Gynarchy Glimpses (v)
More glimpses of daily life in the glorious Gynarchy of Barbaria
I’m pathetically proud of the fact that, in all my seven years of personal foot-bondage to my mistress Anya, I have never once been marked with the whip!
That’s, in part, because my footmistress is a kindly, young, Slavonic mistress; but it’s also due to my docile and compliant nature, which pleases my masters and betters.
I am, if you like, a natural slave!
Of course, the threat of the whip is ever-present – on my mistress’s belt; and so I must work hard to earn my ‘unwhipped’ status:
· Every morning, before my mistress and master-sir awaken, I must spend several hours lickshining all of my blonde mistress Anya’s pretty boots, shoes and sneakers – making sure they are all fit for her human foot-habitation, and not trying to second-guess her footwear choices for the day
· Similarly with her hosiery – each and every pair of cotton socks, woolly tights and nylon stockings must be inspected, pressed and ready to wear on her fantastic feet
· To facilitate me in these humble, early-morning tasks I make sure to kiss each and every item of her footwear 50 times – it helps to engender even deeper respect within me for my mistress Anya’s superior footwear
· I must then gently, and worshipfully, wash my mistress Anya’s soft and dainty, pinky-white feet in a pre-prepared bowl of lukewarm water, just as soon as she stirs from her bed, and before she showers. And I must do so, humbly, in the presence of her boyfriend – my master-sir (whosoever he happens to be that morning)
· Of course, before I stoop to wash her feet, I kneel by the side of her bed to kiss them – dead, overnight footskin and all; for they are the feet of my female master and better. And I always respectfully ‘cup and kiss’ my mistress Anya’s feet – whether they be bare or shod – in the quaint, old-fashioned way of Gynarchy slaves of old, as an added demonstration of my utter commitment to the well-being and worship of my superior mistress’s feet and footwear; and to help me concentrate on the job which is, quite literally, in hand – that of kissing my mistress Anya’s feet!
· It always amuses her male, sexual partners to observe this mistress/slave ritual first thing in the morning after they wake up – often too hungover to even remember my mistress Anya’s beautiful name. But, speaking of her numerous, freemale boyfriends, my mistress Anya insists that I afford them virtually the same respect as I do her, which means keeping my head low and bowed in their presence; looking only at their feet, and never looking them in the eye; kissing the ground in front of their feet, or where they have male-walked (Gynarchy Law prevents me from kissing their actual feet or footwear); and obeying everything they say.
All of this I do willingly – in an effort to keep my treasured, unwhipmarked status; for, as we slaves all know, mistress’s boyfriends spell danger – you never quite know when one of them might grab the female whip and start beating you, in an effort to impress their female lover with their masculinity and machismo! I therefore make sure to fear them, and visibly cringe before them, as I would my mistress herself.
· Having kiss-worshipped, and wash-worshipped, my mistress Anya’s pre-shower feet, I then humbly wait by the side of her bed until she has finished showering with her latest, manly beau, and then listen to, and obey, her orders when it comes to the selection of her footwear for the day. Thanks to my earlier efforts I can do so in the full confidence that whatever items of footwear she orders me to bring to her feet, they will be fresh and ready for wear
· Actually, on most days, I do have an inkling which pair of shoes or boots my mistress Anya will order to be brought before her in the master-bedroom. That’s because my beloved, young mistress is something of a creature of habit.
Therefore, on work days she will invariably order me to fetch her chunky-heeled, round-toed, zip-up, black leather, officewear ankleboots (or possibly her plain black, office ballet-flats) , and a matching pair of plain black anklesocks for her to wear with her smart, grey-pinstriped, office trousersuit.
On her days off it’s more likely to be her favourite pair of pink and white striped, low-top, lace-up leather sneakers, along with her white, or predominantly white, short sneaker-socks – to wear with her cut-off, blue denim jeans.
But, as I indicated before, if I am to avoid the mark (and the sting) of the female whip, all of my mistress’s footwear must be ready to wear, for she may, if the weather is cold and miserable, opt for her thick, woolly tights, instead of socks, beneath her grey-pinstriped trousers. And similarly, she may decide to wear a pair of black socks, rather than white, with her pink and white sneakers – just to keep me on her toes! Plus, of course, later on in the day – be it a workday or leisure day, she may well require me to change her into her finest-denier, flesh-toned, nylon stockings and shiny, patent black leather, high-heeled pumps as she readies herself to go ‘out on the pull’ again.
