Gynarchy Gimps Volume 3
Further observations from various enslaved, Gynarchy Gimps (about the magnificent mistresses they serve!)
The short and balding master-sir looks puffed up with manly, middle-aged pride as he holds hands with his girlfriend on their approach to my public-bootlick stand.
And justifiably so:
- For she must be only half his age, being in her early to mid twenties (he looks to be well into his fifties!)
- She, unlike him, is big-boned and beautiful (her tight, blonde ponytail only helps to accentuate her natural, portly comeliness)
- She is tastefully dressed, in a revealing pink top (showing her bare, pierced bellybutton and folded midriff); a short, navy-blue pleated skirt (revealing her wobbly, cellulite-covered thighs); and a pair of dark brown, calf-length, fancily-stitched cowboy boots on her fat, bare, white, lower legflesh
The boots sound heavy and languorous as they clump their way up towards me, and the happy couple are still holding hands as she casually presents her right cowboy boot onto the wooden footblock beneath my kneeling face for lickshining.
At least, I assume that’s what is required of me, for she seemingly can’t take her doting eyes off her manly, older boyfriend as they continue to stare admiringly into one another’s happy faces – his wrinkled and wizened; hers plump and healthy.
I immediately get to work on the muddy side of her heavy bootsole, which, unlike the upper of her fancily-stitched cowgirl boot, is black rather than brown (apart from the brown of the aforementioned mud stains!).
The mud tastes bitter, but I waste no time in lapping it up, for it is absolutely imperative that my tongue reaches her upper, V-shaped bootrim as soon as possible since I too wish to do some admiring of this overindulged, fat, young woman – I wish to admire the sight of her socks deep down inside her calf-length boots, for a fat girl like this must surely be wearing socks inside such a heavy pair of brown leather cowgirl boots, if only for comfort’s sake?
I reach the top of her right boot after some five minutes of vigorous, black and brown bootleather-licking, and, thanks to the outstretched positioning of her fleshy, right calf-muscle, get to surreptitiously stare down inside the V-shaped opening at the top of her boot – to see the rather ropey-looking and twisted top of a red and blue patterned anklesock, deep down inside the moist and sweaty confines of her heavy, brown boot.
I was right! Sock!
Always a joy to espy a hidden bit of sock inside a young lady’s boot! Now, like the master-sir above, I am well and truly full of admiration for this solid, young woman – though, unlike him, I don’t have her mutual admiration in return. Indeed, I doubt that I am even really registering on her fat consciousness, as she now appears to be engaged in a deep and loving snog with her boyfriend high above me!
No matter – it gives me even more time to admire the twisted top of her ropey, sweaty, red and blue bootsock deep down inside her cowboy boot.
Sadly, almost subconsciously, she switches booted feet beneath me, and I must tear myself away from her semi-hidden, right bootsock-top and down onto the mucky part of her left bootsole, beginning the ascending bootlicking process all over again. Only, this time, I fail to be rewarded when I reach the top of her fatty boot, for the aperture between her fleshy calf-muscles and the upper, V-Shaped bootrim is at the back of her cowboy boot this time! And not even I have the public-footslave dexterity to be able to look down inside the back of a young lady’s boot (due largely to the chains restricting my neck movements!)
Still, at least I now know, with all reasonable certainty, that there is a matching, sweaty, red and blue anklesock deep down inside the left boot that I have just been licking. I wonder if the master-sir even knows about his girlfriend’s red and blue, ropey bootsocks? He probably doesn’t much care about the state of her socks, of course, being much more enamoured by her buxom breasts, her big buttocks, her fleshy thighs and her welcoming lips. But I nonetheless can’t help feeling that I’ve got one over on him – having had my face as close as practicable to at least one of the fat girl’s sweaty, blue and red, ‘secret’ bootsocks!
The couple move off without saying anything to me, once the young woman’s cowboy boots have been suitably lickshined. The next customer-mistress to grace me with her presence is quite the opposite – dark-skinned; petitely-boned; and with the creased tops of her plain grey bootsocks clearly on display atop her black leather, ankle-length Chelsea-boots and below the elasticated hems of her plain, black cotton, skinny-tight leggings.
I respect her boots and socks as well, of course – as I do all my customer-mistresses’ boots and socks (that’s the law!). But there is no doubt that the silent, big-boned, blonde-ponytailed girl with the fatted calves and brown leather cowboy-boots has left more of a mark on my pathetic, public-footslave psyche with her ‘hidden’, ropey, red and blue bootsocks, than the skinny girl’s grey, and overtly visible, creased bootsocks over her bony ankles ever could!
