Gynarchy Gimps Volume 2
Further observations from various enslaved, Gynarchy Gimps (about the magnificent mistresses they serve!)
It’s not often that a free man in the Gynarchy has to get down on his knees before a woman. In fact, I can think of only two circumstances when you are likely to see that:
1) If he is performing cunnilingus on her
2) If he is proposing marriage to her (in which case being down on one knee will suffice!)
My mistress Gökçen’s longstanding boyfriend, 50 year old master Demircan sir, has just gotten down on one knee to formally propose marriage to my 25 year old, Turkish mistress-madam, and she has graciously accepted!
But, pleased though I am for them both, that still leaves my own position very much in doubt; for not all master-sirs wish their betrothed’s premarital, personal footservants to accompany them to heel into the marital home! Some master-sirs are indeed content to have another male at their wife’s feet; many others, however, prefer to supply their lovely bride with a wedding gift of a brand new personal footslave, chosen and paid for by themselves; still others won’t countenance a male footslave in the house at all, and expect their wives to make do with the many public footservants scattered throughout the Gynarchy!
What is master Demircan sir’s view going to be?
Fortunately for me, he agrees to his pretty bride-to-be keeping me after they are married, but under a strict, domestic footslave-regime known as ‘total immersion’.
To sum up, my new conditions of foot-servitude in the marital home will be as follows:
· I must wear a garish-green, rubbery footfool-facemask, which covers all but my nose, eyes and mouth and otherwise hides my ugly, maleslave face from the handsome master Demircan sir’s sight;
· I must be deaf – so that I cannot eavesdrop on the superior conversations between my master and his wife above me. Hence the footfool-mask will include ear-plugs, and my orders shall be communicated to me via a series of kicks to the face and torso (the master-sir kindly promises to develop a detailed code of kicking which even a stupid slave like me can learn to understand in due course!)
· I must be mute, hence the mask shall also contain a footslave tongue-plate – a clever little device made of steel which forces my tongue to stay flat, and thereby takes away the power of speech from me, but still permits me to lickshine, and taste, my mistress’s dirty footwear with my tongue’s permanently extended tip. Having the tip of my squashed tongue permanently sticking out also makes me look ridiculous, of course, which only adds to the overall humiliation of the footfool-mask; a rubbery mask which, no doubt, will over the course of time be festooned with handwritten, deprecatory messages about my pathetic condition of totally immersive footslavery, as well as lots of little, miniature, female-foot-related items – shoes, boots and the like – also made of rubber, and designed to make me look a complete and utter feet-fool, totally obsessed by my delightful, Turkish mistress’s, married feet and footwear – which, to be fair, is precisely what I am!
· The slit over the footfool-mask nose must be able to secure one of my mistress’s dirty, used bedsocks inside it, so that everything I smell is filtered through the aroma of thick and sweaty, feminine woolly sock; likewise the mouth-slit must be sufficiently large so that one of my mistress’s dirty bedsocks can be inserted into it (for the taste-buds on the very tip of my tongue should still be able to detect her bitter, stale, overnight socksweat). The master-sir has, however, given an undertaking that he will only ever insert one of his wife’s dirty bedsocks into either the nose-slit or the mouth-slit – and never both at once, lest I suffocate from dirty, female sock!
· I must be blinkered, so that, although I can see, I can only look down towards my mistress’s feet and footwear (I have no problem with this particular stipulation, since my fashion-conscious, Turkish mistress Gökçen has a tendency to wear smart, purple leather, strappy, high-heeled sandals on her bare feet during the daytime, which are, therefore, a joy to behold close-up and personal – unlike her smelly, blue bedsocks!)
· I must be fitted with an irremovable, heavy, wooden cangue, so that my neck is kept permanently bowed, and I am prevented from raising my blinkered eyes up above the Turkish mistress’s ankle-level
· I must be fitted with an electronic concentrator device in my brain which will inflict pain on me by means of a sharp, electric shock should my very thoughts stray from my mistress Gökçen’s feet or footwear in front of me
· I must be regularly injected with ‘slave-serum’ – a noxious substance which keeps a male slave timid, fearful and obedient, and also heightens his pain receptors during whipping etc.