So, if I am to retain my prized unwhipped status, I must take no chances; everything to do with her feet – every possible combination of boot, shoe, sneaker, ballet-flat and sock, tight, or stocking must be good to go!
· When it comes to the actual donning of my mistress Anya’s footwear onto her precious feet I must, of course, proceed gently and with great care – for the slightest scratch of my dirty, maleslave fingernails to her soft, bare foot or ankleskin, or the slightest tear or snag in one of her socks or stockings, will be sure to lead to my back being scratched and torn by the ever present whip. Again, I am foolishly proud of my 100% no-scratch, no-tearing record thus far!
· Her feet duly shod, it is then my pleasant duty to follow my blonde mistress Anya to heel throughout the day – wherever she is going; whatsoever she is doing; with whomever she is interacting above me. I have no need of a concentrator device; or footslave blinkers; or any of the other common contraptions often affixed to a personal footslave to help him focus on the backs of his mistress’s heels; the only stimulant I need is the fear of the whip which dangles from her waistbelt above me – for, although I have never felt its sting, I have heard its sting on other slaves (or the sting of very similar whips). And I have absolutely no desire to experience that biting sting for myself! I am a cowardly slave – not a masochistic one!
· Therefore I focus for all my life is worth on my mistress Anya’s booted, or sneakered, or ballet-flated, or spiked heels, and any glimpses of accompanying hosiery beneath her trouser, dress or jean-hems. And I do so demonstrably, and ostentatiously, that all may see my devotion to my mistress Anya’s feet and footwear, and lest any of the free persons around me should detect a wandering eye on my part, and snitch on me to my unforgiving mistress!
· Actually, my unmarked slave-back is something of a curiosity to the many free persons whom my mistress Anya encounters on a daily basis (she works in a large Accountancy firm), and, in a strangely perverse sort of way, that kind of helps to keep my back free of whip-marks. The longer I can go without being whipped, the more pressure my beloved footmistress Anya is under never to mark me with the whip – for it is beginning to afford her a kind of ‘celebrity’ status in the locality.
She was even interviewed by her local Gynarchy TV station a few months back, and asked about her ability to elicit such forthright and servile obedience on my part without the use of the whip. The poor girl was even asked to whip another slave, as a demonstration of her belief in the power of the female whip to instill discipline and order in slavekind – she was anxious to prove to the world that she was not some sort of whip-abolitionist slaveholder!
· But, despite the extra pressures and suspicion it puts her under, my mistress Anya, thankfully for me, has come to revel in her semi-celebrity status as ‘the girl whose personal footslave has never been whipped!’
And long may her celebrity in this regard last – for my sake!
Addendum: Just three months after I wrote this I slipped up; I snagged one of my blonde mistress’s tan-nyloned stockings whilst getting her ready for a big night out, causing a ladder to appear over her outer anklebone. Needless to say, she had no choice but to whip me – and mightily so.
After seven, long years of devoted foot-servitude, I went from completely unmarked, to whip-scarred for life, in just seven, short minutes! And deservedly so!
Still, at least my footmistress Anya can whip me with abandonment now. After all, there’s no point in her holding back any more, not now that my curious unmarked status, and her consequent celebrity status, has gone for good, along with my personal ignorance of the biting pain of the female whip!
She’s known as a ‘mocker’ – a young woman who hangs around outside the gates of the male prison, waiting to mock the convicted maleslave-felons as they are lead, on their hands and knees, from the prison van into the prison Reception Area.
For 20 year old, blonde-bimbo miss Melanie it’s a hobby; a joy and a hobby. And society praises her for her blonde cruelty, and approves of her airheaded, public spiritedness in devoting so much of her indolent, free time to the tormenting of male prisoner-slaves! So, for her, it’s a win-win situation!
Of course, it would be worth her while to hang around the male-prison gates even for her own, purely selfish, reasons – for, not only does she get to verbally mock and torment the unfortunate prisoner-slave at the beginning of his, often lengthy or even lifetime, sentence in the foothole-dungeons; and not only does she get to have her dusty, booted feet kissed by the penitent and frightened prisoner-slave (for the female prison-guards make damn well sure he pays his respects to his civilian mocker, by kissing her boots on his ignominious way in to the prison); she gets to film it all on her mobile phone, and then upload it onto her social networking site – another ‘trophy’ to add to her already considerable collection of teased, male prisoners!
