Gynarchy Gimps Volume 5
Final observations from various enslaved, Gynarchy Gimps (about the magnificent mistresses they serve!)
Our only chance of escape from the living hell that is the prison-galley slaveship comes once a month, when the taskmaster’s 22 year old daughter (yes, our taskmaster is male!) visits the galley-ship in order to choose a new personal footslave.
Nobody quite knows why miss Roberta needs a new footslave every month; or where the old ones disappear to! But, nevertheless, we all strive in our chains to catch her sweet, young-womanly attention as she walks up and down the central gangway bedside our faces – hoping against hope that we will be the one she chooses. For nothing, surely, could be worse than the living death of being a galley slave?!
She’s not exactly dressed for it – being a taskmaster’s daughter, I mean. She’s a pleasant enough looking, girl-next-door kind of black girl, with a busy, Afro hairstyle; a plain, white top; pale blue denim jeans, turned up at the hems just above her shapely ankles and therefore displaying a thick, grey, denim turnover; plain black, scrunched-up anklesocks; and pale blue, low-top, lace-up leather sneakers – to match, presumably, her jeans.
She looks, therefore, for all the world like your average female visitor to the galley-ship, just curious to see what goes on (we get hundreds of them every week, including tourist groups and college parties!). But miss Roberta actually is very well acquainted with our work and whipmarks – being the galley-taskmaster’s daughter – and she has unparalleled power over our fates!
She is, in fact, our only hope of salvation – however temporal that salvation may turn out to be! But, how could you go wrong being the personal footslave of such a beautiful and haughty young, black woman – even if just for a month?!
Nobody has quite worked out yet what her monthly selection criteria appear to be: is it the weakest galley-slave she can find, the one closest to death? Or is it just the most whipped (in which case I must stand a good chance this month, since her taskmaster-father has had it in for me, and my ‘lazy back’ is well cut and pasted!). Or, is it the attitude of the galley-slave in kissing her blue-sneakered feet – for, as part of the selection process miss Roberta always insists on walking up and down the gangway having her feet respectfully kissed by each and every oarsman in turn!
Or, does she simply choose the hunkiest, handsomest slave left on board – like any, hot-blooded young African woman her age might do (in which case, I’m doomed – being middle-aged and weedy!)
She has rejected me umpteen times before, of course, but I am determined this time to give it my best shot – especially since her father has taken to whipping me so much of late!
I pucker up my dry and parched, galley-slave lips as she makes her way down the line towards me (I’m number 42), extending each dainty, blue-sneakered foot in turn for kissing by each and every chained-up slave.
My plan, this time, is to dare to kiss her on the scrunched-up top of her black cotton anklesock! I’ve often contemplated doing it, but resisted the urge for fear of upsetting her in front of her whip-carrying father (who likes to supervise his daughter’s monthly slave-selection, and give his final approval to her choice – some galley slaves don’t deserve to serve his beloved, black daughter’s feet, in his doting eyes!), and thus ending up being sorely whipped instead of selectively chosen.
But, this time, what have I got to lose? If I stay here on this motionless prison-ship I’ll probably be whipped to death by her father anyway!
My heart starts to race as her familiar sneakers and socks approach me – partly through fear of what I am about to do; and partly because her scrunched-up, plain black anklesocks, set against the pleasing background of her smooth, brown, lower legflesh, look so inviting to the lip!
As soon as her right sneaker is arrogantly extended on the gangplank next to my face, I lean my mouth forwards and kiss her on the creases and folds in her upper sock, whilst taking great care not to let my trembling-with-fear, upper lip inadvertently brush against her precious, bare, black legflesh!
I am immediately aware of her bald, black father fingering his long, black leather bullwhip in preparation for striking my already tenderised and whip-marked back for such audacious, sock-kissing insolence towards his beloved, black, 22 year old daughter; doesn’t this lazy and ignorant galley-slave know that the convention is to kiss the galley-taskmaster’s daughter on the sneaker-toe?!
However, the Afro-haired girl raises her right arm to intervene and stop her father from hurting me. I have clearly touched a raw nerve by kissing her sock – or, should that be, a socked nerve; for she clearly likes having her black sock kissed:
‘No, father! Let him kiss me on the sock again! I want to feel his humility through my sock!’
The whip is reluctantly lowered again, and recoiled in the mighty master-sir’s hands, and I repeat my action of straining my face just that little bit further forwards so that my lips may reach the scrunched-up upper of the black girl’s plain black cotton anklesock on her imperiously outstretched, right ankle.
The scrunched-up sock material feels soft and warm hearted – rather like the beautiful wearer of the sock herself! (but, as we all know, appearances can subsequently turn out to have been deceptive!)
She Afro-giggles, and replaces her right sneakered and socked foot with her left beneath my imprisoned-oarsman’s face, and again I dare to kiss her on the side of her sock; only this time I go further, and press my lips hard against the folds of the sock until they can feel her prominent anklebone underneath.
She sighs lasciviously:
‘I want this one, father!’
Miraculously (or perhaps because I’m a useless oarsman? Or perhaps because he knows that my fate at his daughter’s feet shall be a fate worse than death?), her father agrees to unchain me from the oar, and hand the chains to his daughter. I am now her chosen one (for the month, at least!)
I proudly crawl down the gangway behind her to sneakered and socked heel – into the unknown…
……………………………………………………………………………………….
Addendum: I expect you’re wondering what happened to me in my new, short life as mistress Roberta’s personal footservant?
Well, clearly, since I am writing this, I’m not dead…
Swish…CRACK!
