Gynarchy Glimpses (iv)
More glimpses of daily life in the glorious Gynarchy of Barbaria (a stinky-sock lover’s paradise!)
When a master-sir introduces me for the first time to his new girlfriend in his bedroom, it is very much in my interests to behave respectfully, as follows:
· I must unhesitatingly bow down to her, and worship her feet; for she is my new goddess-mistress, by virtue of being the master-sir’s latest, chosen sexual partner
· I must worship her feet, by kissing her feet i.e. her boots, shoes or sandals – if she is wearing any; and/or her socks, nylons or tights (below the ankle only) – again, if she is wearing any; and/or her soft, bare footflesh (if she is completely barefoot, or if, for example, she is sockless and in sandals)
That’s because I am the couple’s foreplay-footslave; my role is to turn the young woman on through my footslavish submissiveness and humility, so that she may feel beautiful and powerful, and truly yearn for the master-sir to take her with abandonment!
My lucky master-sir’s current new girlfriend for this evening is a charming-looking, twenty-something, black girl, with long, black, frizzy hair and black-rimmed spectacles; wearing a short, red, halter top; pale blue denim hotpants; on bare legs, apart from a thick pair of white, full-length, scrunched-up anklesocks, worn with black leather, laced-up half-boots (or ‘booties’).
The rounded toes of her black leather booties are quite dusty and scuffmarked, and so I must demonstrate my unconditional respect for the young black madam by making an immediate beeline with my lips straight towards the scuffmarks; similarly, because her white anklesocks are thick and scrunched-up, I must kiss them fervently on the slovenly-looking creases. That demonstrates to both her and the watching master-sir that, although the young woman herself may care little about the state of her socks, I care – and, moreover, I respect her young-womanly right to wanton, white-sock slovenliness!
At no stage is my foreplay-forehead permitted to rise above the sweet, young, black woman’s shapely, brown calf-muscles – nor must my gaze rise above her white socktop. I did, inadvertently, catch a glimpse of her as she entered the master bedroom arm-in-arm with the master-sir, and got away with it – but from now on I must only look down at her feet! For she is better than me.
Whilst kissing her shoes and socks, I must verbally praise and flatter her – express how beautiful she is, and what an honour it will be for me to service her feet, whilst my manly master-sir services the rest of her beautiful, demure body. I must reassure the black mistress that the white master-sir is a potent and considerate lover of women, and that he will most assuredly be able to satisfy her sexually.
I further seek to reassure the young, black mistress-madam that I myself am no threat to her sexually – being an impotent, male slave – and that she need have no compunctions whatsoever about making love to the manly master-sir in front of me, whilst I kneel in the corner of his master bedroom sniffing her sweaty, discarded white socks and black, lace-up, leather booties.
Indeed, I go further, and invite the beautiful, young, black mistress-madam to whip me if I fail to please her with my puny efforts in serving her pretty feet and footwear. I even invite her to whip me now regardless of my performance on her lower regions – in the presence of my master-sir, who can show her how to properly skin a foreplay-slave with the vicious whip, should she need any help and assistance in wielding it for the first time.
Having solicited a punishment whipping, I then stoically suffer the biting sting of said whip – whilst all the time assuring her of her immense prowess with it, and that she has indeed managed to inflict a goodly amount of pain on me (even though her practise strokes may, in actuality, be a lot less painful than those first demonstrated on me by the strong-armed and mighty master-sir!)
Having thus successfully aroused her young-womanly passions and ‘got her in the mood’ for satisfying her female lusts with the master-sir, I politely unboot and unsock her as she gets undressed above me, readying herself to have natural, sexual intercourse with him.
She wipes her sweaty, bare feet on my face in order to clean them for the master-sir, prior to climbing into bed with him – out of respect for his manliness and his natural dislike of womanly foot-odour.
I then retire discreetly to the corner of the master-bedroom with my freshly whipped back, and her stale-warm shoes and socks, where I humbly face the wall and audibly sniff her discarded, black-girl footwear whilst listening to the sounds of my two betters’ vigorous lovemaking behind me.