And make no mistake about it – she is a tease:
· She deliberately wears her short miniskirt, and her dirtiest, most scuffmarked, dustiest, black leather calfboots, with just a slither of plain, black anklesock showing over the tops – his ‘last sight of bare leg and sock for a Iong time’, as she loves to put it, since the female prison-guards in her local foothole-prison routinely wear a strict uniform consisting of navy-blue trousers over the tops of their sock-hiding, black leather kneeboots.
Yes, it’s the bottom parts of female, police-uniform, kneeboots and trouser-hems only for the foothole-prisoner from now on (and even then only on the rare occasions when he is allowed to project his kneeling head out of the normally locked aperture at the bottom of his permanently locked cell door!). Ha! Ha! ‘Think about what you’ll be missing, dirty slave!’ taunts the beautiful, blonde mistress-mocker, as she deliberately swivels her dusty leather, calfbooted foot from side to side in the prison-yard air directly beneath the crawling prisoner’s downcast face, thereby causing her plain, black cotton, bootsock-top to crease and fold up seemingly with laughter at his unenviable position of being lead to chunky-kneebooted heel behind the uniformed, female prison guard towards his foothole-cell of darkness, dankness and doom! How Melanie, the tease, loves filming all that!
· Furthermore, she promises not to visit him in prison as she forces him, in between his feverish kissing of her pretty, black, civilian calfboots, to confess out loud his footslave crime and shame (which, in this case today, is ‘neglect of his mistress’s sweatsocks’). Ha! Ha! She tells him how his punishment will fit his crime, since he won’t be seeing female socks again for some considerable time! She simultaneously expresses her disappointment, however, that his sentence isn’t for life – as she, personally, would have sent him down to the foothole-cells for life had she been the good lady judge (which she might very well be one day, as she is studying to be a lady magistrate – in between hanging around outside the local, male prison gates and tormenting the newly convicted and sentenced, male prisoners!)
· Her aim is to make him sob – for then she can really rub herself and get off on his suffering; seeing the maleslave cry; and tremble; a broken manservant – fearful of what immediately lies in store for him inside the grim walls of the maleslave prison. Ha! Ha! ‘Soon you’ll be whipped and locked in your cell, disgraced footboy!’ she shouts out after him as he is lead away on his hands and knees, before she glances down at his feverish tongue marks on her boots, and admires the way his slave-saliva has cut a swathe through the exterior dust and street-dirt on her precious, but deliberately unkempt, black leather calfboots. Ha! Ha! She also admires the narrow, twisted tops of her untouched bootsocks – she never permits a maleslave-prisoner to touch her socks; that is an intimacy reserved for good, law-abiding, footslaves only!
Here’s how to properly beg a twenty-something, Gynarchy-girl – whilst she is casually fingering her single-tailed, brown leather, cowhide whip – for mercy:
‘Oh pray, pretty mistress, if it pleases you sweet and kind, pretty mistress, please don’t whip me, mistress! Oh pray, mistress! Oh pray! I kiss your sneakers, mistress…I kiss your socks, mistress… Oh pray don’t beat me, fine and upstanding, young mistress! This decrepit, old slave begs the beautiful, young mistress-madam to show him sweet feminine mercy and compassion; for you are his infinite better, madam. Oh madam, the whip will hurt me so! I’m frightened of you, young mistress! I tremble and quake with abject, male fear before you. Please be kind and generous towards an old slave-dog at your feet, most esteemed and respected young mistress; if it pleases you, mistress-miss?’
Of course – it won’t work! The more you beg, the harder she will whip you. For she likes being in control, and having you bellow in pain at her scruffy, sneakered and socked feet beneath her short skirt.
But you will, nonetheless, beg; for not to beg will only make your impending, inevitable beating ten times the worse!
Beautiful and petite, black customer-mistress Donatella always has a big, broad, toothy smile on her pretty, African-Caribbean face when I am serving her on my public shoelick-stall.
She beams broadly:
· Even when she is ordering me to lickshine the filthy outsides of her leg-hugging, brown leather, flat-soled and round-toed calfboots
· Even when she requires me to untie her white running-sneakers from her dainty feet, and to sniff her white sweatsocks in full, public view of everyone immediately after she has been for a jog in the nearby park
· Even when she’s busily whipping me across my kneeling, bare shoulders with the public-use, whipping stick. Beating me! Cutting me! Hurting me!