Aowww!... But I wish I was! For I am now confined to the Gynarchy’s underground salt-mines, wishing and praying I could be back working on the sweet and kind, prison galley-ship owned by her father!
My miserly month at the black-girl-nextdoor’s feet just wasn’t worth it, despite all the happy memories, intriguing insights, and stinky foot and sock smells it gave me!
Swish…CRACK!
Aowww! Mercy taskmistress!
These salt-mine taskmistresses can sure whip harder than any man ever could; and that includes miss Roberta’s father!
18 year old, blonde-ponytailed, regular customer-mistress, miss Sandra, seems to have a certain, satisfied ‘glow’ about her this morning as I tongue-attend to her navy-blue, laced up plimsolls, and matching navy-blue anklesocks, beneath her black cotton, office trouser-hems, in my city-centre footoire this morning.
She is on her way into work, as per usual – but I can just tell that something new and significant has happened in her young life. And she’s obviously bursting to tell somebody about it – even a dirty, low-life, pubic footservant such as myself!
So, I kindly give her the opportunity to reveal all (I can’t help feeling almost fatherly and protective towards miss Sandra – even though I’m just a slave – for she would indubitably be young enough to be my grown-up daughter, if I were equipped to procreate!):
‘Oh pray, miss Sandra… plimsoll-lick…plimsoll- lick… if you will forgive me the intrusion, beautiful, blonde goddess-mistress Sandra….plimsoll-lick…plimsoll-lick…plimsoll-lick… but the young mistress appears to be all of a glow today, mistress?...plimsoll-lick…plimsoll-lick…plimsoll-lick…if I may make so bold, mistress?... sock-kiss…sock-kiss…sock-kiss…’
Before you ask, miss Sandra is one of those modern, young customer-mistresses who actually encourages a public footservant to kiss her on the exposed sock – so I’m not being presumptuous! Only her soft, bare, 18 year old, pasty white upper-ankleskin remains out of bounds to my lips – though I’m allowed to discreetly look at it!
She giggles, embarrassedly, causing her freshly-kissed, navy-blue anklesock to crease up with concomitant embarrassment on her outstretched, shapely, right anklebone:
‘Ha! Ha! Yes, slave – my boyfriend Dean and I made love last night, and, believe it or not, it was my first time! Ha! Ha!’
I am stopped in my lick-tracks by this earth-shattering news! Miss Sandra – no longer a virgin!
I heartily congratulate her, as befits a still virginal slave who is more than twice her age:
‘’Oh pray, miss Sandra! If it pleases you, miss Sandra! Many congratulations, miss! I am so pleased for you, miss!...’
I am genuinely pleased for her, for she is such a sweet girl – never an angry word to say to me, even if I ‘miss a bit’ on her dirty, street-dustied, office plimsolls!
Indeed, such is my confidence in the strength of our public-footservant/customer-mistress relationship, I feel I can even be somewhat prurient, albeit whilst resuming my diligent plimsoll-licking and respectful sock-kissing:
‘And, pray tell me mistress…plimsoll-lick…plimsoll-lick…plimsoll-lick… was it good, mistress?...sock-kiss…sock-kiss…sock-kiss…’
I can feel her turn a little bit more crimson above me, but she’s clearly still itching to proudly discuss the loss of her virginity:
‘Ha! Ha! Yes thank you, slave! Master Dean was magnificent – so strong, and yet gentle and loving with me! I came again and again! Ha! Ha!’
I’m glad to hear it – for master Dean sir (whom I only know because he occasionally accompanies miss Sandra whilst she uses my footoire – seemingly not the morning after the night before, though, as there’s no sign of him today!) is a young man, and, as we all know, young men can be quite selfish when it comes to their lovemaking skills!
Still, who am I to even think of criticising a real man – a man who can clearly arouse and satisfy a beautiful, young goddess like this?! He is self-evidently a much better man than I’ll ever be, even if he too is only half my age!
I continue to congratulate her, whilst still respectfully kissing the sides of her scrunched-up (and seemingly hastily put on this morning – for one of them is inside out!), navy-blue cotton anklesocks, and dutifully lickshining the white, rubbery, toe and sole areas of her otherwise blue-canvas sneakers:
‘Oh how wonderful, miss Sandra… sock-kiss…sock-kiss…This slave is truly delighted for you, young mistress-madam!...plimsoll-lick…plimsoll-lick…plimsoll-lick…’
She switches rubbery-plimsolled-feet beneath me, whilst lapping up my praise:
‘Ha! Ha! Have you ever made love to a woman, slave?’
It’s either an incredibly sweet and naïve question from a truly blonde, 18 year old innocent, or it’s a mocking question designed to rub in my own enforced virginity and celibacy! But either way, it is a question from a superior, young customer-mistress – and therefore requires a humble, slavespeak response:
‘Oh pray, mistress Sandra!...plimsoll-lick…plimsoll-lick… Oh no, mistress Sandra!... plimsoll-lick…plimsoll-lick… I’m just a slave, mistress!... plimsoll-lick…plimsoll-lick…plimsoll-lick… No woman would ever want to engage in sexual intercourse with the likes of me, mistress… sock-kiss…sock-kiss…sock-kiss… And besides, mistress… sock-kiss… plimsoll-lick… I’ve been trussed up here on my hands and knees in this same footoire all my adult life, mistress…. plimsoll-lick…sock-kiss… So I could never have the opportunity to have sexual intercourse with anyone, mistress… plimsoll-lick…plimsoll-lick… even if they wanted to, mistress!...sock-kiss…sock-kiss…sock-kiss…’
In saying the above I was, I guess, kind of hoping that a beautiful and lusty, young woman like miss Sandra may have, at some stage, at least thought about doing it with me – or rather, to me, since I would have to be entirely passive in the process, for practical reasons (on account of my chains)! I have, though, always wondered what sexual intercourse with a woman must be like?
