The Prizefighter
Even though it’s chucking it down, my beautiful, young, black mistress Patience and her family are dawdling along the city pavements like there was no tomorrow, seemingly unconcerned that they are getting soaked!
Mind you – they aren’t really the ones who are getting soaked, since they are well wrapped-up and protected from the wind and the rain by their heavy, winter overcoats, hoods and umbrellas. I’m the only one who is semi-naked and soaked through to the white skin, being clad only in my flimsy, white slave-shorts and heavy chains as I crawl behind my mistress Patience’s white, boxer-style, laced-up, gymnasium boots and tight, skinny, blue-denim jeans whilst she ambles along the wet pavements seemingly without a care in the world, and certainly oblivious to my maleslave suffering and discomfort behind her!
But I have no right to complain about getting wet; after all, it is an honour and a privilege to be a 22 year old black girl’s personal footservant – whatever the weather! Especially when she is so tall, pretty, fit and slim!
And, let me tell you, her synthetic, white, calf-length boxer-boots aren’t just for show – she is a professional, female boxer, pummelling the living daylights out of her freemale, boxing opponents on an almost daily basis.
She always wins her bouts since, by law, the female must always win in any mixed-sex, Gynarchy sporting competition; plus, the male boxer is prohibited from actually punching his female opponent – he is only permitted to defend himself, by rolling with the female punches as she boxes his ears!
Oh how I wish I was behind her nice, dry boxer-boots in the boxing ring right now – instead of crawling behind her rainsodden boxer-boots in the cold, night air! But I know that focussing on the tall backs of her wet, calf-length, boxer boots is my only hope of taking my miserable slave-mind off the miserable Gynarchy-weather, and the heavy rain mercilessly lashing my bare slave-back!
Tonight was actually my boxer-mistress Patience’s night off from the ring, and so she has been relaxing in a restaurant with her parents and brother, having a nice, warm family meal. At least, I presume it was nice – it certainly smelt nice as I knelt underneath the restaurant table hungrily eyeing up my mistress’s synthetic, but unsympathetic, white boots. My mistress Patience and her family are never inclined to feed me tidbits or leftovers from their superior plates or palates!
And so there is little else I can do but be patient as my mistress Patience and her black family members now idle along through the wet, city streets – post restaurant – with their bellies full of hot, nutritious food.
I must dutifully endeavour to ignore, not just the rumblings of my empty and neglected stomach (thankfully drowned out by the rumblings of thunder above us), but also the dirty raindrops splashing onto my face from the backs of my stunning, black mistress’s flat-heeled, white, synthetic boxer-boots as she walks indolently along. I must not think outside the boxing boots, but must instead concentrate on the blood red, cotton bootsocks which she is wearing inside her synthetic, calf-length boots – her red socktops modestly tucked out over the bottoms of her skinny, blue-denim jean hems, so as not to reveal her soft, black legskin to my kneeling gaze; for the socks are the red highlights of my otherwise drab and dreary existence!
That’s because the splash of twisted, elasticated, red cotton socktop contrasts so sweetly with the smooth, wet whiteness of my black mistress’s, fully laced-up, synthetic boots (and, indeed, with the dark blue denim of her skinny jeans-leg), and the mere thought that her bright, red socks may be not just sweat-dampened, but also rain-dampened and musty-smelling, inside her non-waterproof boots, fills me with pathetic, footslavish awe and wonderment!
At least I shall have her sweaty and musty-smelling, wet socks to look forward to on my face all night (my mistress, in accordance with Black Gynarchy tradition, likes to rest her dirty, worn, unwashed socks over my upturned face as she boxes me in for the night on my oftentimes whipmarked back, in the dank and lonely boxroom-cell of her otherwise opulent, Black Gynarchy, family home!)
And she will doubtless be going to bed early tonight herself – as she has another professional boxing bout to perform tomorrow evening, and will have to get up with the lark for some early-morning, rope-skip training! I do hope her whirling skipping-rope won’t catch me on the kneeling face – for it not only hurts me; it upsets my mistress’s training routine, leading to my being severely punished with the bullwhip across my back. And, needless to say, the bullwhip hurts even more than the skipping rope – catching me in a vicious circle of maleslave pain with no gain!
hat’s that you say? You wish you could accompany us to the bout tomorrow night as you’d like to watch me crawling around the ring behind my mistress Patience’s dancing, white, synthetic boxer-boots and red calf-socks as she clobbers some poor, defenceless bloke?
Well – you must be patient! After all, my mistress Patience is a virtue!
OK, so you asked for it – now you've got it! Your patience has been rewarded with a free, ringside seat to watch my young, black footmistress's latest boxing match.