All of this I do in order to ‘big up’ my magnificent, freemale master-sir in front of his beautiful, black girlfriend, and to make her feel special. For if she is relaxed and pleased, she will willingly pleasure the master-sir; and if the master-sir is suitably pleasured, he too shall be relaxed and pleased, and the only whipping I shall receive tonight is the relatively harmless, practise one which the young lady has just tentatively carried out on me under the rampant master-sir’s expert tutelage.
My job is done, and the master and mistress are spent!
I only got a quick glimpse of her as she approached my public shoelick-stall, but she didn’t strike me as being the most intelligent-looking, young, twenty-something woman I’ve ever had the honour of foot-serving, despite her thick glasses and geeky appearance.
Nor is she the prettiest, with her greasy, red hair, her acne scars, and the wire braces on her teeth. Nor is she the shapeliest, with her stick-insect-like body. Nor is she the most fashionably dressed, in her nerdy, green jumper; her black and white, flowery-patterned, tightly fitting, cotton leggings; her turquoise-blue, geeky, cartoon-animal themed anklesocks with the white, frilly ruffles around the tops; and her tatty, and in places even holey, black and white, loosely laced-up, converse-style, high-top sneakers (which part squashed the ruffles!)
But she is still my unsartorial, female customer-master and better – being seated in the raised chair in front of and above me, her scruffily-clad feet resting at my kneeling face-level, and requiring my full, unstinting, public-footslavish attention and devotion.
She also knows her own (dim-witted) mind:
‘Like, clean off all the filf, an’ that, footslave, yeah?’
‘Yes, mistress-madam. At once most beautiful and respected young mistress-madam.’
Well, I can hardly address her as ‘ugly, inarticulate geek-mistress’, can I?
I’m assuming she’s referring to the ingrained street ‘filf’ on her grubby, rubbery-white sneaker toes, and perhaps also to the trailer-trash, dust tracks along the black canvassy sides of her sneakers. So I lower my face beneath her colour-clashing, white-ruffled, turquoise cartoon-socks and start to lickshine the nominally white shoe-rubber.
She watches me intently – enjoying my obedience and devotion towards her. This poor geek-girl customer-mistress – even though she is in her young-womanly prime – probably gets little in the way of freemale attention; she’s not exactly a head-turner. But she knows, and delights in the fact, that I cannot turn my head away from her street-dirtied feet and footwear, since it is my job to tongue-attend to them – whatever their condition; and however geeky they may look (I am also, of course, constrained to look down at her feet by the heavy perma-chains around my kneeling neck!)
She gawkily unhooks the whipping stick from the wall beside her, and I flinch in readiness for a possible stinging stroke across my bare, hunched back; for a young woman like this – of limited intellect and ability – most probably sees things in black and white; whip-pain equals obedience in a slave; lack of whip-pain equals sloppy service.
And she will have my attention and obedience!
She observes me flinch, and laughs in the face of my maleslave fear and trembling before her. Afraid of a skinny, twenty-something slip of a girl with thick glasses, acne and braces on her teeth! Ha! Ha! What a wimp! Even the strange, brightly-coloured, cartoon animals on the sides of her turquoise socks are creasing up with laughter at me; mocking me.
Instead of hurting me with the stick, however, the geek-girl points with its tapered tip to a dust-stain along her lower right sneaker-instep:
‘Lick here, slave, yeah?’
Yeah, mistress! I mean:
‘Yes, most sweet and kind mistress! At once, most sweet and kind, beautiful young mistress! Please don’t beat me, beautiful mistress! I’m frightened of you, mistress. I’m just a slave!’
She stares almost disbelievingly down at my cringe-worthy, maleslave obedience, her braced mouth wide open as if in utter amazement as my own, obedient and respectful footslave-mouth gapes around the indicated dust mark on the inner side of her dirty, canvas sneaker.
She likes this! This is easy! At last she has found something she’s good at – bossing about a dirty, public footservant!