Together, all of these stipulations and modifications amount to this regime of so-called ‘total immersion’ for a married woman’s personal footslave – an increasingly popular choice for married couples in the Gynarchy nowadays, who wish to keep the lady’s personal footslave as a permanent fixture at her feet after they are married, but don’t wish him interfering in their intimate and private relationship too much! In effect, I become a dehumanised, rubbery object at my mistress’s feet!
I am ever so grateful to master Demircan sir for agreeing to my continued presence in his marital home at my mistress Gökçen’s feet, subject to all the above conditions!
Turkish Household Footfool by patheticus on GoAnimate
NB: The term ‘skank’ is not considered insulting or derogatory within the bizarre culture of the Gynarchy. Indeed, many young Gynarchy women positively hanker for ‘skank’ status, and insist on being called ‘skanktresses’ rather than ‘mistresses’, innit though?...
…‘Yes, skanktress Whitney; at once, most respected skanktress Courtney; as it pleases you, most beautiful goddess-skanktress, miss Roxi…,’ etc. etc…
In the Gynarchy, skank is good – for to be a skank is to be a sexually profligate, casually cruel, young, fit and attractive, inner-city female, who is very much looked up to by female society at large; and therefore someone who is infinitely better than the lowly and despised, enslaved male!
So, if you are such an enslaved male, read the following on your hands and knees, and show some respect for your skank-mistress betters!
The three wise skanks – all in their late teens or early twenties and all intensely beautiful – amble towards me nonchalantly, in order to torment me in the stocks, as they currently have nothing better to do. One of them is even pushing a pram:
Wise Mistress No. 1 - The pram-pusher; an ultra-pretty, mixed race girl who is wearing a two-tone, grey, hoodie top (though with the top pulled down to reveal her straggly, blonde-braided hair); grey cotton jogging-bottoms with elasticated hems – one of which (the left one) is clearly higher up her pink and black anklesock than the other, but, I suspect, deliberately so as this is all the street-fashion nowadays; the aforementioned black cotton anklesocks with a single, pink stripe along the tops (I only know about the fetching, pink stripe because of the half-mast, jogging-bottom-hem on her skanky, left leg); and a pair of scruffy, weather-beaten, lace-up, low-top, grubby-white sneakers. Her method of tormenting me in the kneeling stocks, having pushed her pram to one side, appears to be to rub her left-socked anklebone up and down my imprisoned nose, ostensibly to straighten it and smooth out any creases – knowing that I am powerless to stop her sock in my face. She is very wise – for it is her way of demonstrating to her two female companions her absolute, female sock-power over me, and my utter male impotency before her.
Wise Mistress No. 2 – A bright looking, slightly podgy, black girl with bright, orange hair; wearing a yellow and black shell-suit, and plain, black, lace-up plimsolls with white and red-striped anklesocks on her slightly chubby anklebones. I only get to see her socks when she stretches forth each of her black-plimsolled feet in turn and orders me to smell her outer footwear. I must say, the combination of black-rubbery, street-soiled toe-area, and dusty, black canvas upper, with just a hint of residual footsweat emanating through, does make for a fitting smell for a footslave-prisoner in the stocks! She too, is very wise – especially in the way she doesn’t allow me to sniff her directly on the sock!