· Even when she’s smooching toothily with her handsome, black boyfriend above me, and telling him porkie pies about me – to the effect that I have allegedly been making improper suggestions towards her (for a slave). Her false accusations are, of course, aimed at riling her boyfriend, and having him beat me up, right where I kneel, right in front of her
· Even when her beloved and protective boyfriend has duly beaten me to a public-footslave pulp
· Especially when I’ve been beaten to a public footslave pulp by her belligerent boyfriend, for she knows full well that my bruised and swollen mouth will be in agony the next time I am required to lickshine her dirty boots!
One can’t help but admire her – the smiling assassin!
My new master-sir is refurbishing a local restaurant and, although the work isn't yet finished, he has already installed me in the porch as an ornamental, meet and greet footkisser for his future customers.
Meanwhile his beautiful, lithesome, but, by all accounts, often demanding and hard-to-please, black wife has come to inspect the progress. Mercifully, she is clearly impressed at how the soon-to-be opened restaurant is shaping up, and from my lowly vantage point (i.e. with my head and wrists protruding at ground level from one of the, as yet unpainted, inner walls of the draughty porch) I hear her amorously snogging the master-sir, and congratulating him on his progress with managing the building work.
She then whispers sweet somethings to the master-sir, and the next thing I hear is the ominous clip-clop of her high heels on the bare wooden floorboards as she walks over, dominantly, towards me – followed by a smiling master-sir. I tremble in my floor-level stocks for, even though I am immured, and therefore immune from the whip on my back, her reputation for cruelty precedes her – and those spike-heeled pumps on her pretty, black feet could do a lot of damage to an imprisoned face in my vulnerable position!
I must say, the tall and haughty, black-beauty business-madam –- goddess-mistress Ava; my new co-owner – looks especially hot tonight, and particularly as she is wearing her short, black skirt and black, woolly tights on her long, black legs along with her spike-heeled, black leather, peep-toe pumps.
Standing now directly in front of, and above, me, she towers over me like a beautiful, black giantess as she languorously, and contemptuously, stretches forth her long, black-woolly-tighted, right leg until her woolly-tights-covered, peep toe brushes against my ornamental-footkisser lips:
'Ha! Ha! Pucker up, slave! Let's see how you kiss a lady's feet!'
She's testing me out – on behalf of all her future restaurant-customers (for, although my master-sir, her husband, is the one putting all the time, money and effort into refurbishing the family restaurant, she, as the female head of the house, will be the sole financial beneficiary – that's the way things work here in the Gynarchy!)
I silently press my dry and parched, trembling lip-flesh to the faintly sweat-moistened, reinforced angular area of mistress Ava's black-woolly-tighted toes (silently because, as an ornamental footkisser, I am forbidden to talk; I'm just seen by my betters as part of the restaurant fixtures and fittings), and kiss between the leathery peep-toe of her imperiously proffered, high-heeled shoe.
Her toes feel woolly and soft.
For her part, goddess-mistress Ava seems impressed, and she smilingly switches woolly-tighted peep-toes beneath my confined-in-the-wall face, before congratulating the master-sir again on his ‘excellent choice’ of restaurant footslave.
The happy couple then unabashedly make out with one another in front of me there and then in the draughty, secluded porch – since I'm just a piece of footkissing-furniture, and present no more reason for them to be embarrassed about making love than the presence of the empty floorboards, or still-unwrapped tables and chairs, in the main body of the restaurant.
It seems the lucky master-sir has passed the building inspection by his wife – as, indeed, have I!
Petite and comely, staunchly catholic, regular customer-mistress, miss Viviana, is a very pretty Mexican girl – but, equally, pretty vain with it! There is nothing she likes more than to sit on the raised chair of shoelick-power above me in my public footbooth, having her dirty, office shoes worshipped and adored by my fawning and flattering maleslave-tongue (because a slave’s tongue can never be other than fawning and flattering, of course – not if he wishes to avoid the whip!)
Today, however, she was behaving even more vainly than usual. She had been out shopping for shoes after work, and had decided that I should be the one to christen her new shoes with my footslave-saliva (being the first slave to kiss a mistress’s new shoes is considered a great honour in the Gynarchy – and one that is usually reserved for private footslaves; not public ones like me!)