Ha! Ha! She wishes she could take me home with her; and whip me; and then make me kiss her sneakered feet 100 times (though I would have to count the footkisses out loud for her as she’s not very numerate); and then whip me again; and then make me untie her sneaker laces and take off her sneakers; and then make me sniff her cartoon-themed socks; and then whip me again; and then make me pull off her sweaty, ruffled socks with my teeth; and then make me lick out all the sock lint, sweat and toejam from between her sticky, purple-varnished, but peeling, toenails; and then whip me again; and then make me wash her feet properly in a bowl of warm water; and then make me dry her feet in a warm, fluffy towel; and then whip me again; and then make me put her sweaty, turquoise-coloured, cartoon-socks back onto her feet and ankles, smoothing out all the creases; and then make me tie her dirty sneakers back onto her feet; and then whip me again; and then ring up her friend Britney, and invite her and her boyfriend, Steve, over to see her new, household footservant; and then make me kiss mistress Britney’s plain, black keds and sneaker-socks as soon as she and her redneck boyfriend arrive over at the house; and then whip me again; and then invite miss Britney to whip me; and then invite miss Britney’s boyfriend Steve to whip me, whilst I am kneeling with my head scissored between miss Britney’s shapely, black-denim-jeans-covered, calf muscles, staring at her short, black cotton sock-tops; and then have me take off miss Britney’s black keds and socks, and wash her feet, including her unsightly verruca on her left foot, in a bowl of fresh, warm water – in front of her boyfriend, master Steve sir; and then make me dry miss Britney’s feet in another fluffy towel, and then put her black keds and socks back on her feet; and then have me kiss her female guest’s feet – both keds & socks – 100 times (again, I would have to count out the kisses as none of the three, young free people can count up to 100 – they all dropped out of school at an early age!); and then…’
Sorry – I’m letting my feverish imagination run away with me again! Luckily, the greasy-red-haired, bespectacled geek-goddess seated above me hasn’t noticed my mental meanderings through the mystical maze of masochism, since I have continued to diligently suck the dust off her sneaker-instep throughout my fantastical flight of footslave-fantasy!
I can multitask, you see – lick geek-girl sneaker-dust, whilst admiring geek-girl sock, and fantasising about being a geek-girl’s household footslave; and the slave of her friends!
My God – I actually fancy her – this geeky, ungainly, unremarkable young woman! I actually want to be her personal, household footservant, and the permanent slave of her geek-girl, cartoonish socks! And yet – I’m the one whose advances shall be rejected; for this geek-goddess knows she is too good for me – a middle-aged, male, public footservant – since she is a young and free, single female! She can do better, and will no doubt find some similarly bespectacled, freemale geek-guy to hook up with in due course.
A geek-guy maybe – but not a total gimp like me!
Today is a very significant day for me.
My master-sir – master James sir – has just declared that, after three years of my devoted foot-bondage to his pretty, young wife, he now regards me as having at last achieved parity with her white anklesocks.
What this means in practice is that:
· I can now look her unashamedly in the socktops – rather than just in the lower, meaner and smellier parts of her white socks
· Whilst I must still demonstrate my undying respect for her white anklesocks, by humbly kissing them, I no longer need to ask their specific permission on each occasion (i.e. I no longer need to ask their wearer – my personal footmistress – for explicit permission to worship her white socks. Since I am on a lowly par with them, I can kiss and worship them effectively any time I like!)
· I can now even sleep with her white socks (resting on top of my upturned face!)
To be regarded as being of equal importance as, rather than inferior to, my footmistress’s precious, white anklesocks is a HUGE leap up the footslave social-ladder for me, and I can be foolishly proud to be considered of equal value to a beautiful young, married woman’s sweaty, white socks on her soft, feminine feet.
I’m still to be subject to the black leather female whip, though!
It's known as a 'sockhole' – and he is known as a 'sockhole prisoner-slave', though nobody can quite remember who he is, or why he is confined down there. The court records have long been lost.
For he is confined, for life, at the bottom of a well-like structure which is nothing more than a dumping ground for used and worn, old, unwashed and unwanted socks – specifically female socks.
