Bachelorette Belinda’s Bridal Bash
I am heavily indebted to regular reader, slave Nylonsniff, for both the inspiration and detailed plot to this story.
It was the evening of 22 year old, bachelorette Belinda’s bridal bash – a longstanding Gynarchy tradition, similar to a hen night, when a Gynarchy bride gets to let her long, dark, hair down shortly before her wedding, and party with her female friends before getting hitched to the free male of her choice, which, in Belinda’s case, was the extremely hunky and handsome 25 year old firefighter Brad (being a very beautiful, young woman, Belinda had the pick of the freemale bunch; yes, they would make a truly handsome couple, Belinda & Brad!)
She was sitting with her female friends at a ‘Last Supper’ style, long table in a posh, Gynarchy-themed restaurant staffed by semi-naked, first-class, bronzed and hunky, male waiter-slaves. It was her wealthy parents who were paying for the bash – which didn’t come cheap; but they themselves were absent from the do, as they in no way wished to cramp their bachelorette daughter’s style on her last night of absolute freedom from the male (she would still, of course, be the boss in her marriage to Brad – being a Gynarchy girl; but every young woman has to give up some of her absolute female power to her freemale partner when getting hitched – if only because she is so hopelessly in love with him, and occasionally likes to be ‘taken in hand’ by a strong man!)
Facing the table, tethered in a highly painful, tip-toed, standing position, with his arms stretched high above his head, was the only sorry individual in the room who was over the age of 35 – a nameless, ‘elderly’, male slave (he was actually only in his early fifties but, like many Gynarchy slaves, had lead a hard-knock life, and consequently looked much older and wrinklier than he actually was). He was naked apart from his permanently locked-on, male chastity belt, and he was naked for a good reason; he was about to be whipped in front of his primarily female audience – purely for their entertainment and pleasure, and, in particular, the pleasure of the guest of honour, bachelorette Belinda!
He had been deliberately hung so that he was facing the ladies merrily seated at the table, so that the increasingly raucous and inebriated gaggle of young women could see his wrinkly, ‘old’ face screwing up in agony during his painful, whipping ordeal. Barbaric bachelorette Belinda had specifically requested it; and not only that – she wanted the whipped slave to be able to see her, and her female friends’, pretty faces as well, so that he could observe from afar just how much they were enjoying his pain and suffering.
He was, you see, a representation of everything a Gynarchy girl despises in a male – aging; withered; feeble; weak; and impotent. The complete opposite of the man she loved and was soon to marry – the baseball-playing, hero-firefighter, and former college jock, Brad, with his rippled, manly muscles and potent penis!
There was to be no rush about the evening’s festivities; though the wine was already flowing, the whipping hadn’t even started yet. And when it did, Belinda had given specific orders that it was to proceed at a slow pace throughout the happy evening. This was her bash, and she wanted it done her way!
Fortunately for the about-to-be-whipped, male slave at the ignominious centre of the festivities, the row of young women seated along the restaurant table in front of him – with the beautiful bride-to-be seated, of course, at the centre surrounded by her bridesmaids and female college friends – were far enough away from him for him to be able to see their feet and footwear beneath the long table, as well as their pretty faces above it.
And there was all manner of sweet feminine footwear for him to admire during his whipping, if he could but drag his pitiful gaze away from the cruel young women’s sneering and jubilant faces.
The bride-to-be herself was wearing a somewhat incongruous pair of, black leather, laced-up, calf-length DMs, and thick, black-ribbed calf-socks, below the lacy-white hem of her mock bridal gown (not the one she would actually be married in, of course – but a cheap gown symbolic of her ‘purity’ and bridal status on this night of drunken debauchery; she also had a red ‘L’ plate hung around her neck – indicating that she was a ‘learner’ when it came to handling a husband; or the art of ‘husbandry’, as it’s often referred to, tongue in female cheek, throughout the Gynarchy!)
But there was also a heady mixture of both tan, and dark, nylon stockings; dangling high-heels; tennis shoes; and open-toed sandals. One or two young ladies had even temporarily ‘lost’ their footwear beneath the table, and were now dusty-barefoot or stocking-footed!
