Gynarchy Gimps Volume 4
Further observations from various enslaved, Gynarchy Gimps (about the magnificent mistresses they serve!)
My new, personal footmistress – 23 year old, mixed race, girlgang-leader miss Harper – has decided to publicly flog me with a dozen harsh lashes on the sink-estate where she lives.
Her pretext for hauling me up onto the sink-estate whipping-post is that I ‘disrespected’ her grubby white, high-top, leather sneakers by not lickshining them to her satisfaction (even though she herself privately admitted to me, on my very first day of foot-servitude towards her, that no amount of tongue-rubbing could ever totally clean away the ingrained dirt on her broad, white, flaky-leathery sneaker-toes; even so, she has her reputation on the estate to think about, as well as her dirty sneakers – and so I must be publicly whipped!)
She has, of course, texted all her friends, and posted a message on her social networking site, inviting everyone who knows her (and even those who don’t) to come and watch her disciplining her disrespectful, personal footslave – and, as I hang by my wrists from the rusty, iron manacles at the top of the waste-ground, wooden whipping post in the centre of the estate (a whipping post which is often used by the local canine population to mark their territory), I can see that the response has been very good.
I am well and truly surrounded by female faces (only females are allowed to witness public floggings in this particular borough of Barbaria) – some cruelly smiling; some curious; some impatient for the whipping to begin; some picking their noses; all excited; none of them seemingly sympathetic towards me.
Meanwhile, miss Harper is trying out a few practice swings of the whip behind me. I can hear the cruel, nine foot long, braided black leather bullwhip swishing and cracking through the air (being a gang-leader miss Harper would have to have a lengthy bullwhip of course, as her sink-estate status symbol!). Its tapering tail-end comes perilously close to my back with each practice stroke – certainly close enough to make my poor muscles twinge involuntarily at the whoosh of warm air it generates so near to my naked and exposed body; but the whip doesn’t yet actually make contact with me at the speed of sound!
That unenviable experience is yet to come!
As I hang forlornly from the whipping post, bare-backed and feeling very exposed, I am nervously watching my mistress Harper’s grubby-white, high-top sneakers beneath her frayed, blue denim jean-hems as they move around in the sink-estate dust behind me, for I know that when they eventually come to rest and position themselves firmly on the ground some 7 feet behind me she will be readying herself to lay on the first proper bullwhip-stroke!
I am gratified to observe also just a hint of her pure, white socktops above her high-top, sneaker-rims; her socks, at least, look snowy-white (even though I happen to know they too are somewhat grubby and grey deep down inside her sneakers; I know that because I put them on her delicately brown-skinned feet first thing this morning, as befits a personal footslave!).
I can’t help looking upwards and forwards again, however, at the baying, female crowd on the other side of the ignominious whipping-post. I wonder is there any other mistress I know or recognise out there – a friendly face, perhaps, from my pre-footslave past? As there doesn’t appear to be, I lower my gaze once more, and survey instead the vast array of sink-estate, female sneakers, ugg-boots, ankleboots, calf-boots, kneeboots, ballet-flats and socks before me. I suddenly feel overwhelmed with footslavish respect for each and every one of them. For they are the shoes, boots and socks of my female betters, who are not about to be whipped! They are all well out of harm’s way – only I am within striking radius of the soon-to-be-punishing bullwhip!
Some of the aforementioned, female footwear which gleefully surrounds me looks decidedly scruffy and unkempt, even at a distance, and one wonders whether the pretty owners of the shoes and boots are wearing clean socks inside their outer footwear, or, like my mistress Harper, dirty, grubby socks; socks that are well-used? And, indeed, one wonders exactly when each of these young ladies actually last bathed their sweaty, feminine feet. But, no matter – they are still the dirty, potentially sweaty, shoes, socks and feet of my female betters, and I would happily bow down right now, and kiss and smell each and every one of them, if I were not trussed up to this unforgiving and unyielding, public whipping-post.
Miss Harper’s high-tops meanwhile, I notice out of the adrenalin-pumped corner of my eye, have come to an ominous rest on the dusty, sink-estate wasteland behind me, and there is a deafening silence where the sound of her practice whiplashes had been. She is about to deliver the first real whip!
I brace myself, by focussing on the dusty, calf-length, beige-brown ugg boots and bright pink sock-tops of a cruelly smiling, gum-chewing, young blonde woman standing almost directly opposite me. For her part, she lifts up her mobile phone and points it backwards towards me – clearly filming my impending distress.