When a Gynarchy female has finished with her socks, she 'recycles' them by dumping them down the sockhole and onto the unseen, unknown sockhole-slave. She is only vaguely aware that there is male, human life deep down there; and that it is being punished; that it is surrounded by dirty, discarded, female socks (now including hers); that it is being kept alive by the female authorities through the additional dumping of bread and water down the dry sock-well; that the well is monitored in some backroom somewhere, on Female CCTV, to make sure it (the prisoner) is still alive; that when it eventually passes away, its hole will be sealed at the top so that no more sweaty, used female socks will go to waste, and it will thus be buried with all the existing, sweaty socks already down there!
Let us watch one beautiful, young Gynarchy woman, 23 year old miss Anya, as she public-spiritedly approaches the sockhole arm-in-arm with her fiancé, Stewart, and a plastic carrier bag full of her dirty, unwashed, worn-out and no longer wanted sports-socks.
· She pulls back the cover on the top of the dry well-cum-hole, and, along with her freemale boyfriend, peers down curiously inside
· But there is nothing to see; it's pitch black, and the sockhole-slave is buried much too far down to be visible, or even audible
· Some ignorant mistresses try to communicate by shouting down into the well, 'is there anybody there?' but they never get a response, other than their own ghostly, female echoes, as the sockhole-slave is fitted with isolation earplugs; he can't hear a thing. This young, blonde woman appears to know that, for she makes no such fruitless attempt at communicating with the unseen and unheard sockhole prisoner-slave down at the bottom of the ignominious sockhole
· Instead she just smiles knowingly, and lovingly, at her fiancé as she casually tips the contents of her dirty carrier bag down into the hole, and watches her dirty socks disappear out of her life forever.
· She then embraces and kisses her husband-to-be with her empty carrier bag in her hand, before closing over the iron cover to the sockhole again (a health and safety requirement, to avoid stinking out the surrounding air!). Then the happy couple, having finished their public, female-sock-recycling duty, walk off arm-in-arm again, as happy, young couples who are in love tend to do!
Now let us watch, via the grainy CCTV images, what happens at the other end of the deep sockhole.
· It takes a minute or so for the falling socks to reach the sockhole-slave, so deeply confined is he. But they don't hurt him when they fall on him – unlike the occasional bottle of water chucked down by the authorities to keep him alive (or indeed the illicit detritus chucked down by less law-abiding citizens of the Gynarchy – he's had everything down here from old shoes and boots; to used condoms; to stolen bikes! But they all get a soft landing – either on him, or on the existing pile of surrounding socks!)
· Note how he is 'free' to move around – albeit only within the cramped confines of his sockhole-prison; and his hole is dimly lit with unnatural light – only so that he can see, as well as smell, the dirty, discarded socks chucked down upon him
· He immediately picks up the freshly dumped, unfresh socks and sniffs them, for he pathetically wants to get their scent before it wears off (female sock smells are his life down here!)
· He is particularly taken to a pair of pink anklesocks with little, submissive, white heart-logos on them. Unbeknown to him these are the socks blonde-haired miss Anya first started wearing over three years ago when she first started courting her beloved boyfriend, Stewart. In fact, he bought them for her – and if the sockhole-slave had been privileged enough to be her personal footservant whilst she was courting, he would have witnessed those pink and white anklesocks creasing and folding with joy and happiness on many occasions above her scruffy, white, low-top, lace-up sneakers as she stood on scuffmarked, canvas tippy-toe to kiss her tall and manly boyfriend on the lips! But the prisoner sockhole-slave was never miss Anya's personal footslave, and doesn't know Stewart from Adam. In fact, he has been confined down here all their young lives, and this is his first contact with miss Anya's superior foot-DNA – via her used socks!
· See how he's fervently kissing the pink and white, courting socks now – out of respect for them. He doesn't know their previous owner, but instinctively knows she must be beautiful, as they are such a nice pair of sweet feminine socks; and they smell rank.
· He then places them neatly on one side of his underground sockhole-cell. They shall have pride of place as his sock-pillows tonight – until they start to lose their sweaty, female aroma and another, yet to be donated, pair of flighty, female socks take his fancy!