But, of course, being vain, she could not possibly be expected to lower and demean herself to reaching down to unzip her current pair of black leather, spike-heeled ankleboots, and/or to slipping her new shoes onto her pretty feet herself. That’s my job! That’s what I’m not paid for (being a public servant), and so she felt perfectly at ease just sitting back, and relaxing in her chair, whilst I nervously fumbled with her boot-zippers.
Nervously, because one never knows quite what to expect when unzipping the boots of a beautiful, young, Latina woman; her inner footwear is not something a public footservant is normally a party to (again, such intimacies are normally reserved for the private-sector footslave!) Will she be Mexican-barefoot, or Mexican-socked inside her boots? If the former, will her bare feet be veiny and/or greasy – covered in a sheen of sweet, Latina-female footsweat? Or, if the latter, will her bootsocks be manky, or clean? And what colour will her socks be? What length? What if she’s wearing tights or nylons inside her boots and beneath her plain black, officesuit trouser-hems?
It’s always exciting to find these things out – but nerve-wracking at the same time if you are normally only used to the exteriors of one’s customers’ footwear! And, hitherto, I have only ever served as vainglorious miss Viviana’s public, outer-boot licker on her way home from work!
As soon as my trembling fingers start to unzip the side of her right boot, however, I am regaled by the pleasing sight of a black, fishnet stocking, crisscrossing her soft and dainty, brown-skinned, Mexican girl foot. What’s more – as soon as the boot slips off, I am enveloped in a subtle, but at the same time distasteful, aroma of moist, feminine footsweat. Hardly surprising when you think about it – it’s now getting on for 6 PM and the poor girl has probably been wearing these same boots and fishnets all day (apart from when she, briefly, tried on her new shoes in the shoe-shop!)
I instantly kiss the reinforced toe-area of her dainty, fishnet-stockinged foot, for this will be a most unusual and interesting texture on my lips – the feel of coarse, nylon fishnetting interspersed with soft, brown, Mexican-girl footskin. The rough with the smooth, so to speak!
And the smelly! A rare treat not to be missed!
But, she hasn’t got all day, and as soon as I have divested her of her matching left boot, and respectfully kissed her matching left, fishnet-stockinged toe beneath her bootcut, black cotton trouser-hem, she orders me to ‘get a move on with putting my new ballet shoes on my feet, dirty feetslave, isn’t it?’
I love being bossed about by a pint-sized mistress with a strong, Mexican accent. It makes me go all weak at the knees – which is never a problem since I am kept permanently on my hands and knees!
Her pretty, fishnet-covered, Mexican toes wriggle impatiently in the footbooth-air beneath my face as I reach for the ‘ballet shoes’ inside her shopping bag. Not literal ‘ballet shoes’ as such – but a stunningly shiny pair of black, patent-leather ballet flats, designed for either office or party wear! I notice that they say ‘Size 3’ on the inner soles – again, highly privileged information; I now know regular customer-mistress Viviana’s dainty shoe size! (I wonder how long it will be before her pretty footsweat wipes off or stains the crisp, gold lettering declaring her shoe size?)
I can’t tell you what an honour and a privilege it is to cup the heels of such an arrogant and vainglorious, young Mexican woman, and to slip her brand new ballet-flats onto her dainty, fishnet-stockinged feet! This is way beyond anything I normally get to do on my public shoelick-stall. I almost feel like I’ve been promoted to the rank of personal-footservant to miss Viviana (now, wouldn’t that be an honour to end all honours?!)
But, of course, in her sultry, dark eyes I’m nothing more than an impotent and foolish, public footservant, upon whom she is bestowing the inestimable honour of not only being the first footslave to touch her new shoes (apart, perhaps, from the footslave-server in the shoe shop – regarded as la crème de la crème of footslave jobs!) but also the first to ‘christen’ those shoes with his shoelicking tongue – whilst she is wearing them!
Of course, being a public boot and shoelicker by profession, I am more accustomed to the taste of street-soiled footwear, rather than shiny, brand new footwear, fresh out of the box! Indeed, I must confess, I hanker somewhat after miss Viviana’s now temporarily discarded, office ankleboots, as they have several tempting mudstains along the insteps (it is raining outside my booth). But I mustn’t forget that customer-mistress Viviana is bestowing a truly great honour upon me in allowing me to lickshine her already pristine, shiny black leather ballet-flats – which go so well with her black, fishnet stockings beneath her black cotton, office trouser-hems!