Out of the corner of my frightened eye I now see the sneakers of miss Harper briefly lift up off the ground; observe her right sock-top crease; hear a sickening swish; then a resounding crack, accompanied by an instantaneous, numbing thud around my entire ribcage; followed – literally just a skin-splitting second later – by a burning, agonising, searing pain throughout my entire, trussed-up torso!
I shake in my public bonds and let out an involuntary, piercing scream of pain and shock which echoes around the entire estate. The female crowd cheer and laugh heartily. Some of them point at me; some of them admiringly imitate my mistress Harper by whipping the air with their right arms; others just turn to look at their neighbours, and smile and laugh. Still others, like the young blonde woman directly in front of me, remain stationery, chewing gum, assiduously pointing their mobile phone cameras at me.
All I can think about now is that I have another 19 of these bone-shattering, skin-ripping embraces of the cruel, female bullwhip to come!
I must try to wrest my mind back to the charming, brown sheepskin ugg-boots and pink socks of my amateur filmer, if I am to have any chance of taking my mind off at least some of the burning, all-embracing, all-consuming PAIN! That right sock-top in particular looks twist…
Swish…Crack…Thud…MORE PAIN!
Scream!
Cheers…Laughter...
PAIN! PAIN! All is PAIN!...Pink socks…Brown Uggs…Oh the pink socks!...
Swish…Crack…Thud…YET MORE PAIN!
Scream! Mercy!
Cheers…Laughter (even greater than before, now that I am reduced to begging for female mercy)
Mercy!...Mercy!...PAIN!…Uggs!...Socks!...Pink!….
Swish…Crack…Thud…INCREDIBLY, YET MORE PAIN! How is this possible?!
Scream! Mercy! Oh pray, Miss Harper!
Cheers…Laughter...Film...
PAIN! PAIN! ALL IS PAIN!
Swish…Crack…Thud…PAIN!
Scream! Oh pity pray!
Cheers…Laughter...
PAIN! PAIN! PAIN! BEYOND-BELIEF PAIN!
Swish…Crack…Thud…PAIN!
Scream!
Cheers…Laughter...
Swish…Crack…Thud…PAIN!
Scream!
Cheers…Laughter...
Swish…Crack…Thud…PAIN!
Weaker Scream!
Cheers…Laughter...
Swish…Crack…Thud…Weaker PAIN!
Scream! Pity!
Cheers…Laughter...
Swish…Crack…Thud…Weaker PAIN! The Pain of exhaustion!
Cry!
Cheers…Laughter...
Swish…Crack…Thud…Pain!
Cry!
Cheers…Laughter...
Swish…Crack…Thud…Pain!
Whimper!
Cheers…Laughter…Applause...
WATER!
Someone has thrown a bucket of stale, rusty rainwater onto my face to wake me up again to the full force of the PAIN!
The whipping appears to be over, but the PAIN certainly isn't! The supposedly anaesthetising qualities of the brown ugg-boots and pink socks of the pretty, blonde girl are just a distant memory now! Indeed, those boots and socks now unconcernedly turn and walk off before my weeping eyes, as do all the other female shoes, boots and socks that had been cheering and jeering at me. Only I remain on the sink-estate waste ground, hanging limply where I was previously hanging firmly, with my mistress Harper breathlessly coiling up her used, black leather bullwhip behind me.
She moves over to whisper some sweet words of encouragement into my ear:
‘Ha! Ha! Don’t worry, slave…We’ll get there, yeah? Rome weren’t built in a day!’
And with that she leaves me alone to drip-dry on the whipping post, whilst she has herself a well-earned drink in the local, sink-estate bar, surrounded by her admiring mates.
I too yearn to be with my mistress Harper in the bar, even though I am not her 'mate'. I long to be with her white sneakers and socks – to kiss them and praise them for whipping me so mercilessly, and for showing me who's boss! I feel like a footslave-outcast hanging here alone in my post-whipping, whipping-post bonds, separated from my beautiful, mixed-race mistress's cruel and unforgiving, white sneakers and socks.
Except, I’m not completely alone, am I? For I have my CONTINUING, THROBBING PAIN as unwelcome company!
I am massaging her grey-socked feet as she relaxes on her sofa – but in the capacity as her slave; not as her lover.