Naturally, the suspended footslave on tenterhooks was immensely interested in the female footwear arranged before him, as he knew that Gynarchy tradition dictated he would be required to humbly kiss all of those female feet following his flogging – after he has finally been untethered and permitted to collapse onto the restaurant floor. He will no doubt be ordered to crawl over to each and every one of the young women, and kiss their feet whilst praising and blessing them for witnessing his whipping; and thank them for coming; and express his hope that they have enjoyed their evening’s entertainment at his expense; not to mention, of course, his fervent footkisses, and best wishes, to the bride-to-be’s Doc Martened feet!
It’s even likely that, post whipping, he will be unceremoniously decked out in some humiliatingly festive way with fancy bows and ribbons (symbolic of his whipped back being torn to ribbons) whilst being presented to the bride for her personal, bootkissing pleasure!
The person who was to carry out the whipping was now in the process of limbering up – and greasing up! It wasn’t one of the women, and certainly not the bride Belinda herself. Remember, these girls celebrated manhood – providing it was hunky and virile manhood – and so the whipping would be administered by the opulent restaurant’s strongest, hunkiest, male waiter-slave!
He began his customary warm-up dance in front of the screaming, young ladies by performing a kind of striptease out of his waiter’s dinner-jacket and down to his own maleslave, black leather chastity-belt (though his belt, it must be said, was of necessity much larger than that of the wizened, older slave dangling from the ceiling, who was about to be whipped!)
The male ‘whip-dancer’ made great play of phallically rubbing and oiling his thick-girthed, black braided, single-tailed whip in front of the girls – especially bachelorette Belinda. For legal reasons, he also had to present her with his laminated, maleslave ‘license to whip other male slaves’, in order to demonstrate that he was properly authorised to make contact with the ‘female’ end of a whip (the handle), as opposed to the more normal ‘male’ end (the stinger)! This was a reputable Gynarchy restaurant, and everything had to be seen to be totally above board and legal.
There are many oohs and aahs as the bridesmaids inspect the flail; and the male-whipper’s hunky arm-muscles. One of the miniskirted, young women – a blonde bimbo in tan-nylon stockings and bright blue high-heels – even used the freshly-greased, coiled menace to gently stroke the hunky whipper-slave's bare chest and the rippled muscles along his ribs, thereby visibly augmenting his tumescence, and his desire to get on with the show of his whipping-prowess (the hunky maleslave’s male chastity belt, it has to be said again, left little to the girls’ imagination – unlike the about-to-be-whipped slave’s belt, which hung limply from his puny groin!)
The tan-nyloned, blue-high-heeled temptress then drunkenly got out from behind the table and totteringly led the male-whipper, by means of the whip around his neck, towards where the maleslave whippee was hanging.
She then unwrapped the long, leather whip from the hunk’s neck, and instead teasingly rubbed it up and down the ‘elderly’, suspended slave’s hairless chest:
‘Ha! Ha! Are you frightened, old-slaveman?’, she cooed, in a feminine tone of young, faux-concern for his mental wellbeing.
The ‘old-slaveman’ responded truthfully:
‘Y…Yes, young mistress!’
What else could he say, under the circumstances?
Meanwhile the miniskirted, blue-high-heeled girl had noticed a brand mark at the base of the older slave’s ribcage – ‘M982’. She realised, for she was a clever blonde-bimbo, that this marked him out as a footslave of considerable seniority in Gynarchy terms; it has been ages since the ‘M’ series was brought in. Ha! Ha!
The rest of the bachelorette party were becoming quite impatient now! It was time for pain! They started chanting ‘Whip him!...Whip him!...Whip him!...Whip him!....’, in female unison, and the blonde girl, having handed the whip back to the hunky, male-whipper, and curtsied before him admiringly, teetered back on her blue high-heels in order to resume her female place at the witness-table .
As the guests collectively held their female breath in the suddenly silenced room, the bride-to-be had the honour of quietly giving the final go-ahead for the proceedings to start – which she did with a nonchalant wave of her sweet feminine hand, and a subliminal flexing of her right bovver-boot and sock beneath the table.
The now fully-primed, alpha-maleslave whipper whirled the black braided whip over his head several times before bringing it crashing down onto the zeta-maleslave’s suspended, bare back:
Swish…Swish…Swish…CRACK!
The first stoke of the whip sounded like the crack of a pistol!
A skin-splitting second later there was an almighty roar – not from the female audience; nor from the macho whipper; but, not unsurprisingly perhaps under the circumstances, from the scrawny recipient of the mighty lash; it was a roar of ABSOLUTE, UNBRIDLED PAIN!