Once the ballet shoes are on her, she twists and turns them beneath my kneeling face like a foot-catwalk model, thereby ensuring that my tongue gains access to all areas of her unspoilt shoeleather. And, of course, I am expected to extol the beauty of her new shoes, and pander to her young-womanly shoe-vanity, as I lickshine them:
‘Oh pray, goddess-mistress Viviana…lick…lick…If it pleases you most beautiful and demure, goddess-mistress Viviana…lick…lick...lick… truly this slave blesses and praises your beautiful, new shoes, Mexican mistress...lick…lick…lick…lick… and worships the ground on which they will walk, mistress …lick …lick…lick...lick...lick…’
That last, gushing statement is just wishful thinking on my part, of course – because I shall never get to follow on my hands and knees in the footsteps of a goddess like miss Viviana; I am kept permanently chained up in this city-centre, footoire booth; always have been, always will be! But the mere thought of licking the ground where her ballet-flats have walked fills me with foolish, footslave joy (just imagine seeing the occasional glimpse of black fishnet-stocking beneath the flapping hems at the backs of her black, bootcut trouser-hems as she walks vaingloriously along the city pavements, turning freemale heads wherever she goes!)
‘Shut up now, feetslave, and put my dirty ankleboots back onto my feet, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, mistress Viviana! At once, mistress Viviana!’
I’m actually quite relieved to be relieved of my shoe-christening duties, and to be back on the much more familiar ground of dirty-office-boot licker! For, miss Viviana, being so vain, could not possibly walk away from me in dirty, unlicked ankleboots – and so she brusquely orders me to lickshine them too before she steps down from the chair and exits the booth.
She could, of course, have decided to wear her brand spanking new ballet-flats for the rest of her commute home, but I rather suspect she’s saving them in all their pristine glory for some special event.
A christening perhaps?
One of my most difficult and belligerent, but at the same time most beautiful, customer-mistresses – slim and svelte, not to say scrawny, mixed-race, twenty-something, customer-mistress Josie – is, somewhat inebriatedly, informing me personally of her good news, which has already been reverberating around the sink-estate where I work as a permanent, public footservant, and where she lives (or has done up until now), whilst I am dutifully, and respectfully, tongueshining her new pair of beige-brown, designer ugg-boots beneath her skinny-tight, black denim, designer jeans.
Her good news is that she has actually won the female lottery (sometimes known as the 'lady lottery'), and is now a Gynarchy millionairess!
And deservedly so – for she could do with a break, having been a drugs-addled, sink-estate, street-fighting, and occasionally street-walking, skank up until now; it's nice to see her have a bit of good luck for a change!
As my pauper, public-footslave tongue continues to lick the sink-estate streetdirt off the nouveau-riche millionairess's drunken ugg-boots, she gaily informs me of her future plans for her new lifestyle, now that she's in the money:
- She explains that she is going to purchase herself a mansion in an expansive country-estate, where she will install hundreds of ornamental footslaves buried up to their necks throughout the grounds, and every few metres along the corridors, of her wealthy abode, so that she, and her friends (i.e. her ex fellow girlgang-members) can have their feet kissed as they walk around both inside and outside the mansion.
- Jubilantly, she explains that many of these ornamental footslaves, who will be situated in some of the more obscure areas of her estate, will only get to kiss her feet maybe once a year or so – but she will still, nevertheless employ them, just in case they are needed.
- Similarly, she will employ human footrests and doormats in every room of her house!
- Furthermore, she will employ separate, personal footwear-slaves for each and every pair of shoes, and socks, she possesses – and she intends to possess hundreds of pairs from now on; like the brand, spanking new ugg-boots she has on today!
- As with the ornamental, footrest, and doormat footslaves, some of her personal footwear-servants will rarely, if ever, be privileged to serve her in person, if she chooses not to wear the particular pair of female shoes or socks they are allocated to; but they will nevertheless have to constantly kiss the unworn shoes or hosiery for which they are responsible in their ignominious, isolation cells deep in the basement of her opulent mansion, and keep said shoes or socks in pristine condition – just on the off-chance she may, someday, decide to wear them!
- Whenever she decides to throw out a pair of her shoes or socks, to make way for new pairs, she will throw out the allocated footwear-slave with them – out into the rubbish heap, where they will have to fend for themselves as feral footslaves! Ha! Ha!
