Peter sighs. It’s not that he doesn’t enjoy whipping slave Sockboy; it’s just that, his arm is still sore from the last time, which was only yesterday evening. He sometimes wished his much fitter, young wife would do more of the whipping herself, but she seemed to think it was somehow ‘unladylike’!
He turned to face the still cringing footslave in the corner:
‘Sockboy! You heard your mistress Aysha! Go down to the punishment room and prepare yourself for the whip, inconsiderate slave!’
‘Yes, master-sir. Yes mistress madam. At once master and mistress. Please forgive me, master and mistress!’
………………………………………………………………………………..
A few moments later slave Sockboy – the personal, household footslave who was about to be whipped for being inconveniently called-up for whipping-boy service – was trussed up over the wooden, whipping bench in the basement, his bare back bent over and fully exposed to the master’s all-too-familiar, brown leather, single-tailed whip; his face hovering in the air just inches above his still-angry, Pakistani-girl mistress’s white, laced-up, low-top sneakers and crisp, white anklesocks beneath her blue-denim, skinny-tight jean hems as she was seated in front of and above him in the seat of female power.
Ironically, it was a similar set-up to what he could expect at the Female Court, for he knew that whipping-boy slaves were invariably punished at the feet of the female criminals whose whippings they were obliged to undergo vicariously. But, unlike master Peter sir, he thought better than to point out such ironies to his volatile and unpredictable, Pakistani mistress.
Instead he just gritted his teeth and prepared himself for the impending pain of the whip by focussing on his mistress Aysha’s tiny slither of white sock between her sneaker-rim and jean-hem on her right ankle, for he knew from bitter experience that the only way to truly embrace the pain was to try counting a mistress’s sock-stitches during a whipping; it helps to take your weak and feeble footslave-mind off the burning, biting agony coursing through your back!
‘How many, darling?’ he heard master Peter sir meekly enquire of his wife, from behind him.
‘’Seventeen!’ she declared. ‘One for every Fem he is supposedly earning me at the Court. No – make that 18; I’m rounding the whipping figure upwards, husband! And kindly do not be sparing him this time! I am wanting his ribs to still be tender and raw when he reports for his whipping-boy duty at the Female Court in two weeks’ time, isn’t it?’
Master Peter sir was weak when it came to indulging his pretty, Asian wife’s every whim; but he was strong when it came to applying the whip to the slave’s back – despite his tired, right, whipping-arm.
By the end of the punishment session slave Sockboy’s back and flanks were indeed red raw!
Part 2 – Guilty & Whipped!
Two weeks later, on march 15th, slave Sockboy was nervously waiting below ground in the Female Courthouse punishment cell for his official punishment-whipping on his still tenderised ribs!
Meanwhile, in the Court Room above him, 18 year old girlgang-leader – miss Whitney – was standing in the dock accused of vandalism, having left her girlgang’s graffiti tag in luminous-green spray paint all over a Gynarchy train carriage (on a journey which, incidentally, neither she, nor her fellow gang members, had paid for!)
She was completely nonplussed (or non-nonplussed if you wish to be pedantic about it) by the whole courtroom situation, being a regular ‘client’ of the Female Court.
The honourable lady-judge Priscilla was presiding, and amused to see miss Whitney’s familiar, nonchalant, gum-chewing face in the dock before her yet again!
‘Ha! Ha! Well, miss Whitney! To what do I owe the pleasure of your company before me this time? Let’s see – vandalism of a railway carriage! Hmm – that’s a new one, even for you! Ha! Ha! So, young lady, how do you plead this time? Guilty or not guilty?’
Miss Whitney, still chewing gum, responds clearly and succinctly, and with absolutely no sense of female shame:
‘Whatever!’
The good lady Judge Priscilla smiles admiringly at the pettish, petty criminal in the dock:
‘Ha! Ha! Now come on, miss Whitney – you know better than that! You’re an adult now, and must declare your guilt or innocence! I shall, of course, respect your plea and let you off if you plead ‘not guilty’, as I am obliged to do under the Female Law. But I need to know if you are pleading ‘guilty’ so that I can determine punishment, if necessary!’
A bored and impatient miss Whitney (who clearly feels she has better things to do right now) sulkily responds:
‘OK, well, like, I did it, an’ that? But I don’t even give a damn!’
‘Great! OK, I’ll take that as a ‘guilty’ plea, shall I? Dear oh dear – what are we going to do with you, Whitney? Always getting into trouble! Why can’t you just take out your natural, young-womanly frustrations on the male slave population, like all the other girls your age? Ha! Ha! Oh well, I suppose I’d better pass sentence. Since this is most definitely not your first offence, I hereby sentence you to 20 harsh lashes of the whip!’