Wise Mistress No. 3 – The last young lady – who is white -– is wearing a heavy anorak (well, it is bitterly cold this afternoon – not that anyone gives a damn about the fact I am stark naked apart from my flimsy, white, prisoner-slave shorts and the wood around my neck and arms); and a pair of skinny-tight, white, denim jeans tucked into a heavily street-soiled pair of calf-length, beige-brown, ugg boots. She doesn’t even have the common decency to show the world whether or not she is wearing any socks inside her uggs (though I expect there is a short pair of grubby-white sneaker-socks somewhere deep down inside those sheepskin boots!; call it footslave-intuition!). She appears to be the least interested in humiliating me with her feet and footwear – being preoccupied with texting someone on her phone; but she, like her two skank-mistress companions, is very wise, and knows how to multitask – and so my face is obliged to lick her dirt-darkened ugg-boot toes whilst she continues texting. I am honoured to get a taste of her beige-sheepskin boots, but just a little bit resentful of the fact that I am left guessing as to the nature of her socks, if any, inside her boots. I mean, why bother walking up to torment a footslave in the stocks if you’re not going to at least tease him with a glimpse of your girlsocks?
Maybe it’s all part of her female wisdom – to deny me my one little pleasure in life down here: female sock watching!
Next up to torment me as I languish in the public stocks are three, beautiful, oriental skank-goddesses, whom I believe may be tourists from Hong Kong, since they are speaking to one another in street-Cantonese.
Oriental Goddess No. 1 – A beautiful, dark-haired girl with a slightly pock-marked and acne-reddened face, whose breath smells spicy when she crouches down to literally poke fun at me by poking me in the face with the dirty index-finger on her right hand:
‘Hāhā! Nǐ zěnme xǐhuan wǒ de cí'ài jiā, núlì?’
She’s asking me how I am liking being at her mercy in the stocks, or ‘the cangue’ as she calls it.
I answer her, to her great young-womanly amusement, in my broken Cantonese:
Ó, qídǎo, rúguǒ ràng nín suíxīnsuǒyù de qíngfù, qíngfù, zhège núlì róngxìng néng zài zhèyàng de zūnjìng hé měilì, niánqīng de zhōngguó nǚrén de liánmǐn, qíngfù. Qǐng bùyào shānghài wǒ de qíngfù!“
I am telling her that it is an honour for me to be at her mercy – since she is such a beautiful, young Chinese woman, and I beg her not to hurt me!
One of her female compatriots urges her to poke me in the eyes, but I’m glad to say that she doesn’t (for, not only would that be rather painful, it would also deny me the continued privilege of passively observing instead the twisted tops of her navy-blue anklesock-tops inside her chunky-heeled, black leather ankleboots as she hunkers down in front of me in order to talk to me down at my dirty-ground level!). Instead, she stands up straight and shoves the scuffmarked toe of her right, black leather ankleboot onto my lips whilst commanding me to:
‘Qīngjié de wūgòule wǒ de yǐndǎo, núlì!’
‘Clean the filth off my boot, slave!’
Perhaps as a reward for me attempting to extol her virtues in my rusty Cantonese, she simultaneously hitches up her black denim jean hem to display her navy-blue socktop to me, whilst I am sucking the dirt off her boot-toe (Ugg booted skank mistresses to note, please!)
Oriental Goddess No. 2 – The second tormentress from Hong Kong – the one who had wanted my eyes poked out – holds me in skank regard by turning her back on me when it’s her turn to step up to the wooden, kneeling stocks, largely because all the action with her anklesocks is happening at the backs of her heels, where her black cotton tracksuit-bottoms are fully unzipped to reveal shapely, oriental heel-tendons and well-turned ankles, together with a pleasing pair of fully-pulled-up, pastel pink anklesocks. She is the first of the skanks to order me directly to worship her socks (in Cantonese, of course), so I quickly forgive her for wanting me temporarily blinded earlier on. Her girly-pink socks are certainly a sight for sore footslave eyes, being so feminine and neatly pulled up, though not enough to completely hide the snake tattoo emanating from the top of her left anklesock; no wonder she wantonly displays the backs of her heels to all and sundry who walk, or crawl, behind her! I, for one, would be honoured to slither behind her open-socked heels on my belly, like a slimy snake in the grass, were it not for this damned, immovable wood imprisoning my neck and shoulders; and she damn well knows it!