Or more like 'mismatch' - since her freemale opponent, as I explained before, is forbidden to box back; or even to box clever!
See how the backs of my unbeaten mistress Patience's pure white, tightly laced-up, synthetic boxing-boots crease and fold in front of my face as she climbs up into the ring with myself in tow (that's because, by law, a personal footslave must never leave the presence of his mistress's footwear, not even if she is performing in the boxing ring!)
Can you see the unimpeded tops of my mistress's bright red calf-socks again? Unimpeded this time by blue-denim jean-hem since she is now, of course, wearing her matching red boxing shorts. Isn't it funny how a pair of smart, red boxer-shorts can look so good on her, whilst my plain, white shorts only look slavish?! That's because she has smooth, long, shapely, black bare legs; and I don't!
Furthermore, look at how utterly stunning her blood-red socktops are set against the pleasing backdrop of her shimmering, black calf-muscles, under the spotlight of the brightly-lit boxing ring!
Now, I know what you're wondering – are they the same pair of calf-length, red bootsocks that she had on the night before in the restaurant? Yes they are! Though the socks are now fully dried-out, having lain on my footslave-face all last night. My slave-breath has dried them, and they weren't sweaty enough, in my black mistress's estimation, to require a slave-mouthwash this morning.
They certainly will be sweaty enough to require a good mouthwashing after tonight's bout – given the amount of fancy-footwork my super-lithe and fit mistress Patience will be demonstrating in the boxing ring as she beats up a male for the entertainment of the mainly female crowd.
Ha! Ha! Her male opponent looks scared – as well he might do; for not only is he about to get lawfully beaten up by a superior, young woman – there is always the possibility that he might, inadvertently, cause injury or harm to his female opponent, say by causing her to damage her boxing-gloved fist on his face (the gloves are only there to protect a mistress's delicate, feminine hands, of course – otherwise all professional boxing mistresses would doubtless prefer to go bare-knuckle, for the pleasure of feeling a man's nose crush and break beneath their dainty, female fingers!).
If he does hurt his black-female opponent in any way, it will be the end of his career, not only as a boxing stooge, but also as a free man – for the penalty for assaulting a woman in the Gynarchy, inside or outside the ring, is enslavement in the underground slave-mines for life (actually a worse fate than the death penalty would be!)
But I actually think my mistress's male opponent tonight isn't in any great danger of losing his liberty; to be honest he looks quite weedy and wimpish – more likely to go home battered, bruised and crying, than carted off to the slave-mines by the Female-Police on a charge of provoked assault!
It's funny how, as soon as the bout starts, I become all aggressive and protective as I kneel behind my black mistress's deftly dancing, boxer-boots and red socktops in the middle of the ring! I love it whenever she lays one on her male opponent, as the tops of her red bootsocks crease and fold with the concomitant straining of her shapely, young-black-womanly, calf-muscles. I expect it's exactly how her red socks must crease whenever she is bullwhipping me – though, needless to say, I never get to see her socks on such occasions since she will be standing at quite a distance behind me whilst wielding the seven foot long, black leather whip!
It is, of course, my humble job to straighten her boxing-boot socks during the breaks in between each round, whilst she is seated on her stool in her corner, being given an encouraging pep-talk by her trainer (her father), and having her pretty, pink gum-shield attended to (not that she needs it, since her opponent can't lay a finger on her; it’s purely a fashion accessory!).
It's not a question of if – but when – my mistress Patience shall win the bout by knocking out her opponent, and then standing victoriously over him with her right, booted foot resting flatly on his vanquished stomach, to the cheers of the female crowd!
Come her inevitable, female victory over the male, I am, of course, not permitted to rest my head behind her victorious, man-stomach-churning, right boot – since the victory must be seen to be exclusively female. Instead, my gormless, footslave face must pay homage to my victorious, black mistress's left boxer-boot, which is still resting on the bloodied floor of the boxing-ring (bloodied by the cut from the male boxer's right black-eye – not that he's suffering right now; he's out for the count! Ha! Ha!).
After she has formally been declared the victress by the match referee, I must carry my prizefighter- mistress Patience around the ring on my bare, kneeling back for all to praise and admire her. I don't mind these backbreaking, victory circuits since it means I get to see and feel my black mistress's white, sweaty, synthetic boxer-boots dangling on either side of my face as I carry her along on my back, and feel her white laces whipping against my downcast cheeks; whip-marks which are soothed by furtively rubbing them against her sweaty, red socks – though I shall have to wait a while longer before I get to sniff those comforting, red bootsocks whilst my mistress takes her post-bout, victory shower.
But, like I've already said before – mistress Patience is a virtue; and her victorious, red bootsocks are truly a prize worth fighting for!