The differences are as follows:
- My 22 year old, petite and comely, brunette mistress Samantha has arrogantly ordered me to hand-rub her socked feet; this was not a polite request!
- If I fail to obey the stinky order, my back shall be sorely whipped
- Her grey-socked feet are unashamedly sweaty and stinky, for I am just a slave, and she therefore has absolutely no compunctions about imposing her sock-stink on my nose and face (whereas she would, out of consideration for her boyfriend, at least wash her feet and wear clean socks prior to a sock-massage)
- I am kneeling by the end of the sofa with my face at her sock level (as opposed to sitting on the sofa beside her like an almost-equal, with her socked feet resting on my groin) so that I may better concentrate on that which I am rubbing
- It is very important that I concentrate, as woe betide me if I inadvertently touch her soft, white, 22 year old legskin!
- The moistness in her short, grey socks (caused by them being trapped all day inside her, now temporarily discarded on the floor, musty-smelling, well-used, black leather ballet-flats) is transferring onto my hands and fingers, making them smell of her individual foot odour; but she doesn't give a damn!
- She ignores me whilst I am studying and rubbing her socks, being preoccupied with answering texts from her real-man boyfriend on her mobile phone above me. Indeed, she is so oblivious to my humble presence, she even subconsciously wriggles her dainty, girltoes inside her grey sneaker-style socks whilst I am diligently rubbing them
- Her mother comes in, gives her daughter a cup of tea, and laughs at me - so dutifully, and ultra-seriously, rubbing her daughter's socked feet – as well she might! For it confirms that she and her daughter are both better than me. Indeed, I shall be obliged to rub her mother's sweaty nylons on her feet later this evening, after my mistress Samantha has gone out; I only accompany my mistress Samantha's shoes and socks to college during the daytime – never when she is out socialising in the evenings. Not because it's way past my bedtime (I am only permitted 3 hours' sleep every night, and so don’t get my head down until the small hours of the morning) but because I have too much work to do in the evenings, mouthwashing all my mistress Samantha's dirty shoes, boots and socks and massaging her stunning, 40 year old mother's still shapely, but sweaty-nyloned, feet!
Yes, I'm just the household, stinky-sock-and-nylon-rubbing gimp – very much taken for granted, as a dirty, sock-rubber slave should be!
The public footslave is being kept busy by a series of demanding mistresses. And rightly so!
On The Throne by patheticus on GoAnimate
…you’re sure to witness a Japanese mistress-madam beating her slave. And rightly so!
If You Go Down In The Woods Today by patheticus on GoAnimate
Normally, after my arduous, 16 hour long, double night-shift working on the heavy, prison treadmill, I can expect my much needed 8 hour rest period before my next laborious, double night-shift begins.
But this morning my two pretty treadmill-taskmistresses gleefully decide at their shift changeover that I have no option but to continue working, as my day-shift, treadmill-prisoner colleague has been declared too ill to work today by the female prison doctor, and his shift on the heavy treadmill therefore needs covering.
He shall, of course, have to make up for his hours lost to illness in due course – working 20 hour days (or nights) instead of the usual 16 (we male prisoner-slaves, unlike our female supervisors, are expected to work double-shifts every day, or night) but in the meantime I too am suffering for his enforced idleness!
I wouldn't mind, but I am well and truly exhausted this morning since I have had the misfortune of being driven all night by a particularly alert and conscientious treadmill-taskmistress – black taskmistress Tanya – who is not only a heavy girl (making the treadmill even harder to push as she sits on the driver's seat in front and above me) but who also loves to whip, so that my body is not only exhausted, but very cut and sore – particularly on my bare back and shoulders!
However, as the black loafers and thick-fibred, black cotton anklesocks (sock on smooth, feminine black skin) of nightshift, African-Caribbean taskmistress Tanya are replaced by the chunky, black leather ankleboots and thin-fibred, black cotton bootsocks (sock on smooth, feminine brown skin) of the more petitely-built, dayshift Indian taskmistress, miss Ahsan, on the metal footplate directly in front of my treadmill-prisoner face, the stunningly pretty, but lacking-in-compassion wearer of the dayshift boots and socks leans down to offer me some words of assurance in her cute Indian-girl accent:
'Do not be worrying your ugly, sleepy head, prisoner-slave – I will be making damned well sure that I am keeping you awake with my whip, isn't it? Ha! Ha!'