Oriental Goddess No. 3 – Skanks and kneesocks often go together – especially in the Far East, and the third oriental skank-mistress is seemingly happy to live down to the stereotype; indeed, she goes the whole hog, with a pair of black leather ballet-flats to match her black, cotton kneehighs beneath her skankily short skirt! She too stands with her back to me in the stocks, and then scissors my kneeling face between her black-kneesocked calve muscles as she invites her pink-anklesocked friend to take a picture of me – my bowed head helplessly imprisoned between superior, Hong Kong girlsock!
Yes, all beautiful skank mistresses – whatever their ethnicity or lack of formal, academic qualifications – sure know how to be casually cruel towards a helpless, male prisoner in the public stocks!
She’s well wrapped-up – from pretty, black head to dainty, black toe; a black hoodie; sparkly-purple scarf; green woollen gloves; flowery-patterned leggings; brown leather, flat-heeled, lace-up, calf-length boots; and a fetching pair of pale grey, scrunched-up, calf-length socks peeking out the tops of her boots.
As she takes up her late-night seat of absolute, female power on the raised chair above me at my back-alleyway, public shoelick-stall – her booted and socked feet very much in my kneeling, footslave-face – it’s as if the arrogant, young, twenty-something, black woman is saying to me:
‘Ha! Ha! I is, like, well better than you, an’ that! I is, like, all warm an’ cosy, an’ that; even my feet an’ legs are, like, totally warm, an’ that! Whereas you is all cold an’ naked, an’ that! Ha! Ha! You is shiverin’, though; you is raw, man! Ha! Ha! But I don’t give a sh**! You has to jus’, like, get on wit’ lickshinin’ my nice, warm boots, innit though? Coz you is jus’ a slave, an’ that, innit though? An’ I is, like, the boss of you, or somefing? So stop quakin’ an’ start lickin’, slave-bwoy; otherwise I’ll, like, warm you up wit’ this here public whup, innit though slave bwoy?’
Freezing though I am, I don’t wish to be whipped, so I hear her unspoken, outspoken command to lickshine her brown leather, calf-length boots loud and clear, and immediately obey. At least I have the consolation of knowing that my sweet, young, dirty-stop-out, black customer-mistress is not suffering in the cold, midnight air like I am!
The furious, young, posh, twenty-something white woman with the flame-red hair – whom I have never met before – angrily storms up to my rain-sodden, public footblock and splashes her white, low-top-sneakered foot down onto it directly in front of my kneeling face. The neatly laced-up, white leather sneaker comes down with such force it actually sprays dirty rainwater onto my face!
She simultaneously hitches up her wet, frayed, blue-denim, bell-bottom, jean hem to reveal the side of a rain-dirtied, but otherwise pure white, anklesock:
'LOOK AT IT, SLAVE!' she screams at the top of her high-pitched, female voice. 'JUST LOOK AT IT!'
Not wishing to be disobedient, I just look at the dirty side of her white sock.
After a few tense seconds she angrily kicks me in the side of my face with the same, wet sneaker-toe; she must have walked through a puddle, or something, for it stopped raining some time ago!
'WELL, YOU DAMNED SLAVE – I'M WAITING! WHAT DO YOU SEE?'
Oh, so the angry, young woman requires me to tell her what I see?
Needless to say, I must adopt a humble and contrite tone when I reply to her; a male slave is never permitted to raise his voice to a mistress, unless it is to warn her of an imminent danger to her life! That's what they drummed into us at the 'Public Footslave Training Academy' (and even then, we were warned, he can still expect to be punished for raising his voice – just as soon as the danger to the mistress has passed!)
I try not to stutter, but it's difficult when you are confronted with a posh-sounding, incandescent-with-rage, upper-crust, young, redheaded mistress who is wearing white socks!