I note, too, that the cowgirl’s bootsoles have left several muddy marks all over my wooden footblock. I must lick those off later – after I’ve finished tongueshining the skinny, black Chelsea-boots – so that I can at least say I’ve tasted where the lucky, middle-aged master-sir’s fat girlfriend has been out walking with him.
The young couple are out walking their pit bull on the local sink-estate. As they approach my public shoelick stall, I recognise the master sir as being gangland master Derwent sir – de facto ruler of the estate; this young woman must be his latest conquest.
I therefore resolve to show the utmost respect to his young ladyfriend and her pink sneakers, for she is the sexual partner of the masterful ruler of the estate, and I don’t want to get hurt. And besides, that dog looks vicious!
My Rulers by patheticus on GoAnimate
My 21 year old, pink-haired, short-assed and chubby mistress Kelsey (whom I very much respect for being pink-haired, short-assed and chubby) is an avid autograph hunter. It’s her hobby – chasing after Gynarchy celebrities, and asking them to sign her autograph book; and, nowadays, having her picture taken with them on her mobile phone, of course!
Needless to say, in my humble capacity as her personal footservant, I am obliged to follow her to grubby-white-sneakered, and pink sneaker-socked, heel everywhere she goes to collect autographs, and I too, therefore, by default, get to ‘meet’ the various celebrities as they indulge my mistress-superfan and sign her autograph book.
Like the highly attractive, brunette-haired, young celebrity woman emerging just now from the plush restaurant with her equally handsome boyfriend! I have no idea myself who she is, or what she has appeared in, but I know she must be famous as my mistress Kelsey runs excitedly over towards her and asks politely for her autograph.
The celebrity’s male partner (clearly not himself a celebrity – otherwise my informed mistress would surely be soliciting his autograph too), smiles and laughs as his girlfriend duly obliges.
From where I’m kneeling, I can see that the celebrity-mistress is wearing a striking pair of woollen, argyle-patterned kneesocks beneath her short, pleated black miniskirt, with black and yellow diamond patterns all the way up the fronts of the socks; and low-heeled, black leather loafers with stylish, leather tassels over the toe areas. A designer outfit, I’m guessing!
I force myself only to look the famous celebrity-mistress in the kneesocks, for I am not worthy to look any pretty, young woman above the knee – let alone a celebrity mistress (whoever she is!).
As I indicated before, my mistress Kelsey is equally keen to have her picture taken with the brunette-haired celebrity, and the latter’s manfriend helpfully offers to take the photo. He also gleefully encourages his celebrity girlfriend to permit me to kneel in front of her outstretched, right foot and kiss her expensive shoe in the picture, whilst she is standing next to my cheap-sneakered, short-assed, pink-haired and starstruck mistress!
And so, the next thing I know, I am being photographed kissing the designer, black leather tassels of the loafer-shoe, beneath the designer, argyle-patterned kneesock, of a famous, young celebrity-madam. Such an honour – of course (even if I still don’t know exactly why this young woman is famous; or who she even is!)
My eyes are now so close to her celebrity kneesocks, I can even see the individual stitches in the woolly, diamond-patterned material! She even rocks her right shoe back on its low-loafered heel at one point, so that I can lick the underside of her dirty, grey shoesole for the benefit of my mistress Kelsey’s souvenir picture, and in so doing causes her celebrity-sock to crease ferociously around her lower, shapely celebrity-anklebone! I think that ably demonstrates the utter contempt in which the celebrity woman, quite righteously, holds me – just a nonentity-slave of one of her many fans!
I feel further honoured when my mistress Kelsey subsequently shows the photograph of me licking a female celebrity’s shoe, and admiring a female celebrity’s sock, to her friends and family, and then uploads it onto her social networking page, along with all the other pictures of me worshipping female celebrities’ feet. For one major advantage of being a starstruck young woman’s personal footservant, is that you don’t just get to kiss and admire her everyday, grubby-white, low-top, laced-up sneakers, and short, pink sneaker-socks; but also the designer boots, shoes and socks of the female famous whom she regularly pesters for autographs and photographs!
Hopefully, some of their wealth and fame will rub off onto me – as well as their shoe and boot dirt – and I can become a celebrity-footslave myself, if not a celebrity’s personal footslave!