'Yes taskmistress, Ahsan! Thank you, taskmistress Ahsan! God bless you, pretty taskmistress – and your whip!'
She then holds up each chunky, rounded, Indian-girl, black leather boot-toe onto my dry and parched lips in turn for me to respectfully kiss, whilst the tired, black leather loafers and thick cotton anklesocks of my diligent, nightshift mistress unconcernedly leave for their well-earned rest (after just 8 hours of supervising me!)
True to her Indian-accent word, taskmistress Ahsan then royally beats the fatigue out of me for the next 8 hours or so of her daytime shift, leaving me exhausted and in no fit state for my next 16 hour, double night-shift on the heavy treadmill, supervised for the first 8 hours by blonde-ponytailed taskmistress miss Kirsty – as black taskmistress miss Tanya, like all the treadmill-taskmistresses, must be given at least a 24 hour rest period after her strenuous single night shift the night before (in accordance with the Female Employment Law)
Still, as the dusty, black leather ankleboots and thin, black cotton bootsocks of my Indian dayshift supervisor, miss Ahsan, are now replaced by the black leather ballet-flats and short, black sneaker-socks (sock on smooth, feminine white skin) of the blonde miss Kirsty, at least the Indian taskmistress has the satisfaction of knowing that:
- The treadmill had been kept turning – despite the illness of my prisoner-colleague (and, incidentally, despite the work being entirely nugatory, for the prison-treadmill is purely a perpetual-punishment device; it does not grind or produce anything, other than grinding pain in the muscles of the unfortunate prisoner-slaves like me who must turn it!)
- Her less experienced and overly-enthusiastic, blonde-ponytailed colleague, miss Kirsty, will continue to whip me awake where she (miss Ahsan) left off, for, despite being blonde, even the intellectually-challenged and superficial miss Kirsty, who invariably prefers to listen to her MP3 player throughout her 8 hour shift, rather than the creaks and groans of my aching back, shoulder and neck muscles, realises that only the stinging power of the female whip can possibly keep me walking the treadmill continuously without a break for a full 24 hours!
Miss Kirsty saws the black leather, riding-crop style, treadmill-driver's whip across one of the fresh, gaping wounds left by miss Ahsan on my right shoulder-blade, as I wearily kiss her black ballet-flated and socked feet at the commencement of her single night shift, prior to walking the ever more burdensome treadmill for yet another back-breaking, double night-shift!
Miss Kirsty makes no allowances for my prisoner-slave fatigue – and nor will her replacement, whoever she is, in 8 hours' time. And why should they? After all, I am meant to be suffering hard labour, and I am here to be perpetually punished!
I only pray to the goddesses that my sick slave-colleague has recovered enough to undertake his double day-shift tomorrow morning, for I don't believe that even the all-stinging, all dancing female whip could keep me awake on the treadmill for a full 48 hours!
Surely not?!
What I particular admire about my 27 year old personal footmistress, mistress Karen, apart from her petitely-framed, dark-haired beauty of course, is the fact that, however smart her upper attire, her lowliest attire (i.e. her shoes) always appear to be delightfully scruffy and scuffmarked.
That’s because she only has the one pair of shoes – plain, matt black leather loafers with low heels and rounded toes – which she, naturally enough, wears all the time (with black socks). It’s not that my mistress is generally unhygienic, or very poor, or anything (as I said, her upper attire can be quite smart, and even her black socks look perfectly clean, if a little bobbled and creased on the backs of her heels!); it’s just that she regards her one pair of comfortable, black, loafer shoes as all-weather, all-purpose footwear – so why change them?
Plus, of course, it ably demonstrates her self-righteous, young-womanly contempt for me, since she knows I have no choice but to follow her to scuffmarked flat-heel everywhere I go, with the scarred backs of her scuzzy, well-used, musty-smelling, black leather shoes perennially in my face.
And she has the additional pleasure of knowing that – despite my undoubted best efforts to tongue-shine her well-used footwear and diligently spruce it up with my footslave-mouth – other mistresses, and their freemale boyfriends, will criticise me and chastise me for ‘neglecting’ my sweet and kind mistress’s footwear, and for letting her walk out in such scruffy loafers!