- Whilst they remain in her employ, however, all of the footslaves on her estate – be they ornamental footkissers; footrest-slaves; doormat-footslaves; or individual footwear-servants – shall be fed 'deluxe' slave-mush, which, she explains, differs from ordinary slave-mush in that it tastes deliberately bitter, rather than just bland. It is, by all accounts, an acquired taste that can never be acquired, so foul is it to the human tastebuds – but her country-estate footslaves will have no choice but to eat it since it is the only stuff that shall be keeping them alive! Miss Josie goes on to drunkenly point out that she will be enjoying truly rich and sumptuous fare (gourmet burgers and pizzas and the like) whilst her slaves are struggling to digest their 'deluxe', bitter slave-mush. Ha! Ha!
- Miss Josie then delivers the devastating news to me that there will be no room for me – her loyal, public, sink-estate footslave – in her country estate. She regards me as too old and ugly to serve on her country estate, and reminds me that she is some 40 years my junior. However, being a 'kind-hearted and good-natured girl' she will not abandon me to languish down here in the sink-estate gutter! Rather, she has used her newfound wealth to bribe the female authorities into sending me to what she describes as a 'footslave, hard-labour, retirement home', namely the underground slave-mines!
- Furthermore, she has arranged for me to work in an isolation mine, with just my very own, personal taskmistress, and my personal-taskmistress's whip, for company! To add to my retirement-suffering, she had further given instructions that my personal taskmistress is never to converse with me, and never to wear sock-revealing footwear (for miss Josie knows very well that I have a footslave-penchant for female socks, and is keen to deny me them for the rest of my natural life; as she herself is now, by having her black, denim jeans tucked firmly into the tops of her calf-length, beige-brown, designer ugg-boots!)
- As she cracks open another bottle of champagne, and nonchalantly pours it down the sink-estate drain directly beneath my kneeling and parched face, having taken just one unladylike slug out of it herself, she proceeds to inform me that I shall be breaking underground rocks, on my hands and knees, and under the constant sting of the whip, for 18 hours a day from now on, 365 days a year; and that I shall sleep on the very rocks I am chained up to, whilst she will be relaxing with one of her many, manly, freemale suitors in her luxury, four-poster bed in her new mansion – as she is now, most assuredly, one of the most eligible bachelorettes throughout the whole of the Gynarchy!
Former skank goddess-mistress Josie then orders me to thank her for taking care of me and my future, and to praise and bless her for her own good fortune, by kissing her designer ugg-boots 1000 times, whilst she answers a call on her newly-acquired, solid gold, cell phone.
Which I willingly do, for she is a thousand times better than me; actually, a million times!
Fifty-something, cleaner-mistress Chandrani – who hails originally from India – can be quite rough and unsympathetic with my pathetic, protruding-at-ground-level, ornamental-footkisser head when she is mopping the ladies’ restroom floor directly beneath my downcast face.
She is constantly complaining, in her dominant female-Indian accent, that my ‘damned head is being always in the way!’, and urging me to turn my cheek to one side with a sharp whack from her wooden mop-handle, only to then make me turn the other cheek with a similar blow to the other side of my prone and vulnerable, footslave head. Or sometimes she will scrunch up her dainty, brown, Indian toes inside her otherwise soft, grey, suede leather loafers, and kick me in the side of my face with her exasperated, Indian-woman foot.
Of course, I am forbidden to answer her back – even just to apologise for my ugly, slave-head being in the way of her important work.
But, being a downward-looking, ornamental footkisser, when she is busy mopping the floor around me, does have its compensations – as her shortened, black denim jean-hems mean I get a nice, clear view of her angular, creasing and folding, grey and red patterned, sneaker-style socks (which fail even to cover her pretty, Indian anklebones and disappear completely down the backs of her cleaning-woman loafers.)
Such little moments of sock-joy make my otherwise dreary existence in this necessary place just about bearable, and so I willingly put up with goddess-mistress Chandrani’s scolding and rough treatment – all for the reward of observing her hard-working socks at close quarters!
I mean – just imagine the sweat that must be building up on those inner, grey socks right now!
Somewhat remarkably, the stunningly beautiful, petite, young, twenty-something black woman, sitting high above me on the public-shoelick throne of power, seems to have taken a bit of a shine to me as I lickshine the street dust and dirt off her plain, black leather ballet-flats beneath her hitched-up, black cotton trouser-hems.
She starts asking me lots of questions, like:
· How old am I?
· How long have I been a public footslave?
· Have I always worked on this same pitch?