Whilst my tall and lithesome, black mistress Camille is passionately snogging her latest beau above me in the backstreet alleyway, I must focus unmanfully on her black and white, *f*** me’ high-heels on her fancy, dark-nylon-stockinged feet – the same feet and footwear I have been dutifully following on my hands and knees all day, and long before she hooked-up with this new master-sir!
I’m not jealous, you understand – I know my place! Since I am not capable of satisfying my beautiful, black mistress sexually, and since, by law, slaves are in any case forbidden to have sex with their mistresses, it is my place to kneel unobtrusively by her feet, and study them whilst she passionately embraces the superior, free master-sir above me, and to consider how sweaty her beautiful, black feet must be by now inside those fancy, black nylons, after nearly a whole day’s wear and tear; at work and at play; in the office and in the cinema.
Soon, of course, judging by the way things are going, I shall be finding out just how sweaty those fancy, dark, flowery-patterned nylons are – for it looks like it won’t be too long before my licentious mistress is back in her apartment, with the master-sir in tow, and lying beneath him on her bed with her discarded nylons shoved ignominiously into my mouth (sweaty toe-ends first) whilst he joyfully impregnates her. At the same time I will have been ordered to kneel by the side of the master-bed, and lower my face into the sweaty insides of her discarded, two-tone, high heels, sniffing the sweaty, moist insides whilst my mistress makes mad, passionate love to the real man inside her bed; inhaling her residual footsweat whilst she reaches her young-womanly climax; and remaining suitably in awe and downcast whilst she and the master-sir subsequently enjoy a post-coital cigarette in their now sweaty bed above me.
Yes – I know my place as a sexually-useless and frustrated, nylon-stocking mouthwasher, which is to be down on the floor surrounded by my stunningly-beautiful, black mistress’s sweaty, discarded footwear; just as the unnamed master-sir, being a stud, clearly knows his place – which is to be lying beside my beautiful mistress in her nice, warm, welcoming bed, fully sated!
One thing I love about regular, Pakistani customer-mistress Sabiha – quite apart from the fact that she is a stunningly attractive, petite and arrogant, young and successful businesswoman who, unlike me, is clearly going places – is that her finest denier, dark nylon tights are always darker around her skinny feet and ankles, than they are on her calves or above her knees; not because they are thicker around the ankles (though I suspect her nylons may have reinforced toe, heel and sole areas as, just occasionally, I get an intriguing little glimpse of the very tip of a dark, black nylon triangle emerging from the heel area at the back of her shoe!), but rather because the nylon stitching is naturally more stretched the higher up her leg it goes.
I like the exquisite darkness of her nylon feet because:
· It reminds me that her beautiful brown Pakistani footflesh is, like the rest of her, dark-skinned
· It clearly delineates the area of her nylons that I am permitted to look at and service with my tongue and lips (for I am a public footslave; not a calf or leg slave – even though she is in the habit of wearing short skirts and, as we have established, I have been known to surreptitiously study her shapely, nyloned legs above the ankles!)
· The darker nylon also tends to crease more around her dainty, Pakistani-girl anklebones, providing an intensely pleasurable rippled effect on my sensitive slave-lips
· It also seems to captivate the very essence of her natural footsmell all the more pungently, for, even with her smart black leather, two-inch-heeled pumps on, I can still, quite often, detect a pleasingly faint whiff of her Pakistani-girl, inner footsweat – especially if she is visiting me in the late afternoon or early evening, when she is on her way home from work having been on her feet all day.
Yes, as any nylon-slave will tell you – no two pairs of nylons are the same; and I reckon I would recognise miss Sabiha’s nylons in an identity parade even if I was blindfolded, just from the touch of their sweaty foot-ends on my nose, and their unique, young-womanly foot odour. It’s as if, after 5 months of regularly servicing her sweaty, workday nylons on her pretty feet, her personal, Pakistani foot-DNA is now deeply ingrained in my public-footslave face!
It will most certainly always be ingrained in my consciousness, and on my memory! For it is the foot-DNA of my infinite better!
I suppose it’s quite touching really! My 21 year old, blonde-haired mistress, miss Amy, is seated cross-legged on top of her bed, with her cellphone on her pink-pyjama-covered lap, desperately waiting for her new beau to ring her!