· Meanwhile the pretty, blonde head of the erstwhile wearer of the socks is lying back on a nice, warm feather-pillow whilst she makes love to her boyfriend Stewart – somewhere in the town high above the lonely sockhole-slave. Ha! Ha! What a loser!
But at least he is connected to the superior, copulating-high-above-him, female being through her dirty, discarded socks. For him, the lowly, underground sockhole is like a deep wishing-well come true!
The tall, proud, twenty-something, black girl climbs up onto the shoelick throne of power in the private cubicle. She looks down on the public footservant, both literally and figuratively, as he kneels with his head humbly bowed, and enchained, at her feet-level.
He doesn't dare to look up at her; he can't look up at her –- the heavy chains restrict his neck movements. Indeed, she notices, with some amusement, that his neck is chafed and sore-looking from his previous, vain attempts to look up at his lady-customers' pretty legs.
The black customer-mistress (mistress Veronica is her name) is wearing trousers, but she deliberately hitches up her black trouser-hems to tease the slave with just a hint of her black anklesock-tops set against the pleasing backdrop of her smooth, brown legskin, above her upper, black leather ankleboot-rims.
It is those selfsame, black leather, chunky-heeled and round-toed, zip-up ankleboots which she now requires him to lickshine – for they are, in her fastidious, feminine eyes – filthy from offending street-dirt. But she doesn't need to verbally order him to do so, for he is a 'dumb' footservant – forbidden to talk, and not to be conversed with; not even to be given orders or reprimanded – it says so on the cubicle wall behind him.
The enforced dumbness is all a part of his punishment, no doubt. He is forbidden to converse or interact in any way with the superior female, other than to lickshine her dirty, public shoes or boots. If he needs guidance or reprimanding (precisely because he is so dumb) the complementary female whipping-stick must do all the talking!
Speaking (or rather, non-speaking) of which, mistress Veronica now unhooks it from the wall, curious to see how whippy it feels in her dainty, brown, feminine hands. Her whipstick-curiosity seems to spur the public footservant into action, as his tongue is immediately on her slightly scuffmarked, right boot-toe, lickshining away a dirty dust patch.
Veronica chuckles to herself. This middle-aged, balding man – old enough to be her father – is actually frightened of her! As well he might be – for Veronica loves whips and canes, especially when they are applied to maleslaves' backs! She even saws the cane along the existing whip-scars on his naked shoulderblades beneath her – just for the fun of seeing him twitch. Presumably he's not allowed to cry out whilst being whipped or caned, since he's dumb? She must try out the whipping-stick on him later, and see if she can make him break his vow of slave-silence!
But for now she just cocks her pretty, black head to one side in order to get a better view of his humble, dumb tonguework on her street-soiled boot-toe. She wonders how it must taste? (she's never tasted bootleather before, herself!) She expects it must taste foul? But, the stupid slave is probably accustomed to the bitter taste of feminine bootleather by now; she expects it's very much an acquired taste!
Just as the vista of her twisted, black anklesock-top must be an acquired sight for sore eyes! No real man – like her fiancé Darren - would be turned on by it! Darren likes her soft, brown boobs – not her bobbled, black anklesocks! Ha! Ha!
The more she watches the anonymous, dumb footslave lickshining her dirty boots and admiring her black socktops, the more she despises him. He is, literally, beneath contempt and deeply unattractive – a weak-willed, dumbass, public bootlicker, whose promiscuous, boot-leathery tongue and wandering sock-eyes will fawn to any young woman's boots or shoes who stops by on his public shoelick-stall!
He's pafetic, innit? He needs to be whipped!
And so, Veronica duly whips him – with the aforementioned complementary whipping-stick; right across his already sore and raw-looking, bare, left shoulderblade.
To her pleasant surprise, the dumbass-slave did cry out – for mercy!
So she whipped him again; and again; and again!
Beautiful, regular customer-mistress Bénédicte, who is of French origins, is quite uncommonly respectful of me as she sits above me on the public-shoelick throne of female power and authority, having her stylish, but invariably street-dirty, Cuban-heeled, round-toed, black leather, zip-up ankleboots lickshined beneath her black leather trouser-hems.