But, of course, no such thoughts of sex with a male slave have ever entered her pretty, blonde mind – she was just being polite!
And, as she now acknowledges, incredibly naïve:
‘Ha! Ha! Yes of course! How silly of me! Ha! Ha! Who would want to make love to a dirty footslave like you?! Ha! Ha!’
Her left, navy-blue anklesock, like her right, navy-blue anklesock before it, creases up with embarrassed laughter beneath my lips, and I kiss it all the more reverentially. For I know my place – and it is kissing the scrunched-up, navy-blue, cotton anklesocks, and lickshining the white rubber and navy-blue canvas plimsolls of the superior, young woman above me who has found love, and recently made love, with another, real man; a proper man!
When I have finished my public duty of sprucing up her office plimsolls and socks, she happily leaves me alone and unloved in my dirty, outdoor footoire-booth, with perhaps even greater contempt for me than before coursing through her newly-enamoured, young-womanly, foot veins!
People often ask me what a ‘typical’ footoire customer-mistress is like? What sort of young woman regularly uses the services of a public footoire-slave in the semi-privacy of a city-centre, footoire booth?
There is, of course, no short answer – since no two mistresses are alike! But, the long answer would be as follows:
· All my customer-mistresses are very welcome to use me, be they black, white, yellow or brown; rich or poor; religious or licentious; sober or drunk. It’s the Law!
· However petite of feminine stature they may be, they all seem to tower over me like magnificent, mighty goddesses as soon as they enter the footoire booth, since I am permanently tethered on my hands and knees, and must keep my maleslave head bowed before them; for they are all, without exception, my female betters
· If they are just being curious they may only stay to take photos of me, or to film me, using their mobile phones; or they may just point and laugh at me, if there is a group of them
· Or, if they are drunk, they may just throw up in the far corner of my footoire, and leave me (and my unfortunate subsequent customer-mistresses) with a pool of their hot, steaming vomit to smell
· Still others may have simply entered the footoire-booth with their boyfriends in order to have a quick snog (or even, on occasions, full sexual intercourse) in front of me; the walls of the footoire help to shield them from prying eyes – and my eyes don’t count, of course, since I’m just a slave (who, in any case, must keep his eyes respectfully bowed to the wooden footblock beneath his kneeling face!)
· Some may have entered my footoire booth with the sole intention of taking out their young-womanly frustrations or anger on me, and will reach straight for the public-use whipping-stick which hangs on the footoire wall over my head
· But, more likely than not, they will have entered my footoire-booth in order to have their shoes or boots lickshined and cleaned; that is, after all, what I’m supposed to be there for!
· Some of the more shy customer-mistresses may have brought along a bag of dirty shoes and boots to simply leave with me for lickshining or cleaning in their absence; it’s called ‘leave and collect’. They will gaily inform me of the date/time I must have their dirty footwear ready for collection by (usually the next day), perhaps pointing out to me any particularly stubborn scuffmarks or mudstains on a particular shoe or boot, and then hurry off out of the booth without so much as a by-your-leave, but with the legitimate expectation that their footwear will be pristine by the deadline they have set me, however tight
· Likewise some of my customer-mistresses will deposit their dirty, smelly, worn socks with me; it’s cheaper for them to have their dirty, worn socks mouthwashed by me on a weekly basis, than it is for them to visit the launderette, since my humble sock-washing services are free. Impecunious student-girls, in particular tend to use me as their human sock-washer
· But, as like as not, the customer-mistress will simply wish the shoes or boots she is currently standing in to be lickshined and cleaned on her feet
· Or, she may just want them to be ‘worshipped’, of course i.e. kissed and fawned over (rather than licked). It makes her feel big! But, most young women take the opportunity of having my mouth on their footwear to clean their dirty shoes or boots – for even the ostensibly cleanest pair of female boots or shoes must, inevitably have picked up some street dirt or grime, just by virtue of being walked in along the Gynarchy’s dirty streets!
· And so, the all-powerful customer-mistress will ordinarily walk confidently up towards me and, if she is naturally right-handed, stretch forth her right foot onto the wooden footblock beneath my kneeling and bowed face (or, if she is left-handed – her left foot, naturally enough; either way, it will be her dominant leg and foot!)
· I must never look a customer-mistress in the eye – only in the foot; but normally I can tell through my peripheral vision whether she is pretty or plain; short or tall; slim or fat; Muslim or non-Muslim; and, of course, from her style of clothing and footwear – whether she is staid or feisty!
· I am permitted to verbally greet the customer-mistress’s foot, and politely enquire as to what specific service the mistress requires of me, but only if she doesn’t immediately bark her orders down at me first; and I must always use respectfully ‘open’ questions, such as ‘How may I serve you today, mistress madam?’ or ‘Pray give me your orders, mistress madam?’, as it is not for me to decide what needs to be done on my superior customer-mistress’s footwear. This applies even if I am attending to a regular customer-mistress, whose foot-service preferences I already know full well! The point is that it is the mistress who has all the power – and she must be the one to decide what I am to do on, or to, her everyday footwear. The Female Law states as much!
· Having received my orders, either unsolicited by me or politely solicited, I must then get straight down to work – kissing, or lickshining, the mistress’s outer footwear and/or sniffing or kissing her socks or nylons (only around her foot and ankle area, of course; her upper hosiery, above her ankles, is none of my business, unless I am specifically ordered to attend to her hose above the ankle!) – and must do so in abject humility and silence, unless the mistress-madam wishes to engage in conversation with me
· Which she may well do, if she’s curious. The types of questions I often get asked are:
Ø How am I liking it?