I, meanwhile, am kneeling by the side of the bed, repeatedly kissing her red-socked toes – as per my kneeling orders. I like doing it, because
a) There is the whiff of blonde-girl, stale socksweat around the toe-areas of her red, cotton, anklesocks (they had been inside her nearby, white keds-sneakers all day yesterday, and she had worn them as bedsocks overnight!)
b) She keeps on, involuntarily, wriggling her toes inside the red socks, causing them to crease and fold most enticingly beneath my worshipful lips
c) I can feel her dainty, female toes and toenails inside the socks
d) The red cotton socks are bobbled and thinning in places
The rest of her family have left for work, and perhaps for that reason she starts to pester me, the household footslave, for advice! Maybe she has forgotten that I have been a slave all my life, and therefore no nothing about romantic relationships between free people, despite being of a similar age to her parents!
Where are the master-sir and mistress-madam of the house when you need them?!
I continue to kiss lovestruck miss Amy’s red bedsocks, whilst she pumps me for advice:
‘Oh WHY hasn’t he rung me, slave? Do you think I’ve upset him, or somefing?’
She’s referring to master Todd sir – her new, elusive boyfriend.
‘Oh pray, mistress Amy… red sockkiss… sockkiss… if it pleases you pretty, blonde mistress... red sockkiss…red sockkiss… this slave cannot believe that the beautiful, young mistress did anything to upset master Todd sir, mistress Amy …. red sockkiss …red sockkiss….. After all, you both parted on such good terms last night, mistress Amy madam …sockkiss …sockkiss….’
Yes – I was there last night, of course, during the young couple’s courting both in, and outside, the cinema; diligently kneeling by my blonde mistress Amy’s grubby-white, keds sneakers and red anklesocks.
I hate playing footslave-gooseberry, of course; especially when another man – a much younger and better-looking, free man – has his dirty paws all over my beloved, sweet and naïve mistress! But I just have to grin and bear it, since I can’t myself bear to be away from my 21 year old mistress Amy’s feet – not even for one second! At least her sneakers and socks remained mine to fondle, with my lips, throughout the evening (my mistress Amy is a ‘perpetuant’ mistress, meaning that my face must be perpetually in her feet, attending to her feet or footwear in some manner or other – be it kissing them, as during her trip to the cinema, and as now in her bedroom; or sniffing them; or nose-massaging them).
‘S’pose so, slave. Do you think I should ring him, and that? Maybe he’s waiting for me to make the first move, or somefing?’
Her toes wriggle excitedly inside the bobbled and faintly moist, reinforced toe area of her cross-legged, right sock (I am focussing on her right, socked-foot due to my current positioning on the right-hand side of her bed).
How am I supposed to know the answer to that? Master Todd sir may be half my age, but he is still a real man – with real man’s attitudes and thoughts towards women. If I were dating miss Amy (a bizarre thought!) I, of course, would be honoured if she were to pick up the phone and ‘make the first move’! But what would a real man think – would he regard that as a challenge to his machismo? Some ‘bird’ chasing him up – rather than him doing all the chasing?!
I just don’t know what to say to miss Amy! I do wish she would just leave me in peace to kiss her on her subliminally wriggling, red sock-toes!
‘Oh pray, mistress Amy…wriggling, red-toe sockkiss… wriggling, red-toe sockkiss… if it pleases you, mistress Amy, madam … wriggling, red-toe sockkiss … wriggling, red-toe sockkiss…. Perhaps it is a bit soon to be ringing the master-sir, miss? … wriggling, red-toe sockkiss … wriggling, red-toe sockkiss … After all, he may still be asleep, mistress?…. wriggling, red-toe sockkiss… wriggling, red-toe sockkiss…’
It is still only 7.00 in the morning!! But I rather suspect my young mistress-madam has lost all track of time, being so head over heels in love! She must love master Todd sir almost as much as I love her socks!
She sighs wistfully, yawns and unfurls her pyjama-covered legs stretching them out in front of her, before lying back on her lonesome, lovesick pillow:
‘Mmm… Perhaps you’re right, slave. Stop kissing my socks now, and start nosing them.’
Great! She wants me to switch from kissing to nosing (i.e. nose-massaging) her sweet, red socks. Now I can really get a good sniff of them both, as they continue to wriggle forlornly on top of her empty duvet – waiting for the phone to ring!
‘Yes, mistress. At once, mistress Amy madam!’
50 year old Sir Reginald, a knight of the realm in medieval Barbaria, is standing in his nightclothes by the upstairs window of his opulent apartment overlooking the town square – and the town stocks.
It is 2 o'clock in the morning, and he is unable to rest.
His young wife, the Lady Guinevere, disturbed by her husband's absence from their bed on such a cold and frosty winter's night, wakes up and joins him at the window with a shawl wrapped over her silken nightdress:
'What doest thou, husband? Come thee back to bed, and to the warmth of thy wife's bosom, I prithee!'