'Oh p...pray, m...mistress, if you will f...forgive me pretty r...redhaired mistress, this slave can see a d...dirty, wet m...mark on the side of the m...mistress's beautiful, white anklesock, m...mistress?'
'PRECISELY, SLAVE! AND DO YOU THINK IT IS ACCEPTABLE THAT A MISTRESS SHOULD HAVE TO WALK AROUND IN RAIN-SPLASHED, WHITE SOCKS, MORON?'
'Oh no, m...mistress, if it p...pleas...'
'NO, MISTRESS! SO WHAT ARE YOU PROPOSING TO DO ABOUT IT, IDIOT-SLAVE?'
'Oh p...pray, m...mistress, if it p...pleases you, f...flame-haired mistress, this s...slave must lick the dirty m...mark off the s...side of the mistress's white s...sock, m...mistress, if you w...would be so k...kind, m...mistress?'
'THAT'S RIGHT, DIRTY SLAVE! THAT'S EXACTLY WHAT YOU ARE GOING TO DO – YOU'RE GOING TO CLEAN, AND THEN DRY, MY WET ANKLESOCK WITH YOUR STUPID, SLAVE MOUTH; AND THEN YOU'RE GOING TO RECEIVE 20 STROKES OF THE PUBLIC WHIPPING-STICK FOR ALLOWING MY WHITE SOCK TO BECOME DIRTIED IN THE FIRST PLACE! COMPRENDEZ?'
'Y...yes, m...mistress. I understand, m...mistress. Th...thank you, p...pretty m...mistress! G...God b...bless you, pretty m...mistress!'
I do indeed 'comprendez'!
What you, as a casual reader of this blog post may not not quite 'comprendez', is why I should be held responsible for, and physically chastised for, a dirty sock-mark on a female sock which I have never had any dealings with before?
But you are missing the point – as a public footslave I am deemed to be legally responsible for the well-being of all young women's footwear here in the Gynarchy. It's a kind of collective, maleslave responsibility. So this angry, young, redheaded stranger-woman is quite within her rights – and quite right – to punish me for the failure to protect the side of her precious, white sock from the muddy rainwater that has sullied it. There's not a Female Court in the land that wouldn't uphold my summary sentence of 20 harsh strokes of the fearsome, public-use whipping stick that hangs on the wall behind my head for just such an eventuality!
I lower my dry mouth to the side of the anonymous customer-mistress's angry (and considerably creased) wet, white anklesock, and endeavour to lick-suck the offending, dirty rainwater-mark off the white cotton material that covers her shapely, feminine anklebone, whilst the pretty wearer of the neglected sock unhooks the whipping-stick from the wall behind me and readies herself to deliver 20 stinging blows to my cringing, bare back!
I feel deeply ashamed – for, as I have explained above, I am to blame for the state of the innocent mistress's dirty, white sock inside her rain-splattered sneaker! Soon the crimson shame in my sock-sucking face shall be mirrored by the red blush of my freshly-whipped back!
She looks so incredibly smug – the thirty-something, tall and slim, blonde-haired businesswoman in the beige-brown raincoat, dark-nylon stockings, and chunky-heeled, round-toed, black leather, slip-on shoes – as she saunters up to my wooden footblock on the High Street, and then nonchalantly stretches forth her right leg onto the waiting wood beneath my face.
It’s as if she is saying:
‘Oh dearie me! Poor you – the slave! Having to lickshine my dirty work-shoes on this cold, winter street, and abase yourself before me! Ha! Ha! The public foot-servant of a ‘mere’ woman – and a blonde one at that! Ha! Ha! I guess you’ll just have to finally accept that I am your better – being young, free and female! I am better, and more high-class, than you; that’s why you are the one on your hands and knees at my feet, and I am the one standing tall and proud, having her shoes cleaned! Ha! Ha! Loser! Virgin-slave! Limpdick!