That’s because, having barked her French boot-orders down at me in her delightful Parisian accent, she promptly proceeds to ignore me by taking out her mobile phone, dialling somebody, and then speaking quietly to them in whispered, French undertones so that I cannot hear what she is saying.
And why is that showing undue respect towards me, I hear you ask?
Well, it’s certainly not because she doesn’t wish to disturb me or distract me from my important work (for my work, though on her important boots, is not in and of itself important; and nor am I).
It’s because it means she is regarding me as another human being (albeit a lesser and unimportant one); as someone whom she does not wish eavesdropping in on her conversation – rather than, as most of my customer-mistresses do, just regarding me as a dumb animal, or an object; as a mere thing that dutifully tongue-buffs their dirty shoes or boots whilst they talk out loud, and sometimes even scream, into their cellphones above me!
She needn’t worry, of course. I am just a stupid slave, and I neither speak nor understand French – so she could, actually, blabber away at full volume above me and I wouldn’t understand a word she is saying. But, curiously, even this humbling fact somehow makes her lowered tones seem all the more respectful of me – even though she is deliberately shutting me out of her superior conversation above me.
Go figure!
I like her – my black, regular customer-mistress on my city-centre, public shoelick-stall.
Miss Beatrice sits tall and portly above me in her queen-bee-like, everyday-officewear outfit consisting of a smart, yellow blouse and plain, black cotton trouser-suit, having her boots lickshined on the street corner.
But she is not in any way cold or sit-offish towards me as I humbly serve her. Unlike many a more haughty customer-mistress, the perennially buzzing miss Beatrice is seemingly more than happy to pass the time of day with me, and to chat about her superior, free-person’s life and all the exciting things going on in that life – such as her handsome, new boyfriend; her plans to move house; her forthcoming trip back to Barbados to see her family there; her imminent promotion to senior accountant in the office where she works – all whilst my own, silent tongue politely focusses on licking the everyday street-dust and grime off her black leather, chunky-heeled and round-toed, zip-up, office-ankleboots.
I like her boots – they feel soft and malleable to the footslave-lip; like her black foot and ankle skin would, I imagine. The slither of pure, black skin which is just visible above her twisted, yellow bootsock-top certainly looks nice and soft; as, indeed, does the aforementioned, bright yellow anklesock inside the boot – but, unfortunately, customer-mistress Beatrice won’t let me touch either her skin or her sock. She knows I am not good enough to touch such feminine intimacies!
But that’s ok! I quite like the fact that she realises she is too good for me to touch, and that she limits any contact I have with her to the dirty outsides of her boots, whilst she continues to inform me of how wonderful her life is above me.
I also like the fact that – despite her natural, outgoing, black-womanly charm and friendliness – she comes with a sting in her tail. For, friendly or no, she will often decorate my bare, kneeling shoulderblades with the complementary, public-use whipping stick. She says she likes the sound of it buzzing through the air; followed by the sound of it slashing into my naked back; followed by my scream of unmanly shock and pain directly into her boots. She then likes to hear me blubber and beg her for sweet, feminine mercy, so that she can ignore my pathetic pleas and ‘give me another one’!
Yes – she is a very nice, self-assured, and powerful, young black business-woman, and I very much like and admire regular customer-mistress Beatrice. She sure knows how to treat an insect-like, public footservant!
Twenty-something, dark-haired and comely, treadmill supervisor-mistress, mistress Suzannah, is normally quite laid back as she slouches in her control chair in front of, and above, me on the heavy, prison treadmill.
But, in all of the following circumstances, I can nonetheless expect to receive a judiciously flayed back, courtesy of her supervisory whipping-stick:
- If she perceives me to be slacking in my monotonous, hard labour of turning the treadmill with my male-prisoner feet
- If I am too ill to work (for a treadmill-slave is never too ill to be whipped!)