Ø What does her shoe or boot dirt taste of?
Ø Can I identify what it is she inadvertently walked in?
Ø Do I think the mud on her boots will be making me sick later on?
Ø Do I often get sick?
Ø If so, what happens when I am sick? Does another slave have to be brought in to cover for me? Or am I just whipped back to healthiness?
Ø What does the whipping-stick feel like on my bare back and shoulders?
Ø Is it very sore?
Ø Why is my back already so heavily marked with the whip? Am I a useless, incompetent footslave? Or just impudent?
Ø Would I like the mistress to whip me right now?
Ø Do I like the sight of her sock inside her boot?
Ø Would I like to unzip the side of her ankleboot and smell her black sock?
Ø What do I think of the cartoon decoration on the outer side of her sock? Do I find it funny?
Ø Can I see any snags or ladders in her nylons?
Ø If so, what am I going to do about them?
Ø What Do I think her boyfriend might do to me when she, falsely, accuses me of laddering her stockings?
Ø Am I afraid of her?
Ø Am I afraid of her boyfriend, and what he might do to me, even though he’s only half my age?
Ø Don’t I wish I could go away on holiday – like she will be doing next week? Even if it was only in the capacity as her personal footslave whilst she is abroad?
Ø Isn’t it a shame that I have been sentenced by the Female Authorities to life in the footoire, and can therefore never leave this dirty, stinking booth which smells of piss and stale vomit?
Ø Do I actually like being surrounded by male piss and female vomit?
Ø What will happen to me when I die? Will I be buried, face-upwards, in the dirt beneath my wooden footblock, so that I can continue to look upwards at my female-customers’ feet for all eternity – spiritually, if not literally!
· Of course, some mistresses will only wish to offload onto me all their personal problems, or, indeed, their personal triumphs and joys, whilst I tongue-attend to their shoes and socks. In such circumstances I merely become a ‘listener’!
· Still others won’t wish to say anything to me, other than to tell me when to stop. They may be preoccupied texting, or chatting with their boyfriends, on their mobile phones above me; or they may simply feel it is beneath them to converse with a dirty, public footservant at all.
· Either way, they are not wrong – and can do as they damn well please!
· Barring any disasters or slips of the tongue on their feet and footwear, once the average customer-mistress is satisfied with my performance on her boots or shoes she will simply turn her pretty heel on me and walk away, leaving the footoire-booth free for the next customer-mistress to walk in
· And then the whole process will begin over again, 24 hours a day if necessary – my city-centre footoire never officially closes, though I do always hope to grab forty winks at some stage during the wee small hours of the morning; especially on weeknights!
So, there you have it. My ‘typical’ experiences as a humble footoire-slave.
Like I said, no two mistresses are alike; that’s actually what keeps my job interesting!
My sweet and kind, Arab mistress, mistress Farah, cannot abide me – even though I adore her! She likes to keep me at a female foot’s distance – even shoving my face further away from her booted feet from time to time, like, for example, when I am germ-infested with a cold; or when she is with her beloved husband!
At such times the poor, peasant girl can hardly bear to have my ugly, maleslave face in her foot vicinity, though, paradoxically, she is required by the female law to keep me on a tight leash, since the Female Authorities on the Islamic-Gynarchic Island of Futurosa don’t wish to encourage personal footmistresses to allow their feral, unwanted footslaves to be roaming around the countryside on their hands and knees – desperately looking for female boots and socks to sniff and lick!
This is Gynarchy – not anarchy!
To be honest, even if I say so myself, I don’t believe my mistress Farah, however much she hates me, would be able to cope without me, since she is much too lazy and indolent to ever polish her own boots, or even to tie up her own shoelaces! She relies on me – even though she despises me; and that’s the only reason why I’m still around, and not digging salt by hand in the nearby, infamous, Futurosan, underground slave-mines!
What I particularly like and admire about my mistress Farah (aside from her great, Arabgirl-next-door beauty consisting of an average build; average height; average looks beneath her face-veil, or ‘niqab’; non-average, bleached-blonde hair beneath her modesty-preserving, black headscarf, or ‘hijab’; and her equally traditional and modesty-preserving, ankle-length, black cotton burka, or ‘jilbab’; not to mention her above-average, superior-female intelligence!) is her ability to switch from being friendly and gregarious with everyone else, to being cold and dismissive towards me – her personal footslave; in the click of a finger!
Quite literally so – for my blonde-haired, brown-skinned, Arab mistress’s curt and haughty, feminine orders are always preceded by a sweet feminine click of her North-African fingers, followed by a quick lowering of her tone of Arab-girl voice from friendly to snappy:
Click!
‘Footpig, lickshine my boots!’
You see what I mean? Her nickname for me is ‘Footpig’ – surely a strong indication of how much she detests and despises me, for my mistress is a very strict and observant, practising-Muslim girl, and would never dream of eating unclean pork or bacon! (just as she would never dream of having sex with me – a porcine slave!)
You can just hear the contempt in her pretty, Arab voice, can’t you?
I am not allowed to answer my mistress Farah back, or converse with her in any way, since, whilst my mistress loves to chat with others – male and female – through her veil, she cannot lower herself to converse with a dirty footslave. In her hidden eyes, my tongue is fit only to lick Arab-woman boot and shoe; even her pretty, brown, bare feet are forbidden to me to touch, lest I sully them with my maleslave-pig uncleanliness (unless I am washing them in a porcelain footbowl in the privacy of her own home and in the presence of her manly husband, when the surrounding footwater, and her husband’s chaperone-support, helps to ensure the continuing sanctity of my mistress Farah’s, marital female feet).