Still, at least you get to see my dark, shimmering nylons in close-up, eh slave? Ha! Ha! Are you a would-be nylon nuzzler? Do you hanker after brushing your nose against my warm, dark nylons whilst you are tonguelicking my dirty office shoes? Ha! Ha! DON’T YOU DARE, SLAVE! I’m watching you – and I don’t want your dirty maleslave-skin sullying my nice, sweaty nyloned feet! So back off, slave – and lick female shoe! Ha! Ha!’
She doesn’t actually say a word, of course – because I am so far beneath her on the social scale, I am not worthy talking to.
She merely switches feet beneath me after a few minutes – languorously; smugly; dominantly.
I’m sure she must be somebody’s boss – and right now she sure is the smug-as-hell boss of me! I can sense it on her pretty, blonde-framed face!
I sure wouldn’t want to wipe that smug, female grin off her face, for it greatly adds to my male-footslavish sense of utter humility and worthlessness – as it is no doubt intended to do!
If I was being whipped to make me talk, I would have started talking long ago; for the bitter bite of the female whip across my bare back is all but unbearable!
But I’m not being whipped by my blonde mistress Kirsty to make me talk; I’m being whipped as a punishment for insubordination – for talking too much, in fact; for talking back to my mistress! And so, I have no choice but to try and bear the terrible, burning pain of her sting-in-the-tail whip!
Mercifully, she lowers the pulley holding me up after every 10 lashes, and moves around to stand in front of my face so that I may penitently kiss her feet whilst taking a breather from the intense pain. It is a temporary respite of sorts. And the sheer agony of the whip has heightened all of my senses – not just my sense of touch (the pain), but also my senses of sight, sound, taste, smell and fear, meaning that I am acutely aware, whilst I am feverishly kissing them, of not only the feel of her black leather, loafer-shoe leather, and soft, black cotton anklesocks, on my penitent lips, but also their smell (musty); the sight of the multitudinous scuffmarks on her shoeleather, and the creases in her anklesocks (which are partially visible thanks to the outstretched positioning of each of her feet in turn for kissing, next to the business-end of the dangling, brown leather whip!); the sound of her shoeleather, and sock-cotton, being kissed by me; and the taste of her cold, outer shoeleather, and warm, moist, inner sock-cotton!
I’m hoping that mistress Kirsty can likewise sense my male fear and trembling through my remorseful lips on her whipping shoes and socks, for I know that my pitiful slave-cries for mercy are falling on deaf ears – literally so, since she is deaf.
But she is not dumb – and soon, after just one minute of respite kissing her feet, her shoes and socks move behind me again so that she can once more raise me up on the pulley, and continue with my agonising chastisement; another 10, long, harsh lashes to go before I am yet again lowered to her feet for temporary respite from the whipping – and so the process continues; seemingly ad infinitum. The brown whip, followed by her black shoes and socks; the brown whip, followed by her black shoes and socks; the brown whip, followed by her black shoes and socks…
The Footwasher by patheticus on GoAnimate
My black-haired, entrepreneurial, East-European, immigrant-mistress – 25 year old, slim and svelte goddess-mistress Annya – has installed me in her front garden as a means of earning a bit of extra cash for herself. She resides in the suburbs with her live-in, Jamaican boyfriend where there aren’t that many public footslaves around (most are located in city centre areas or on inner city, sink estates), and so she has had the wonderful idea of providing a useful service to her local community whilst earning herself, and her man, a few extra Fems.
I am therefore kept permanently tethered on my hands and knees in the front garden outside their house, and have an ignominious, handwritten sign on a wooden post above my head, declaring my services to one and all:
‘Ladies’ boot, shoe, socks and nylons kisser – only 5 Fems a go!’