- If I attempt to kiss her customarily short, black anklesock above her reinforced, laced-up, black leather, female-prison-officer, uniform shoe without her explicit permission
- If, whilst kissing her short, black anklesock with her explicit permission, my upper lip inadvertently strays onto her bare, pasty-white ankleskin
- If it's her time of the month
- If she's had a row with her boyfriend
- If it's the appointed time for my weekly whipping, in accordance with the life-sentence of hard labour and weekly whippings passed down on me by the Female Courts
- If she simply feels like whipping me because she is bored
- If I myself beg her to whip me, because I sense that whipping me would cheer her up, and her female-officer pleasure is much more important than my male-prisoner pain
Yes, my back will oftentimes be red-raw and flayed following a sensuous session with laid-back, supervisor-mistress Suzannah on the treadmill!
She seems perfectly normal – the brunette-ponytailed, office girl sitting above me on the shoelick throne of power. And yet, she suddenly does something very strange: instead of just leaving her delightful, plain black, officewear anklesocks with the rolled and twisted tops where I can see them –i.e. on her shapely anklebones inside her black leather, office-ankleboot tops – she stoops down to unzip the sides of her boots; roll down each sock and double it over on her sole and heel, thereby transforming it into a sneaker-style, secretive sock; and then rezips up her ankleboots.
She now looks, therefore, like a young woman who is barefoot inside her boots – which is clearly the look she is after!
But why?! Those plain, black anklesocks were lovely to behold beneath the raised hems of her black polyester, office trousers! And besides, won’t her pretty, white feet – now effectively double-socked – perspire a lot more inside her boots along those now double-thick, socked soles and at the backs of those double-thick, socked heels?
That surely can’t be comfortable for her?!
Mind you – every sock-aberration has a silver lining, and in this case it was the unsolicited, if fleeting, sight of her thinning and worn, black sock-heels, before she doubled them over.
In fact, now that I think about it, maybe that’s precisely why she wanted to reinforce her black, office socks at the backs of her heels – to hide the wear and tear in her black socks? Or perhaps she just likes showing off a bit of rare, bare ankleflesh – to attract the free men of the Gynarchy?
After all, only slaves are attracted to socks!
The young, female archaeologist, in the muddy, brown hiking-boots, who discovered his skeletal remains, deduced that he had been a lazy and incompetent, personal footslave of a lower-class, Gynarchy mistress from the following clues:
· He was, of course, like any slave of the Gynarchy, buried face down in the mud, but he also still had a heavy, wooden cangue around his skeletal neck – indicating personal ownership, although his female owner’s name wasn’t carved into the wood (hence her deduction that he was the slave of a lower-class citizen; cheap, unmarked cangue = impecunious, working-class mistress!)
· On the top of his head was affixed the remains of a black leather, feminine ankleboot (his earthly mistress’s boot, no doubt!), clearly designating him a footslave
· Furthermore, he had the remains of his erstwhile mistress’s once white (but now earth-browned), frilly, female sock stuffed into his mouth – as if to stop his whining for all eternity
· In addition, a coiled-up, single-tailed, black leather whip was lying across his back – signifying not only his eternal subjugation to the female whip, but that it had been used oftentimes on his lazy and incompetent, maleslave skin (now long decayed) during his lowly lifetime
· A ledger of his earthly punishments even lay beside his skeleton, detailing the number and frequency of lashes to his back. The female archaeologist, eventually, toted them up – a total of 7,000,076 lashes on no fewer than 90,013 occasions! That’s an average of 77 lashes per offence! Sounds like a lot, but remember, this was over a lazy-slave lifetime! The interesting ledger also listed the ‘crimes’ for which the lashes were delivered (e.g. ‘impudence’; ‘incompetence’; ‘slackness’; ‘tardiness’; ‘ugliness’)
· So she knew, from the punishment ledger, that her archaeological find was ugly in life – even uglier than his rotting, dead skull suggested!
No other details as to the whipped slave’s identity (or, indeed, the identity of his strict mistress) were unearthed in his unmarked grave, but it was decided to display him forever in the Gynarchy museum beneath a glass showcase – by way of further public humiliation for the recalcitrant and whipped, anonymous footslave in front of all the future generations of superior females that would come to gloat over him (and as a warning to all future, would-be-indolent footslaves!)