· How did I learn how to lick female shoes so thoroughly?
· Am I conditioned by the whip?
· How would she go about purchasing me as her personal footslave?
In answer to that last question, I should really refer her to my current owners – the Patel family – because, unbeknown to her, I am actually a semi-private footslave, only part owned by the State. But, instead, I lie to her – and humbly tell her that, regretfully, I’m not for sale, as I am a public prisoner serving a lifetime sentence of public foot-penance!
And why do I seek to put such a charming, young woman off purchasing me as her personal footservant?
Because she isn’t wearing socks inside her black ballet-flats. I could never get hitched to a non-sock mistress!
My master-sir has gone to fetch the whip for my kneeling back.
Meanwhile, I am left in his bedroom, kissing his new girlfriend's feet. As per usual, she's a pretty girl – mid twenties; dark-complexioned and dark haired; possibly mixed-race; certainly slim and somewhat flat-chested, but shapely with it; and incredibly dim. Just the way my master-sir likes them, for he knows they are easily pleased – and, just as importantly, easily impressed by his prowess with the whip, and his mastery over a weak and helpless, male slave at their feet.
That's how he uses me – as a prop for his machismo. I am, officially, his wife's slave, of course, but she is currently away on business. And whilst the mistress is away, the master will play!
The dark-skinned, young woman whose feet I am now feverishly cupping and kissing is still fully clothed and wearing a pair of plain, black leather loafers beneath her black polyester, bootcut trouser-hems. Due to the outstretched positioning of her right foot – the one I am currently kissing – I can also observe a slither of somewhat manky-looking, and bobbled, black cotton anklesock.
It looks like the clever master-sir picked her up at work.
She mocks me whilst I kiss her scuffmarked and street-dirtied, outer footwear:
'Ha! Ha! Is you frightened of your master and the whup, pafetic slave? Is you, like, dreadin' the pain, an' that?'
I continue to kiss her feet -–as I have been ordered to do by my master-sir – whilst responding respectfully to the young, mixed-race woman's inquisitive questions:
'Oh yes, mistress-madam... kiss...kiss... very much so madam... kiss...kiss...kiss... if it pleases you, madam?... kiss...kiss...kiss... My mighty master-sir is very adept with the whip, mistress-madam... kiss...kiss...kiss... and I am about to experience a goodly amount of pain at your feet… kiss…kiss… should it be so pleasing to you young mistress-madam!... kiss...kiss...kiss...'
I don't even know this young woman's name, but I must respect her as the 'mistress' of my master-sir, even though I am about to be whipped purely for her adulteress delectation. (I should probably be whipped instead for my own disloyalty to my mistress – the master-sir’s wife; but she isn't here. And while the mistress is away, the slave will be led astray – by the sting of the whip!)
'Ha! Ha! You is truly pafetic, slave, innit though? Kissin' my feet, an' that, while your master goes to get the whup! Ha! Ha! You cain’t even run away, an' that, coz of your heavy chains! Ha! Ha!'
She is referring to the leg-irons I must wear permanently around my ankles; she clearly finds them amusing!
'Yes, mistress-madam... kiss...kiss... truly I am at your mercy, and the mercy of my master-sir... kiss...kiss...kiss... if it pleases you, mistress-madam?... kiss...kiss...kiss...kiss... Oh pray, pretty mistress-madam! Ai, oh pray!... kiss...kiss...kiss... Please will you intercede with the master-sir for me... kiss...kiss...kiss...and ask him to go easy on me with the whip... kiss...kiss...kiss... madam? For I am just a frightened and weak slave, pretty, mixed-race madam!... kiss...kiss...kiss...'
Those last six kisses were to her manky, black anklesock, as they do say the feel of a frightened footslave's trembling lips on a young woman's socked anklebone is most likely to elicit sweet young-womanly mercy and compassion in her!
But, sadly for me, in this case it doesn't work:
'Ha! Ha! Why would I wants to see him go easy on you, an' that, pafetic slave? I likes the sound of the whup on a mangy slave’s back, innit though? Ha! Ha!'
'Yes, mistress... kiss...kiss... Thank you, mistress... kiss...kiss...kiss...'
.....................................................................................
A few minutes later, when the master-sir returns with his thick-girthed, black leather, single-tailed whip, and is rolling up his sleeve in readiness to punish me, the young, mixed-race madam does intercede for me:
'Don't spare him, Alan! Whup him hard, an' that!'