He turns to smile at her, and puts his strong, manly arm around her:
'Forgive me my dear for abandoning thy bodily warmth! I just wish to revel in the suffering of the wretch down below in the ignominious stocks. Ha! Ha! See how he quaketh and shivereth in his nakedness and confinement in the dead cold of night, with thy warm boots and hose tied to his imprisoned nose! Ha! Ha!'
The Lady Guinevere glances down also at the semi-naked serf languishing in the cold, wooden kneeling-stocks with her discarded boots and tights tied to his face, and joins with her husband in mocking his nocturnal affliction:
'Ha! Ha! Forsooth, he quaketh in my boots, husband! Ha! Ha! I hope thou dost not have feelings of sympathy for the wretched slave, husband dear? Sympathy for a devil, that perchance disturbeth thy righteous sleep? For he is being justly punished, having neglected the proper cleansing of my soiled boots and hose in accordance with his humble duties!'
'Ha! Ha! Fear not, my Lady! Quite the opposite! Rather, I contemplate whether his suffering is enough for such a heinous neglect of his duty – a mere three days and nights in the satanic stocks; even though it be the dead of winter!'
The Lady Guinevere inserts her dainty, feminine hand down the top of Sir Reginald's breeches, and starts to rub on his, already semi-tumescent, male member:
'I agree with thee, my Lord and Master, that his punishment lacketh the requisite severity for such wanton neglect of my footwear!... Flog him, I prithee! On the morrow – whilst he still languisheth in the stocks – that all may see my righteous and holy indignation at his neglect of my footwear, and torment his open wounds with their curious fingers! Ha! Ha! The feel of the townsfolk's inquisitive fingernails in his freshly raised weals would most assuredly teach him penitence and respect, I’ll wager! Ha! Ha!'
Sir Reginald sighs – a lustful, sexually aroused sigh – and submits to his wife's wily ministrations on his magnificent member:
'Ha! Ha! Not to mention the dirty fingernails of the local peasantry, my darling! Ha! Ha! I concur with thee! He shall indeed be flogged on the morrow, and most wantonly so! Ha! Ha!'
'Come thee back to bed now, my husband, for I long for thy mighty member to be deep inside me whilst the indolent varlet suffereth the discomfort and ignominy of the public stocks! Moreover, all this talk of flogging and fingering hath made me quite lubricious!'
'I come, my dear...Oh, I come!...'
I am a ‘slave-step’ in a suburban Female Fitness Club.
It’s quite a simple job really, suitable for a total male-dumbass like me! All I have to do is lie prostrate on the floor, with my naked back acting as a step for the gym customer-mistress to repeatedly step upon as part of her feminine work-out. I am, of course, also required to respectfully kiss the lady-gym-customer’s sweaty, sneakered feet both before and after her session on my back, but, for the most part, I get off lightly – compared to many other poor slaves in the Gynarchy!
However, there are times when I wish I could be enslaved anywhere other than here; moments like now for example!
The young black woman currently stepping on and off my back repeatedly is pleasant enough – pretty; perfumed; and nicely dressed in her black and red leotard and plain, white, sockless, Velcro-fastened sneakers.
But she is, I’m afraid, rather heavy – ‘big-boned’, as they say; and the weight of her sneakers digging into the pathetic small of my prostrate, male back is quite unbearable, and fairly knocks the stuffing out of me!
It is made all the more unbearable by the fact that my back has been freshly whipped by one of the Female Gymnasium attendants, ginger-haired miss Holly – not because I have been failing in my slave-step duty in any way (I mean, how can one fail to just kiss feet and lie still?), but because the Female gym owners, quite rightly, think it is a nice touch for their lady-customers to repeatedly step on a prostrate, male slave’s whipped back, hearing him wince with additional pain every time they step onto his fresh whip-sores!
Mind you, the pain of the fat, young black woman’s sneakersoles on my fresh whip-wounds is as nothing compared to the pain I experience when she suddenly kicks off her sneakers and repeatedly steps on me in her bare feet – for she has covered her soles in resin in order to minimize the sweat; resin which gets into my freshly-whipped pores and stings like crazy!
I’m sure, also, that she is deliberately dragging her feet off my back each time she steps off me, in order to really grind the stinging foot-resin into my wounds! Raw, feminine footsweat is painful enough when it gets into a slave’s open back-wound, but this foot-resin is in a whole different league of pain!