I can’t tell you the number of times I have been cuffed by an angry master-sir – outraged at my ‘incompetence’ and ‘inconsiderateness’ towards my ‘indulgent’ footmistress’s favourite footwear!
And, let’s be clear – I damn well should feel publicly ashamed of both the scuffmarks on my mistress Karen’s shoes, and the cuffmarks on my face, but I actually quite like both; for they remind me of the utter contempt in which I am held by all and sundry – including my mistress Karen (who never lifts a finger to defend me!). I am viewed as a footslave failure, fit only to follow in his mistress’s bedraggled footsteps.
No wonder the master-sirs feel obliged to redden my footslave cheeks with shame on my behalf!
My 24 year old, blonde mistress Alison is deaf and mute. She has been since birth. Therefore, the Female Authorities have seen to it they my own ears are permanently blocked off, and my voice-box has been surgically removed – for, it goes without saying, you can't have a personal footservant who has more faculties than his mistress!
My clever mistress communicates with other free human beings above me via lip-reading and sign language, but with me she just communicates with female kicks to the face – one kick for start to do something; two kicks for stop doing something.
The 'something' is pretty much determined by her daily routine, for my deaf-mute mistress is very much a creature of habit, and we know each other well enough by now
For example:
- First thing in the morning, I must kneel by the side of her bed with a bowl of warm water and a fluffy towel, and await the signal of one kick from her dainty, bare, right foot to my humbly-kneeling face, which is the signal for me to bathe her feet. I must take great care to ensure that I wash away any overnight dead skin and/or toejam from her pretty, white feet, and the best way to do this is for me to not just look for said items, but to feel for the dead skin and smell for the toejam (my remaining senses of sight, touch and smell are now greatly enhanced, thanks to my ears being blocked off!)
- Two kicks to my face indicates that I am to stop washing, and start drying her feet in the fluffy towel. Again, two kicks will subsequently indicate when her feet are sufficiently dry.
- I must then remain kneeling by the side of her bed and drink my mistress's dirty footwater, complete with her dead footskin and stinky toejam, whilst she showers. It is my breakfast.
- After she has showered, she returns to her bedroom; gets dressed (apart from her feet); resumes her seated position in front of me by the side of her bed; and kicks me once in the face as a signal that I am to fetch her black, office loafers, and a pair of her plain black anklesocks, from her nearby sock drawer.
- I must then put them onto her feet, before crawling down the stairs behind her to flat-loafered heel towards the kitchen, where my mistress Alison will silently make her own, nutritional breakfast.
- Whilst she breakfasts, I must kneel on the floor by her feet and admire her shoes and socks beneath her black cotton, trouser-suit hems, looking out for any little imperfections which I may be able to rectify later – such as any creases in her socks; or dust-stains on the sides of her shoes. I am envious, of course, of the smell of her food (over the musty leather smell of her black leather, loafer shoes), but, as you know, I have already breakfasted.
- I must then follow her to loafered and socked heel throughout her working day in her office, silently and unobtrusively studying my mistress's feet and footwear, as befits a good and diligent, personal footslave. If she wishes me to kiss her feet at any time, or straighten her socks, or lickshine her shoes, she will simply kick me in the face; I usually know, instinctively, which of those three services it is that she requires. As I wrote earlier, a certain bondage has developed between us, whereby I know what is required of me without having to be told (other than by the kick to my face, which effectively gives me her female permission to act!)
- In the evenings, my mistress Alison invariably goes out socialising with her boyfriend (unless it's Sunday evening when she religiously stays in and whips me; Sunday evening is punishment evening, even if I've done nothing wrong!). My humble role on those evenings when she is going out is to first pedicure her feet by painting her toenails red, and then watching whilst she pulls on her tan-nylon stockings (I'm not allowed to put her nylon stockings onto her feet since my mistress Alison is quite prudish, and she considers that her stockings go too high up her legs for the likes of me; only her boyfriend is permitted to touch her on the thigh; or, indeed, anywhere above the knee!). I must then, on the signal of a single kick from her freshly-nyloned toes, fetch her strappy, red, peep-toe, high-heeled sandals, and kneelingly put them on her tan-nyloned feet.