‘Huh! I ain’t even bovvered, though?’
‘No, I’m sure you’re not! Erm…miss Whitney, you know I’m legally obliged to ask – do you have a personal footslave who can take the punishment for you?’
‘Shut up! Like, you knows I am still only 18, and too young to have my own slave, an’ that! Duh!’
‘Yes, sorry Whitney – but I had to formally ask! Very well, I hereby decree that a court whipping-boy shall receive the punishment on your behalf at your feet. Bailiff, kindly escort miss Whitney to the punishment cell!’
‘Yes, ma’am!’
‘I already knows the way, an’ that!’ exclaims whiney miss Whitney – clearly anxious to get her ‘punishment’ over and done with so that she can get back out onto the streets with her luminous spray can!
The experienced, good lady Judge Priscilla remains unfazed:
‘Thank you for your patience and cooperation, miss Whitney. Good bye and good luck. Until next time!’
‘Whatever!’
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Inside the underground punishment cell beneath the courthouse, miss Whitney didn’t even need to be invited to climb up onto the seat of power in front of the whipping block, so familiar was she with the legal process. She even knew the uniformed, female whipper – one of her contemporaries who lived in the same neighbourhood, though she wasn’t, for obvious reasons, a member of miss Whitney’s girlgang, as such!
‘Hi Stacey!’ chirped miss Whitney, pleased to see her professional-whipper friend on duty.
‘Oh, Hi Whit! Back again?’
‘Ha! Ha! Yeah! Twenty lashes this time! Vandalism, or somefing? I ain’t even bovvered!’
‘Cool! Jus’ make yourself comfy, an’ that!’
‘Who’s the dork on the trestle? I ain’t seen him before?’
‘Oh, he’s one of them temporary whippin’ boys – conscripted, an’ that! We ain’t got enough of them at the moment, so we had to, like, draft some in, an’ that?’
‘Ha! Ha! Cool! Well, let him have it really hard, then! I likes seein’ ‘em really squirm at my feet, an’ that, innit though?’
Those 18 year old, recidivist ‘feet’, slave Sockboy had already noticed (because they were resting directly in front of his trussed-up face), were clad in a fetching pair of scruffy, white, low-top sneakers and white, fully-pulled-up, almost calf-length socks, with fetching, red stripes across the elasticated uppers, beneath a pair of bright, orange girlshorts. Her bulky, bright orange anorak and matching, orange cap completed the cool, girlgang-leader, streetwear ensemble, and he had to admire the young street-woman’s sense of sartorial style and class!
He had to admire it because he was about to be judiciously whipped on behalf of the wearer of the cheap, chavvy clothing!
‘Does you want him to kiss your sneakers first, Whitney?’ enquires her police-constable friend, miss Stacey.
‘Heck yeah – and my socks too, an’ that!’
‘Ha! Ha! No probs! Hey you there – the whipping-boy; kiss the prisoner miss Whitney’s sneakers and socks until I tells you to stop, yeah?’
‘Yes, officer-mistress Stacey! At once, officer-mistress Stacey!’
Slave sockboy had already kissed miss Stacey’s black leather kneeboots, and even her dark-nylon-covered knees below the hem of her navy-blue-female-police-uniform skirt, out of maleslavish respect for her police-girl power and authority over him (and, if we’re being honest – out of a desperate attempt to curry favour with her!), and so it was only right and proper that he should now seek to please her by paying his respects to her prisoner-friend’s feet and footwear.
Miss Whitney – well-used, and well-used to having her feet kissed by public footservants (even if she, officially, doesn’t own a personal footslave), obligingly positions her right, grubby-white, low-top-sneakered foot slightly forwards on the metal footrest in front of the confined whipping-boy’s face, so that his dry-and-parched-with-fear lips can more easily apply themselves to her scuffmarked and somewhat flaky, right sneaker-toe and then also reach the newly-formed creases in her white sock just below her arrogant, 18 year old anklebone.
He kisses the girlgang-leader’s right sneaker and sock several times, before she switches feet beneath him, and he repeats the process on her lower left leg under the watchful eye of police-officer mistress Stacey until the latter is satisfied with his homage to the convicted, female criminal.
‘Stop kissing now, and verbally praise and bless miss Whitney for pleading guilty to her crime and having you whipped, prisoner’s slave!’
This was unfamiliar territory for Sockboy, so he just did as he was told:
‘Oh pray, miss Whitney; if it pleases you, miss Whitney; thank you for committing your crime, and for permitting me to suffer your judicial whipping on your behalf, miss Whitney. Truly this slave is honoured to take your pain, miss Whitney, for you are better than him, miss Whitney madam!’