Plus, of course, I would very much prefer it if she would just kindly allow her feet to sweat in my humble, footslave presence, since I am quite accustomed to the natural stench of sweaty, female feet, socks and sneakers in this sweaty place!
Perhaps she’s afraid of slipping on my back; so I must give her the benefit of the doubt. She is not an inordinately cruel, young black woman; just sensible!
When she has, eventually, finished her step work-out, and has replaced her white, low-top sneakers onto her bare, black feet, I kiss her flaky-white sneaker-toes with all due admiration and respect. For she is clearly working hard to get her weight down, and I’m sure that, one day, she will feel much less oppressive on my back – hopefully even in her resin-covered, bare feet!
19 year-old, blonde-ponytailed lottery winner – miss Paige – must ensure that she observes her night-time curfew, otherwise the electronic tag around her black-sneakered and white-socked anklebone will send a series of incredibly painful, electric shocks through her (illicit), 54 year-old page-boy’s temples, even though, ironically, he himself is permanently confined under curfew in her opulent apartment, being an illegal personal servant.
He is referred to as her ‘page-boy’ because, even though he is in his mid fifties, she humiliatingly dresses him up in a ‘Little Lord Fauntleroy’ type outfit – purely because it amuses her and her girlgang friends to see him dressed like that; like a fop, or a footslave-fancy!
He is ‘illegal’ because miss Paige is, technically, too young to own a personal servant, being below the age of majority in the Gynarchy (21) – but, money talks, and the Female Authorities are happy to turn a blind eye to such minor illegalities (on receipt of appropriate payment, of course!). Besides, it is only right and proper that a sweet and innocent, young rich woman like miss Paige should be exempt from the pain of her tag herself – since no young woman can ever be permitted to experience physical pain in the Gynarchy. Someone male has to legally suffer on her behalf, and it might as well be her illicit, household servant as a State-supplied ‘whipping-boy’. So she is, actually, saving the female taxpayer money – if you want to look at it that way!
She is, however, undeniably a dirty stop-out – proud to break her nightly curfew, and laughing, along with her female friends, whenever it starts flashing around her sneakered ankle; for each flash indicates a jolt of pain to her middle-aged page-boy back home, interrupting his dutiful tongueshining of her 700 pairs of shoes, boots and sneakers, no doubt!
How she laughs at the pleasing thought of someone much less wealthy, and less fortunate, than herself suffering pain on her behalf – and having to tongueshine her dirty, discarded footwear whilst suffering it!
Yes – it’s good to be a female lottery winner in the Gynarchy, and to be above the law. One’s tag becomes a badge of honour, and the envy of one’s friends! She might even offer to buy it off the Female Probation Authorities when her sentence is complete, just so that she can carry on wearing it!
And why not? The world is miss Paige’s oyster!
I’m sure you will have heard of bow-leggedness? But have you ever heard of bow-heeledness?
My 23 year old, personal footmistress – footmistress Lucy – likes to wear black, lacy anklesocks with bows on the heels, inside her kitten-heeled, black leather, lace-up shoes, so I spend a lot of my time crawling behind those lacy, black bow-heels – admiring their femininity against her soft, white, flawless legskin (my mistress always wears short dresses or skirts and is delightfully bare-legged above her anklesocks).
Of course, some freemale wags like to tease me and make fun of me – with disparaging comments about my being enslaved to such a frilly and lacy pair of female socks; about how I am obliged to perpetually ‘bow’ the neck to a pair of black, feminine sock-bows; about my being a total, male wimp – can’t I at least persuade my mistress to wear thigh-high, lacy black socks with bows on them? They could certainly understand my going all wobbly and wimpish at the sight of those!
But a meek pair of frilly, bow-decorated ankle socks! Ha! Ha! What a loser! What a footslave yellow- belly – crawling on his gutless belly behind such a pair of seemingly unthreatening socks! Ha! Ha! Stand up and be a man, why don’t you?!
But, what the happy freemales don’t know, of course, is that, bow-socked or not, my footmistress Lucy wields a mean whip – and if she wishes to wear frilly, black anklesocks with bows on the backs I am in no position to argue with her! I am only in a position to admire her bow-socks – close-up and personal behind her shapely, kitten shoe-heels; to do anything else is to condemn oneself to the dreadful sting of her catwoman-like whip!
I therefore bow to her superior, feminine fashion sense, and repeatedly kiss and nose her black, bow socks, both in public and in private, with genuine footslavish humility and awe!