Right now, however, we are not at home – we are in public, as my mistress is drinking coffee with some fellow-Arab, female friends in the local village café, lazily watching the world idle by in the hot, Futurosan sunshine; and my burka-clad, Arab mistress requires me to publicly ‘lickshine her boots’, rather than wash her feet, whilst she partakes of her communal, public coffee.
She has not, of course, offered me any explanation as to why her Arab-girl, black leather, chunky-heeled and round-toed, zip-up ankleboots require cleaning, but a quick glance down at them (or up at them, in my case, since I must keep my head permanently and respectfully bowed to the ground, and therefore lower than her black leather ankleboot-uppers) makes it obvious even to a thicko-footslave like me what the problem is – Futurosan, village-street dust, sullying my Arabian mistress’s dainty, anklebooted insteps; there are even traces of dust stuck inside her boot zipper-tracks, and along the elasticated uppers of her plain, black cotton bootsocks (I dare not look my mistress in the smooth, bare brown leg above the anklesock and beneath her burka in order to check for dust, lest I be whipped for outlandish footslave-insubordination!)
So, I immediately get my tongue to work – divesting my Arab-Muslim mistress’s dainty boots of the offending, Futurosan street-dirt amongst which I myself must constantly live and breathe on my footslave hands and knees.
As I said before, my mistress Farah is normally a very friendly and outgoing person – to everyone else – and, as she chats away with her friends in Arabic above me, she is perpetually laughing, causing her booted feet and ankles to shudder and flex in front of my kneeling face, and consequently making it harder for my dirty tongue to gain proper purchase on my mistress’s dusty bootsides.
I don’t know what the conversation between my mistress and her fellow-Arab friends is about as, I am ashamed to admit, I am not clever enough to speak Arabic, but, whatever it is, it leads to repeated outbreaks of girlish, feminine-Arab laughter all around the café table above me:
"ها! ها! الأحمق هو الاستمتاع بطعم الأحذية القذرة ، فرح؟
"ها! ها! وأنا أفكر أنه، مجموعة عافية! الخنزير هو الشخير والشخير بشوق على معظم الغبار بلدي التمهيد القذرة ، أليس كذلك؟ ها! ها! "
"ها! ها! كيف يمكنك الوقوف فمه القذر على حذائك، وفرح؟ لا على مرأى منه، التذلل في التراب عند قدميك، تجعلك تشعر بالمرض؟ فهو أبعد ما يكون عن رجل حقيقي، أليس كذلك؟ "
"ها! ها! أنت تتكلم الحقيقة ، صبرة، ولكن كيف أنا آخر للحصول على الأوساخ حذائي؟ وأود أن تنظيف الأحذية بلدي؟ ها! ها! "
'سليطة اللسان له فرح! قرع له! جعله لعق أسرع --! وأصعب "
Perhaps my Arab mistress and her friends are laughing because they are mocking me, but I have no way of knowing.
Suddenly my Arab mistress’s friendly, happy tone becomes cold and haughty again, as she switches to English in order to bark her young-womanly discontent down at me:
‘Why you are taking so long to clean my boots, Footpig? The dust on my boots is not being a tasty enough delicacy for you? Perhaps you would be preferring the taste of my whip on your dirty, male back?’
As I said before, even though all my instincts are to verbally apologise to the mistress, and to beg her not to whip me, I am forbidden to converse with her, so high and mighty is she above me. And so my response must be to lick Arab-female, dusty black leather ankleboot all the more voraciously below the equally dusty hem of her black burka; and to do so all the more diligently!
Such response seems to elicit much Arab-girl glee and laughter around the table:
"ها! ها! ترى كيف ترتجف الرجل الرقيق والزلازل في حذائك، وفرح! أنت سيد -- وكان الرقيق! ها! ها! "
The young women triumphantly lift their respective niqab-veils and slurp noisily on their coffee above me, whilst I slurp discreetly, but for all I am worth (which isn’t much), on the dusty side of my arrogant mistress Farah’s left, chunky-heeled, village-soiled ankleboot, admiring the various creases and folds in her black cotton sock-top as I do so.
I try not to choke on the female-boot dirt and dust – for that would be sure to earn me a public whipping!
Please bear with me, most beautiful and respected mistress Farah! Abide with me! I promise I will get the job done!
My regular, Romanian footoire-mistress, miss Mirela – she of the beautiful, swarthy complexion and gypsy blood – would be perfectly within her rights to feel bitter and twisted, having been born with one leg shorter than the other. She has an orthopaedic, left ankleboot with a raised, wedged heel, supplied by the Female Health Service, to help compensate for her unfortunate disability – but she still walks into my public-footoire cubicle with a bit of a limp and a hunched back because of it.
Nevertheless, she doesn’t let it get her down, and she knows it is important that her orthopaedic, black leather, lace-up ankleboot is afforded my public-footslavish respect and attention every bit as much as her ‘normal’ right boot; especially when it has been raining heavily, and her orthopaedic boot is covered in just as much street-mud and filth as her normal-sized ankleboot.
She truly revels in my inferiority before her, as well she might, mocking me as I get to work on her artificially raised, wedged boot-heel:
‘Ha! Ha! How do you like it, slave? How do you like the taste of my dirty bootmud in your mouth? Is it bitter enough for you? Ha! Ha! Soon I will be lying beside my husband in the nice, warm bed. But you must remain out here in the cold and rain, with your hunched, whipped back, and the taste of my bootdirt in your mouth! Ha! Ha! I laugh at you – the dirty, drenched slave! Ha! Ha!’