The slave had been instructed to keep his eyes on the bride's pretty face, but his eyes could not help but roll up into the air as the enormity of the pain sank in; wave after wave of agony – even from just the first stroke! Being a footslave, he was accustomed to keeping his attention focused on female feet during a whipping, and had fully intended to focus, in particular, on the black leather DMs and matching, thick black socktops of the beautiful bride-to-be; but this amount of pain took him by complete surprise! He had never been whipped by such a strongman before!
After what seemed like an eternity of suffering, but was actually only a few agonising seconds, his head and eyes slumped downwards again towards those beautiful DM boots and socks beneath the table. But brutish, bachelorette Belinda was having none of it:
‘You, the whipped slave! My eyes are up here!’
And while she said this, she pointed with two fingers first at the older maleslave’s watering eyes, and then at her own glinting eyes. Cute, huh?
Being in a jolly, prenuptial mood, she repeated this arrogant gesture from the streets several times during the flogging, which was, as she had ordered, conducted in slow-time – always seeking to focus her victim’s gaze on the sadistic, unsympathetic pleasure in her young-womanly face, rather than on her comforting, black DM boots and matching, black bootsocks, thereby increasing his footslave-suffering.
And she wasn’t the only one whose face displayed pleasure! Various of the young women were now biting their lips with lustful pleasure; or oohing and aahing in faux-sympathy with the obvious pain and suffering of the aging, male slave, whilst at the same time urging the youthful, male whipper on to ever greater efforts:
‘Oooh, I think he liked that one, whipper! Give him another!’
‘Ha! Ha! Look at the state of his ribs! I can see the white, costal cartilage! Look, Belinda – can you see? Ha! Ha!’
‘Yuck! That’s gross!’
‘Gosh, that must be tender! Feeling a bit sore, are we slave?’
‘Ha! Ha! Harder! Harder! Whip him harder – or you’ll be the next, whipper-slave!’
Apart from bachelorette-mistress Belinda – the guest of honour – the footslave on the receiving end of the cruel whip didn’t know any of his audience’s names, but, based on their behaviour, and in a desperate attempt to take his mind off the ferocious pain, he started to think up some suitable, respectful nicknames for them; names such as ‘Mistress Giggles’; ‘Mistress Bitch’; ‘Mistress Tipsy’; ‘Mistress Oooh!’; ‘Mistress Ha!Ha!’ and ‘Mistress Eeewww!’.
Red-haired mistress Giggles, for example, liked to mimic his writhing and his pained, facial expressions, much to the delight of the other guests.
Mistress Tipsy – the girl in the tan-nylon stockings and blue patent leather high-heels who had earlier played with the whip – had clearly by now had much too much to drink, and was entertaining everybody by flicking mashed potatoes at the whipped slave using her spoon as a catapult! The slave was even ‘fortunate’ enough to catch a morsel of mash in his mouth, as he had not been fed for a while; but, ungratefully, he seemed to have lost his appetite, due presumably to the intense pain he was currently undergoing?
Brunette mistress Oooh! – she of the faux-sympathetic face – later advanced on him during a break in the whipping (to enable the male whipper to catch his breath and regain his manly strength) with a glass of red wine in her hand, which she callously extended to the suspended slave’s parched, quivering lips, only to then ‘accidentally’ spill it down the wrap-around wounds across his bare chest, saying:
‘Oops! Clumsy me!’.
The other girls guffawed with laughter! Especially mocking mistress Ha! Ha!
‘Ha! Ha! Smarts a bit does it, slave? Ha! Ha! Why don’t you stop your ‘wine-ing’? Ha! Ha!’
Black mistress Eeewww then literally went a step further, and peeked around behind the whipped slave to witness the devastation on his back, earning her nickname by delicately exclaiming ‘Eeewww!’
And finally, blonde mistress Bitch decided to unscrew the top from a salt shaker and empty its contents over the poor slave’s whip-lacerated back. This act of wanton, female cruelty particularly amused the male whipper-slave, who congratulated her with a romantic kiss to her dainty, salt-shaking hand!
With mistress Bitch once again at a safe distance away from the business-end of the whip, he was then about to resume the whipping, when who should make a guest-appearance at the bachelorette bash but the manly groom-to-be, master Brad! The girls all cheered!