From the outset, my mistress Annya has made it clear what she expects of me:
· That I shall earn her at least 50 Fems a day. She will check my moneybox every evening at 9 o’clock, and if there is a shortfall I shall receive 5 cuts of the female whip, either from herself or her male partner – master Leroy sir – for every Fem I am short of my target total
· That it is therefore very much within my own interests – even though I am forbidden to solicit female passers-by for their custom – to do a good and respectful job on each and every lady-customer’s boots, shoes or hosiery, since I shall need them to keep on coming back, and to become regular customers, if I am to be assured of avoiding the cut of the whip on my bare back every evening
· That, although my primary role is merely to kiss feet and footwear (it would be technically illegal for my mistress Annya to advertise me as a boot or shoe licker, since such services are provided on the streets of the Gynarchy for free by the Female Authorities, and it is illegal for a private individual to charge for public footwear-cleaning services), I should nevertheless think about surreptitiously trying to supplement my meagre diet of tasteless slave-gruel, which my mistress will kindly pay for out of my earnings, with my lady-customers’ shoe and boot dirt – for example, by deliberately seeking out and kissing the dirtiest parts of their outer footwear, and by endeavouring to digest any sock or nylon fluff or lint whilst I am obediently kissing their feminine hosiery
· That I am only to speak to my customer-mistresses when spoken to, and must never initiate a conversation with them, since they are all, without exception, my betters, and may wish to have their feet kissed in silence. However, when invited to address a customer-mistress, or when acknowledging an order, I am to always include an invitation to them to beat me with the nearby whipping-stick should they find my foot-kissing efforts to be inadequate
· That I am on duty 24/7; 365 days a year; whatever the weather
· That if a lady utilises my services without paying I am not to complain, but to regard it as a criticism on her part of the inadequacy of my foot and footwear kissing abilities; again, if the opportunity arises in such circumstances, I am to invite the disgruntled customer-mistress to beat me instead of paying me
How everyone laughs at me when they see me kneeling hopefully and expectantly as they walk past my mistress’s front garden, especially when the weather is miserable – for, not only will their boots and shoes be dirtier to kiss in inclement weather, they know that being exposed to the elements makes my slave-life even more miserable than it would otherwise be!
Indeed, they will often stop just to take pictures of me, or to film me, at work in the wind and the rain and the snow – all whilst my master-sir and mistress-madam are gleefully watching me from inside their cosy and warm front living room; watching me earning them some pocket-money to help pay for their illicit drug habit!
But I am actually proud to be of service to them; it gives me a reason for living.
Extra Income by patheticus on GoAnimate
I was sentenced by the Female Court – some 16 years ago now – to life imprisonment in the sidewalk as a ‘bootscraper-face’.
I am obliged to lie permanently face-upwards on my back, with my facial features only just peeking out from beneath an iron-bar grille which is designed to catch the mud and dirt from the soles of ladies’ boots and shoes as they walk over it, thereby depositing it ignominiously onto my face.
They know I’m there, of course – but they don’t care. In fact, some young women will deliberately stop a while in order to scrape the wet and sticky mud off their bootsoles and down onto my face, for which I am eternally grateful, since I must make do with my female-pedestrians’ boot and shoe mud for sustenance (the Gynarchy Authorities don’t like to waste ‘good’ slave-gruel on me, when they know I have a more or less constant supply of boot and shoe dirt to fill my face, and my belly below ground!)
I have actually come to appreciate the bitter taste of ladies’ boot and shoemud – seasoned by the various types of shoeleather on their soles – though, I have to admit, it is very much an acquired taste, and one that took me about ten years to acquire! But I also like the smell of the street filth and mud, as some of it, inevitably, gets up my nose.
It’s the stuff that gets into my eyes – thereby temporarily blinding me – that I don’t like, only because, at least until my eyeducts eventually manage to wash it all out, I am prevented from seeing my pedestrian-mistresses’ shoes, boots, nylons, and socks from down below – and the view of a lady’s legs from beneath her boot or shoesole is always a pleasing sight for sore, prisoner-footslave eyes!
Take the young woman who is walking over me right now – or, indeed, standing over me right now, for she is clearly one of the ‘stoppers’, who likes to stop and really cleanse her bootsoles properly of their dirt and detritus before getting on with her superior, female life above me (rather than just rushing over me!).