I praise and bless her for making fun of me, and admire her unstinting, female courage in the face of adversity.
Who says you can’t keep a good man down? It’s dead easy – if he’s enslaved! Just put a heavy, rusty, iron collar around his neck; attach it to some heavy chains; solder the ends of the chains into the concrete ground below him, thereby forcing him into a kneeling position; and finally place a permanent, wooden footblock beneath his now humbly-bowed face – and, hey presto! You’ve got a permanent, public footslave!
It doesn’t matter if he’s a good or bad man – either way he will be kept down; and, more importantly, kept looking down at the feet and footwear of his female betters which he must now tongue-serve for the rest of his life.
For – good or bad; for better or for worse; for richer or for poorer; in sickness and in health – if he does not diligently serve the feet and footwear of his public mistresses, he can be easily whipped! Look – his bent, arched, kneeling, spineless, enslaved-male back is just ripe for the sting of the female whip!
No wonder he is looked down upon, as well as looking down. He is not worthy to look up at the beaming, whipping faces of his female-customer betters, and their still freemale partners! Ha! Ha! Yes – that’s right; even freemales have a right to look down upon him, for, unlike him, they have not allowed themselves to become enslaved at the feet of superior women!
Not yet anyway!
But if and when they do – be they good men or bad – they too shall be kept down. For only the female, good or bad, is guaranteed a life of happiness and uprightness in the glorious Gynarchy of Barbaria!
The nice, young couple who enter my footoire are, to be honest, a bit the worse for wear (or the better for wear, since it’s not for a public footslave like me to judge) thanks to a toxic cocktail of drink and drugs which they have self-evidently been consuming on this cold and frosty, winter’s evening.
She is awesomely beautiful – in her flowery-patterned, chunky-heeled and round-toed, leather, zip-up ankleboots; her long, white-woollen, rib-stitched, over-the-knee socks; her short, green satin miniskirt; and her matching white poncho thrown carelessly over her flowery-patterned, frilly blouse. He just looks like a scruffy, bearded hippy to me in ripped jeans and a caftan – but she evidently sees something in him I cannot, for as soon as they drug-drunkenly stagger into my footoire-booth, they start to embrace and kiss above me, no doubt relishing the taste of alcohol and LSD in each other’s mouths!
At first I fear that my own, dry, drug-and-alcohol-free mouth is not going to get to taste those delicious-looking, flower-power, feminine ankleboots beneath those long, white, woolly socks; it looks, initially, as though the happy, hippy couple are merely looking for a private place to have a romantic snog – and, when you’re drunk, and/or high, I suppose a dirty, piss-smelling, city centre footoire will do!
But then, gigglingly, the girl extracts herself from her manly, hippy boyfriend’s animalistic embrace, and gigglingly invites him to follow her over to where I am kneeling in the corner of the footoire. She then stretches out her wobbly, right leg onto the wooden footblock beneath my face:
‘Ha! Ha! Lick my shoe, shlave! Ha! Ha!’ she slurs
I feel like saying to her, ‘that’s not a shoe, madam; that’s an ankleboot!’, but what would be the point? I’d only be whipped for gross impertinence!
And so, instead, I give the standard footoire-slave response:
‘Yes, mistress madam. At once, mistress madam!’
On the way down to her drunken, flowery-leather boot-toe I enjoy the sight of several, thick creases in her thigh-high, slovenly, white woollen socks – particularly around the lower calf/upper ankle area; it looks as though her ‘man’ has had his hippy hands all over them – rubbing them, no doubt, whilst sticking his hippy tongue down her throat?
Whatever, I enjoy the sight of the long, white, female socks towering over me in my peripheral vision as I focus all my attention on her street-dirtied, flowery-patterned ankleboot, and start to lick.
She giggles at the first tentative touch of my tongue on her boot, and then whispers some sweet nothings into her supportive hippy-boyfriend’s ear above me. She’s up to something:
‘Ha! Ha! Do you like me, shlave? Do you find me attractive, and that? Ha! Ha! Would you like to f**k me? Ha! Ha!’
I am quite shocked at the demurely-dressed, young woman’s unladylike language! Inviting me – a slave – to have sexual congress with her – a superior mistress! It beggars belief!
I mean, I know from their clothing and demeanour that this young couple are evidently into free love, drugs, conspicuous alcohol consumption and all that goes with it! But I’m just an abstemious, celibate, teetotal footslave. How can I possibly be expected to make love to a woman, and satisfy her free-womanly lusts?!
In fact, I am left totally speechless by the suggestion – to the great amusement of her drunken, freemale, bearded-hippy partner (a man truly worthy of such intimate, fleshly delights with such a charming and beautiful, young woman – since he is a free male, and therefore a much better man than I shall ever be):
‘Ha! Ha! Answer my chick, dirty slave! Isn’t she beautiful? Doesn’t you wanna f***k her?’
This has got to be a trap? If I say ‘no’ – out of respect for the pretty, young hippy-woman’s purity and sanctity, since she is a free woman who is presumably unsullied by a maleslave hitherto – I run the risk of being whipped for insubordination, and for rejecting the illicit advances of a superior customer-mistress (sex between mistresses and slaves is, actually, illegal in the Gynarchy!)
And yet, if I say ‘yes’ (which, apart from anything else would be untrue, because, whenever I see an attractive, young woman such as this, I merely wish to tongue-polish her dirty boots; not have full sexual intercourse with her!), I run the risk of being whipped for the exclusively male offence of ‘soliciting’ – which also carries a custodial life-sentence in the Gynarchy’s underground salt-mines!