He smilingly explained that he couldn't stay long, but that he just wanted to see his lovely bride-to-be one last time before they were married! He then took her in his arms, lifted her up, and French-kissed her. The girls all swooned at his magnificent, firefighter’s lift!
Ginger-haired mistress Giggles then urged Brad to demonstrate his virility to all and sundry in the restaurant by driving his manly fist into the suspended slave's exposed solar plexus, which he duly did:
Bash!
‘Umph!’
The slave’s meagre morsel of flicked mashed-potato was, as a result, suddenly regurgitated in front of everyone.
‘Ha! Ha! What the hell was that?’ asked a curious mistress Ha! Ha!
‘Oh, that was just the contents of his last supper!’ screamed a wittily-drunken mistress Tipsy!
Brad – the Alpha Freemale – was then urged on by the other girls to grab the whip from the alpha-slavemale, and to give the ‘elderly’, punch-drunk, zeta-slave two or three mighty cuts across his winded stomach; and the young women made sure the zeta-slave subsequently thanked ‘master Brad sir’, for the dubious privilege of being gut-punched and whipped by another man – just as soon as he had got his elderly breath back!
Young master Brad then left the party, as the suspended, male footslave was finally released from his bonds, ignobly decorated with blood-red ribbons, and then ordered to crawl over to the long table to kiss the feet of his intoxicated tormentresses; namely
· The blue patent leather high-heels of the tan-nylon-stockinged, whip-caressing, mashed-potato-flicking, blonde girl – now known as mistress Tipsy
· The red converse, high-top sneakers and white socktops of the facially-contorted, whipwound-inspecting, ginger-haired mistress Giggles
· The spike-heeled, pointy-toed, black leather, zip-up kneeboots of the faux-sympathetic and somewhat clumsy mistress Oooh!
· The bare brown, red-painted-toenailed feet of the bilious black girl, mistress Eeewww! (her red patent leather, peep-toe, slingback sandals were lying around somewhere underneath the table!)
· The dangling, shiny black leather, high-heeled pumps on dark nylons of mistress Ha! Ha! (he noticed the reinforced heel and toe-cleavage areas of her black-nyloned feet as he kissed her shiny, black shoeleather, but didn’t have the footslave-strength left to either nose or nuzzle her reinforced foot-nylon; sad really!)
· The plain, black leather ballet-flats and matching black anklesocks of mistress Bitch (her ballet-flats, he noted, tasted somewhat salty!)
· And of course, last but not least, the stunningly beautiful, black leather, laced-up DMs and thick black bootsocks of bachelorette mistress Belinda herself! Now he had her full permission to focus on her boots, as he was ordered to kiss them 1000 times each!
Meanwhile, the manly whip-master was stood down, but – being well brought-up, young ladies of the Gynarchy – not before they had each inserted a 5 Fem note into his swollen jockstrap-cum-chastity belt, by way of a large tip!
The final act of the proceedings was the traditional vote – taken by the young ladies – as to the future fate of the freshly-whipped, ‘elderly’ slaveman, with bachelorette Belinda having the casting vote if necessary. Would he be allowed to recuperate and serve again as a whipped-slave for some other belligerent bachelorette at her bachelorette bash? Or, more likely, would he be voted off – and consigned to the underground slave-mines to spend the rest of his days mining salt for the cruel salt shakers of the Gynarchy’s restaurants? Or would it be the foothole dungeons? Or the galleys?
The choices were seemingly endless – for the drunken-with-power, young ladies – and so it took them some time to deliberate on his fate. But, eventually, they showed mercy on him – and directed that he be allowed to kiss female feet for the rest of his life in one of the Gynarchy’s foothole dungeons. Hell, they might even visit him themselves one day – after Belinda is married – to see how well his whip-wounds have healed; or not, as the case may be!
Yes, a fun time had been had by all, and Belinda and her mates had the pictures and video footage to prove it, which they, of course, posted almost immediately onto their respective social-networking pages!
The whipped footslave, on the other hand, sank, quite literally, into obscurity in one of the underground foothole dungeons. Belinda’s bovver-boots never did come to visit him; they – like the shoes, boots, sandals and bare feet of her female cohorts – soon completely forgot about him and his suffering as, one by one, and many similar bachelorette bashes later, they each got hitched to a hunky freemale, and lived female lives of deep joy and marital bliss, happily ever after!