She certainly looks very pretty and cruel from down below – mid to late twenties; Pakistani, I would say, especially given her white, Muslim-girl headscarf. Her pretty, brown nose is really quite prominent from this angle, and she is literally looking down at me through that prominent nose, for there is a look not of pity, but of contempt, etched onto her pretty, headscarf-framed features!
Furthermore, she is well wrapped up against the cold and the rain in a dark anorak, and she is wearing a delightful pair of thick, woollen, navy-blue tights beneath a short skirt.
It is her footwear, however, which, of course, dominates my field of vision from down here – a clumping great pair of heavily-buckled, black leather, biker-style boots which are absolutely festooned in mud! She must have been out biking (or hiking!) on the moors, or something, for no young woman’s boots, however careless she may be, would ever get this wet and muddy from merely walking the Gynarchy’s city streets!
An evil, unfriendly grin spreads across her pretty, Pakistani face as she slowly raises her right bootsole, dripping with great globules of fresh, wet, sticky mud, up off the ground; steadies herself by holding onto the nearby wall; hovers her bootsole deliberately threateningly over my caged face for a few, meaningful seconds (thereby allowing one or two globules of mud to fall off the bottom of her boot and splash down onto my face, due to the forces of gravity); before, finally, lowering her oversized boot – reinforced, rounded toe-end first – down onto the grille running over the top of my upturned face.
My nose, which is partially poking through the iron bars of the pavement-level grille, takes the full weight of the slightly-built, but all-powerful-looking, Pakistani girl’s oversized biker-boot toe, and gets ignominiously, and painfully, squashed against my face. Her chunky, heavy, black leather bootheel then follows down onto the grille above my mouth, just brushing against my lips.
Literally all I can see now is Pakistani-girl muddy biker-boot (with just a hint of elongated, Pakistani-girl, navy-blue-woollen tights stretching up into the distance through my peripheral vision) – but such a wonderful sight is soon taken from me as she deliberately scrapes the muddy sole of her heavy girlboot along the grille, and therefore along my face, unfortunately depositing two large globules of her bootmud deep into my taped-permanently-open eyesockets (the Female Prison Authorities have permanently taped my eyelids open supposedly so that I don’t ‘miss’ any of my pedestrian customer-mistresses’ shoe or boot soles as they walk over me – except that, taping my eyes open sometimes defeats the object; like now, when my eyes fill up with mud and I have no way of protecting them! I’ve tried talking to my female inspectors about this – but will they listen? No!)
And so, ashamed though I am to say it, I am temporarily blinded by this sweet and kind, Pakistani girl’s bootmud, and unable to see the gift of her dirty bootmud to me! I sure as hell can feel it, though – deep in my eyes; it stings and makes them water, which is a good thing; for the quicker they water, the more quickly they will wash out the sticky mud from my imprisoned eye-sockets, and therefore the more quickly I shall regain sight of the beautifully head-scarfed, Pakistani-Muslim girl above me and her delightfully cruel boots!
I hear her giggle and laugh at me as my eyesight starts to clear – especially as I start to chew on a particularly large globule of bootmud stuck to the rusty, iron bar just over my mouth:
‘Ha! Ha! Look at you, dirty footslave-prisoner – forced to lie below ground and eat the dirty bootmud of a nice, Pakistani girl! Ha! Ha! Pakistani-girl’s bootmud sucker behind bars! Slave mud-face! I laugh at you! Ha! Ha!’
But, of course, she hasn’t finished with me yet! As the mud washes out of my eyes and down my cheeks, I see her switching booted feet above me, so that her equally muddy left bootsole slowly begins its cruel descent down onto my helpless face-behind-bars!
At least I shan’t starve this evening – for I am having my fill of exotic, girl-bootmud today, courtesy of this kind and generous, Pakistani-Muslim biker-chick!