- I then silently and unobtrusively follow the mistress to high-heel throughout her date with the master-sir, including when they come back to her house to make love, at which point I am required to kneel by the side of the bed and bury my nose in my mistress's discarded, red leather, high-heeled sandals (the master-sir likes my mistress to keep her stockings on during sex, but I shall get to mouthwash them afterwards). Needless to say, I can't hear my masters and betters making love above me, because of my earplugs – but I can smell them, and their love juices, over the sweaty aroma of my mistress's, still warm and moist, sandals!
I am a silent witness to their superior lovemaking.
My 30 year old mistress Janice’s weight has certainly fluctuated over the years that I have been foot-enslaved to her!
Right now, for example, she is going through one of her ‘thin’ phases; and so, instead of a stretched and self-taut, black cotton anklesock inside her block-heeled, round-toed, black leather, zip-up ankleboot, I see a delightfully creased and loose black cotton anklesock, set against her smooth, skinny-white ankleskin.
What never changes is the following:
· The unique smell of her feet – socked or bare; a distinctively tangy aroma of background vinegar which seems to permeate all her footpores, whatever the weather, and whatever condition her feet are in i.e. recently bathed, or not!
· The accompanying, salty taste of her socks and bare feet – footsalt
· Her insistence on total and utter respect on my part for her feet and footwear – respect which she demands I demonstrate towards her not just in public, in front of her office co-workers, but also in private, in front of her husband; or even when it is just the two of us alone in the room. She basically demands that I never take my eyes off her feet!
· Her love for the whip, and her cruelty in applying it to my bare back.
My mistress Janice never tires of whipping me, and makes sure a whipping is a long-drawn-out affair:
· She begins by pronouncing my ‘crime’ and punishment several hours in advance, so that I have plenty of time to stew over it, and she has plenty of time to look forward to it, and get herself all aroused and excited (especially if she has decided to whip me on a trumped-up charge!)
· This cruel delay also gives her time to invite her husband, neighbours and friends around to watch – for she always whips me in her outdoor, back-yard whipping stocks, where she has plenty of room to really swing the whip and make the whole painful event into a proper spectacle
· About an hour or so before the actual whipping, she secures me in the whipping stocks – with my back suitably bent-over and bare, ready for the whip – and brings the single-tailed, 3 foot long, black leather cowhide-whip round to my face, in order to show it to me. As she smilingly crouches down, I get to see the tops of her creased, black cotton socktops again inside her ankleboots, and beneath her now slightly raised and flapping, black cotton, officewear trouser-hems
· She runs her beautiful fingers (currently slender, rather than podgy) along the braided leather of the whip tail, and points out to me little bits of dead skin that are still attached to it from my previous whipping – which will never have been more than a week previously
· She tuts, and ‘cleans’ the whip in front of my kneeling and confined face, picking out the bits of my maleslave, dead back-skin and flicking them onto the dirty ground beneath my face; she says she doesn’t want them to dull the pain in any way, as the braided leather of the pure whip has been designed to be jagged and abrasive on a slave’s back
· She then deftly oils the whip in front of my kneeling face, to make it more supple. She explains that this will help it to wrap more efficiently round my ribs, thereby hurting the whole of my skinny and bony torso
· Speaking of which, she then starts to finger my torso, paying particular attention to my already tenderised ribs (from the last whipping). It amuses her to compare the girth of my old whip-gashes with the width of her fingers, and to watch me flinch at her delicate, feminine touch, and, whilst she is fingering my old sores, she asks me how I think I am going to cope with the pain of her whip this time? Do I think I shall break down and cry out from the very first stroke? Or shall I manage to be a pseudo-man, and hold out until maybe the third or fourth stroke? She opines that it won’t really matter, as everybody knows I’m just a weak-willed slave, and not a real man, like her husband whom, she gleefully points out, is, ironically, not subject to the pain of the female whip, even though he could undoubtedly suffer it’s biting sting with a great deal more male dignity and masculinity than I could ever muster!
· If her husband – master Alan sir – happens to be present at the pre-whipping, she will normally stand up and kiss him on the lips in front of, and above, me at this point – just to emphasise her love and admiration for him, in complete contrast to her hatred and contempt for me!
· And, throughout all this prewhipping cruelty, her friends and neighbours – those who have been invited to the whipping – will be laughing at my distress, and egging my mistress on, exhorting her not to spare me in between munching on their tasty canapés and sipping on their fine wine.