Miss Whitney madam laughs:
‘Ha! Ha! Sounds like he cain’t wait for it, though, Stace! Let him have it, though! Beat him, though! Whip him, though! Ha! Ha!’
‘Ha! Ha! You got it, Whit!’
And with that slave Sockboy began counting the stitches in beautiful miss Whitney’s unfamiliar, white, semi-calf-length, tube socks as he desperately attempted to mitigate the excoriating sting of miss Stacey’s judicial whip across his back – twenty times!
Unfortunately for him, he lost track of the gum-chewing, girlgang-leader’s white sock-stitches after just three lashes – so all-encompassing was the pain professionally delivered across his bare back and ribs by the fit, young policewoman!...
Part 3 – Home (less)
He wasn’t greeted with a lot of sympathy when he, eventually, managed to crawl back to his mistress Aysha’s home later that evening, and hand over the payment of Fem 17.50.
Miss Aysha was looking resplendent in her dinner-party outfit of a short, black minidress, dark nylons, and shiny, black high-heeled pumps.
The party for her relatives had, it seemed, gone well, and as the well-whipped slave Sockboy kissed the pointy-toe areas of his mistress Aysha’s shiny, black, after-dinner pumps he could tell she was in quite a relaxed mood (if not, indeed, a little ‘squiffy’)
Once again he apologised to his mistress for any inconvenience caused by his compulsory, whipping-boy service at the Female Court House, but, as he moved his contrite lips onto her dark, finest-denier nylons around her ankles, his mistress was clearly feeling quite conciliatory:
‘Ha! Ha! Don’t worry about it, my little shlavey-wavey Sockboy! Ha! Ha! Looks like they gave you a right good going over, isn’t it? Ha! Ha! Never mind – it wasn’t your fault that you got called-up. Here – have a sniff of my nyloned toes; it might help to dull your pain, isn’t it? Ha! Ha!’
And with that his generous and forgiving mistress Aysha unexpectedly slipped her dainty, right, nylon-covered, Pakistan-girl foot out of its shiny, black shoe and shoved it, somewhat unsteadily, onto his kneeling nose. It smelt vinegary and tart, especially around the reinforced toe-area of the nylon, so he sniffed gratefully on it – and she was right; it did help to anaesthetise the pain in his still throbbing back!
But his mistress Aysha’s magnanimity didn’t last for long! She soon reverted to type, and started to rub her salty, nyloned footsweat into his open whip-wounds, causing them to smart all the more! He winced and gasped, but not as much as when he understood the full implications of what she had to say to him next:
‘Of course, I’m afraid I shall have to ask master Peter sir to whip you again, for being so damned inconsiderate towards me and absenting yourself from your household foot-duties whilst my mother and our other guests were here! Having to get in a rented footslave for the night was most damned inconvenient, you lazy and incompetent slave! Oh, and speaking of which – have you met slave Pierre?’
She clapped her hands twice, and a liveried footslave crawled over to her feet and immediately began licking them – both the foot with the spiked-heel shoe still on, and then the nylon-naked one that had just been so cruelly rubbing young-womanly footsweat into the wounds on slave Sockboy’s judicially-whipped back!
‘Erm… No, mistress. I have not met this slave before, madam Aysha miss!’
She giggled, drunkenly:
‘Well, as you can see, he’s very good. Very reliable – and he knows his place! He has been greeting and washing my female relatives’ feet most efficiently all evening! Ha! Ha! In fact, he’s so good that I’ve decided to keep him! Ha! Ha! Slave Sockboy – meet my new, personal footslave, slave Pierre! Ha! Ha!’
Slave Sockboy detected a smug grin on the ‘rented’ footslave’s footlicking face!
Sockboy, being a bit thick and slow on the uptake, was confused:
‘B…but, what about me mistress?’
‘You? Ha! Ha! I don’t give a damn about you, snivelling Sockboy slave! Ha! Ha! You can go to hell for all I care – after my husband has whipped you again! Ha! Ha! Why don’t you try and earn a living out on the streets as one of those feral footslaves, or something? Ha! Ha! It’s not my problem, isn’t it? I mean, I can hardly keep two footslaves in my household, isn’t it?’
Master Peter sir, who had been eavesdropping on the conversation, came over to give his ultra-pretty, sensually dressed, Pakistani wife a kiss on the cheek, and a fresh glass of wine:
‘Ha! Ha! Perhaps he could eke out a living as a full-time, Court whipping-boy, Aysh? Ha! Ha! I mean – we know they have vacancies, and he’s got all the necessary experience now! Ha! Ha!’
Everyone, apart from the object of derision himself, laughed heartily – including slave Pierre, Ms Aysha’s new personal footslave!