I decide that the former answer is, therefore, the lesser of two evils, since it is the truth and can only be punished by whipping; not whipping and banishment to the salt-mines (though, it occurs to me, that whatever I say it would be the word of this superior, drunken couple against my, legally unbelievable, slave words if it ever came before the Female Court!)
I brace myself for some alcohol-fuelled whipping from the public-use whipping stick that hangs ominously on the graffiti-strewn, footoire wall behind my head and, still obediently licking female flowery bootleather (which is what I’m unpaid to do), stutter my feeble, impotent response:
‘Oh pray master sir…bootlick…bootlick… oh pray mistress madam…bootlick…bootlick…. the mistress madam is truly a beautiful and attractive, young woman, master and mistress …bootlick …bootlick …bootlick…. but this slave regrets that is not worthy to contemplate sexual congress with the superior mistress-madam…bootlick…bootlick….as he is fit only to lick boot … bootlick… bootlick… bootlick… if you would be so kind and understanding to a humble public-footslave at your respective mercies, most superior and respected master sir and mistress madam?’
There – I’ve said it! I have spurned the advances of a drunken customer-mistress, in full earshot of her equally drunken boyfriend! Oh woe is me – I am destined for the whip!
The young woman screams with laughter at my obsequious rebuttal to her wanton advances, causing her long, white, thick-ribbed sock to crease even more around her shapely, upper anklebone next to my kneeling and contrite face.
‘LIAR!’ shouts the free male. ‘Ha! Ha! Admit it, slave – you wanna f**k my woman! Admit it – or I’ll f***in’ whip the skin off your back!’
As you know, I am already resigned to the whip, and so, whilst I never like upsetting a master-sir in front of his ‘chick’, I’m afraid I must stick to my guns.
Or, maybe, I’m just afraid!
‘Oh pray, master-sir! Oh pray! Pray don’t beat me, master! This slave’s spirit is strong – and truly desires the most beautiful mistress above me, master sir; but his body is weak, and unworthy of the mistress, master-sir. For this slave is an impotent footfool, master-sir, and cannot physically pleasure the mistress like you can, most magnificent and potent master-sir!’
To my amazement, he buys it! He actually accepts my grovelling apology for not impregnating his girlfriend, and, after I have dutifully lickshined his girlfriend’s other, flowery-patterned ankleboot, the couple happily exit the footoire without whipping me or chastising me in any way for rejecting her drunken advances!
Peace and no love – now that’s what I call hippydom!
One thing I have just this morning learnt on my city-centre, sit-down, public-shoelick stall is never to criticise a customer-mistress’s male sexual partner – even if he is absent; and even if the customer-mistress herself is slagging him off!
My lesson began whilst beautiful, slim and svelte, blonde-ponytailed, regular customer-mistress Tara was seated above me on the public-shoelick throne of female power, having her ubiquitous, two-inch-heeled, navy-blue patent leather, office pumps dutifully lickshined by my ever-eager tongue.
Although she is not a socks and trousers girl (preferring knee-length, pinstriped skirts); and although she isn’t even much of a nylons girl (always preferring, weather permitting, to go bare legged in her smart shoes – as she is today), I do very much appreciate her shapely, smooth white anklebones – marked only by the occasional tiny red blemish or skin-flaw which would be imperceptible to the naked, human eye and is only visible thanks to the ultra-proximity of my kneeling face to her lowest, meanest body parts!
I particularly like the way her soft, twenty-something ankleskin begins to subconsciously crease and wrinkle around her right anklebone as she answers a call on her mobile phone above me – a call, evidently, from her manfriend, for I soon hear a raised, male voice shouting down the other end of the phone as goddess-mistress Tara reciprocates with her equally raised, female voice.
Of course, being female, she must have won the intellectual argument, whatever it was, as, as we all know from our Gynarchy textbooks, women have bigger brains than men, and beautiful, young women, in particular, have bigger brains than all the other creatures in the universe put together! But, victorious or not, miss Tara still manages to deprecate her boyfriend verbally as she angrily snaps shut her cell phone:
‘Idiot!’ she exclaims exasperatedly. ‘Men can be such morons!’
I’m assuming, of course, that she is referring to free men, for if she meant enslaved men like me she wouldn’t call us ‘men’ – since we aren’t; not in any legitimate form of the term. We are adult males – yes; but men?
Ha! Ha! Don’t make me laugh!
The thing is, miss Tara’s angry disparagement of her absentee boyfriend does make me laugh, and I think I know her well enough by now to join in the fun, all whilst respectfully agreeing with her, and continuing to lickshine her angry, court shoes, of course:
‘Ha! Ha! Yes, mistress Tara… shoelick…shoelick… if it pleases you, goddess-mistress Tara …shoelick…shoelick… Men can indeed be such idiots, madam! Ha! Ha! What a dork, madam! ... shoelick …shoelick …shoelick…’
Well – talk about an unexpected reaction! Miss Tara immediately kicks my face away with the pointy, lickshined toe of her navy-blue, right shoe:
‘WHAT DID YOU JUST SAY, FOOTSLAVE?! DID YOU JUST CALL MY BOYFRIEND A DORK?!’
Oh, this is not good! I immediately recognise my mistake – a mistake I think I may have just paid for with a broken tooth!
I immediately seek her sweet, female forgiveness:
‘Oh pray, mistress! Oh pray…pray forgive my indiscretion, mistress! I apologise most profusely to the mistress-madam!’