I won’t describe to you the pain and suffering I must endure once my actual punishment-whipping begins – for it is, quite frankly, indescribable! Suffice it to say that my mistress Janice, as you would expect, is an expert whipper, and always delivers my cuts in slow-time, making sure that each and every whip curls around my entire torso (hence my perpetually tenderised ribs!), and that I have time to fully ‘appreciate’ the burning sting of each and every individual whiplash.
After the whipping, I am obliged to publicly demonstrate my respect and gratitude to my cruel mistress for ‘disciplining’ me, by kissing her dusty, black leather, ankleboot-toes (in the full knowledge that she is still wearing her vinegary-smelling, salty-tasting, black cotton bootsocks inside her boots, even though I can’t see them), followed by the equally dusty shoes or boots of each and every female member of my ‘audience’. I must thank them for attending, and for enjoying my whipping.
Later, after several hours of ‘recovery’ time kneeling in the outdoor stocks, my mistress will come back out into the yard – whipless, but still booted and socked – and will once again crouch down in front of me in order to verbally torment me.
If it’s cold and dark she will switch on the backyard spotlight directly above me in order to highlight my whipped-back shame. She will then trace the fresh, red whipmarks she has painted on my back with her long fingernails – not gently; but coarsely, and in pretend sympathy. All she really wants to do is exacerbate and prolong my pain and suffering!
And rightly so – for I am her slave!
Once again I find it helpful to try focussing on her exposed socktops beneath her black trouser-hems, as the creases in her now day-long, black socks help to take my mind off the pain, whilst simultaneously deepening my admiration and respect for my cruel mistress and her successful, yo-yo dieting.
I praise and bless her in between flinching and crying out with the extra pain caused by her probing fingernails, and promise her that I will seek to do better and to please her in future.
But I know I shall be whipped again sometime soon – for my mistress Janice, quite simply, enjoys whipping me; as is her perfect right, for I am her property and her slave, for her to lawfully mistreat howsoever she wills! And moreover, it’s good exercise for her – and helps her to avoid piling the pounds back on!
Yes – fat or thin, my mistress Janice always maintains her cruel streak; and her vinegary-smelling feet and socks.
And I love her for it; some things never change!
One, two
Lickshine my shoe!
Three, four
Lick it some more!
Five, six
Whip him with sticks!
Seven, eight
Do it with hate!
Nine, ten
Whip him again!
Eleven, twelve
Make his life hell!
I think she must be a frustrated fashion-model!
For, as the pretty, 30 something, black girl with the Afro hairstyle presents her brown leather kneeboots for me to lickshine at my public bootlick-stand, she doesn’t just do so using the normal mistressly posture i.e. standing tall and proud, with her hands on her hips (or possibly with her cell phone up to her ear) and the relevant, booted leg stretched forth in front of her onto the wooden footblock beneath my kneeling and bowed face. No, this young black woman presents her boots to me from lots of different angles – first from the side; then from the back; coyly; coquettishly; in fact, from all differing angles – almost as if she was on a boot-fashion photoshoot!
Maybe she is! Maybe, somewhere out of sight, a professional fashion photographer, or even just her boyfriend, is surreptitiously taking photos of this beautiful, young black woman having her boots lickshined by the public bootservant, for her portfolio? Maybe she’s secretly taking advantage of me?
I don’t mind if she is – for, each time she presents one of her stylish, brown leather kneeboots to me for kissing, she pulls and straightens the top of her concomitant, grey woollen, over-the-knee bootsock up over her bare, brown kneecap beneath her short, ruffled miniskirt. I can even hear the sock scraping against her bare kneecap-skin; and I love it!
I am having to thoroughly lickshine the brown leather kneeboots of a fashion-conscious, black girl whose very sock is higher, and better, than me! My only regret is that I can’t see more of her sock – especially the lower, sweaty parts deep down inside her boot, covering her toe-area. For that grey, woollen sock must surely be moist and clammy down there, given how warm the weather is today (another indication that this may be an impromptu fashion-shoot for an Autumnal catalogue?) and yet even the meanest, lowliest, sweatiest part of her tall, grey-woollen kneesock is better than me, and deserving of my labial respect!
Who knows, perhaps one day she will return for a kneesock-photoshoot – and sexily present her long socks to me for kissing and worshipping from every conceivable angle! But, in the meantime, I shall just have to make do with being the humble understudy to her boots – literally so, as she has now lifted her street-dirtied, left bootsole up to my face for me to photogenically lickshine and admire!