‘Hah! Apologise? … Apologise? It’s not me you need to apologise to, dirty slave! It’s my boyfriend Robert! He’s more of a man than you’ll ever be – as you’ll soon enough find out!’
And with that she steps down from the shoelick-throne, thereby denying me any more taste of her shoes, and flips open her cell phone once again:
‘Hi, honey! It’s me again! You’ll never guess what this dirty, public shoelick just called you, babe? He called you a dork!’… Yes, honey, I kid you not!!... You’ve gotta come round and give him what’s for! Show him who’s boss, honey! Ooh…I’m already getting all hot just thinking about it, sweetie!’
Clearly, whatever she had just a few moments ago fallen out over with her boyfriend is now a dim and distant memory, or at the very least a mere bagatelle, compared to the challenge presented to her manly boyfriend’s reputation and honour by the impertinent and disrespectful, public footslave! I mean, is the slave actually questioning her taste in men, or something?
He’s clearly asking for a fight – and her boyfriend Robert will see that he gets one!
Tara loves watching ‘men’ fighting over her!...
………………………………………………………………………………………………..
It’s hard to defend yourself from the kicks and blows of an angry and insulted master-sir when you’ve got both hands chained to the ground – as my bruised and battered face and body ably demonstrate!
And what lesson have I learnt from all this? As I said at the beginning (through my puffed up and swollen lips) never insult a beautiful, young woman’s man – even if he is, by her own admission, behaving like an idiot and a dork; for he is still your infinite better – being the male, sexual partner of a beautiful girl, as opposed to just her, now ex, public-shoelicker!
It is experienced, thirty year old, Scottish taskmistress Rhona who comes early this morning to unlock me from my underground, isolation cell and take me to work in my underground, isolation, salt-mine.
Taskmistress Rhona is a particularly beautiful taskmistress – tall and slim; with long, red hair tied back in a fetching ponytail-whip; and superb legs – only enhanced yet further by her army-uniform, knee-length, beige-brown skirt; her block-heeled, brown leather, knee-high jackboots; and her finest-denier, tan-nylon stockings.
But she is oh so dour with it – a hard, unsmiling taskmistress who is not to be messed with!
Thus, as soon as I recognise her Scottish boots in my cell doorway, I verbally grovel and fawn to her whilst lapping at her dusty, brown bootleather with my tongue:
‘Oh pray, taskmistress Rhona…bootlick…bootlick… if it pleases you, most beautiful and feared taskmistress Rhona…bootlick…bootlick…bootlick… please don’t beat me today, mistress! ...bootlick…bootlick…. I will be a good slave today, taskmistress…bootlick…bootlick… and I will work hard for you, mistress!...bootlick…bootlick…bootlick… in order to please you, mistress …bootlick…bootlick… Oh pray, mistress! Oh pray! I am frightened off you, mistress! ...bootlick …bootlick…bootlick…’
She kicks my face away, and draws back her brown leather, single-tailed whip – threateningly:
‘Shut up, slave! Get out of your stinking cell right now, and follow my boots to your work-mine; you no-good, lazy gowk!’
You might be forgiven for thinking that my obsequiousness appears to have done nothing more than antagonise beautiful taskmistress Rhona into despising me even more! But the simple fact is that (and I know this from prior, painful experience) if I hadn’t shown her such cringing servility, respect and fearfulness this morning, that stinging, Scottish whip of hers would have almost certainly cut my back open already! What you are now seeing is proud and haughty taskmistress Rhona in a placated mood!
It is, you see, a bit of a minefield – knowing how to address, and ingratiate oneself to, a beautiful and all-powerful, salt-mine taskmistress!
Most Gynarchy slaves are at least permitted to keep their white slave-shorts on whilst they are being publicly flogged by their mistresses, but my mistress Desiree insists on my being totally naked during a whipping at the whipping- post. I am not even permitted to wear my chains – apart from the manacles securing my naked, painfully stretched arms to the top of the whipping-post.
She says that it is not only more humiliating for me – the totally naked male being whipped by the fully clothed female (for my black mistress Desiree always likes to wear her thigh-length, spike-heeled, black leather, whipping boots, along with her black leather miniskirt, black fishnet stockings, and black leather bustier during a slave-whipping; she is evidently a not-so-frustrated dominatrix!); and it is not only more painful for me to be stark naked during a whipping, since there is nothing to protect my weak and feeble, male body from the cruel wrap-around of her female bullwhip; but I have the additional shame of publicly losing my virility, as my initial tumescence at the thought of being whipped by such a sexily clad female, gives way to agony-induced limpness and flaccidness!
My clever mistress is quite right, of course – for not even the sight of her spiked, thigh-boot heels dancing in the dust of the whipping ground behind me can maintain my bootslavish erection, as the pain of the female bullwhip overwhelms me!
As soon as the whipping is over, and she unshackles me from the cruel whipping-post, I collapse in the dirt at her booted feet, and grovel over her dusty, dominatrix boot-toes. Still I am limp from the pain as she recoils her still warm bullwhip above me, and triumphantly places her dirty, right bootsole onto my freshly whipped back, making me whine and whimper even more into the dust.
She grinds my naked, whipped body into the ground –lashes to lashes; dust to dust – as I sobbingly praise and bless her for punishing me, and for stripping me not just of my skin, but of any last vestiges of maleslave masculinity that I may have once had.
She then turns me over with her thigh-boots, so that all present may see my limpness laid bare, and laugh at me – the whipped and defeated, male slave who can't even get hard looking up at the fully thigh-booted legs of his beautiful and victorious, desirable black mistress Desiree!
