The Black Whip
Where was the damn thing?!
34 year old, blonde-haired miss Kerry-Ann was searching furiously through the loft of her mansion for something – something that she knew had been hidden up here for years, in amongst the bric-a-brac; the boxes of old ledgers and photographs; the board games from her youth etc. etc.!
Eventually she saw it, by the thick-girthed, penis-like, handle-end first, sticking out from underneath a big, black box file – the black whip! A beautiful, black leather, single-tailed, cowhide whip – coiled up like a snake that was sleeping benignly beneath the box file; but ready to be awakened!
It had once been in frequent use on her family’s rubber plantation – cracking across the backs of the lazy fieldhands outside her bedroom window. Oh how she had spent many a happy hour lying in her bed and listening to the swish of the black whip through the air; the subsequent echoing pistol-crack across bare, naked, maleslave flesh; the cries of anguish and despair; the pleadings for mercy; and the heartfelt promises to work harder!
But all that had stopped more than 10 years ago when her parents had both been killed in a car crash. Her grandfather had taken over the running of the rubber plantation – and abolished the use of the whip, banishing it to the dusty loft in which Kerry-Ann now found herself. But now her grandfather too was dead, and the estate had fallen into the hands of whip-loving Kerry-Ann; at long last!
And that meant that the black whip would soon sing again on this particular plantation!…
Her first proposed victim was a recalcitrant and uppity, 50-something fieldhand-slave named Patheticus. Patheticus indeed! That irked her for a start! Why were the slaves on the rubber plantation given names – even if just slave nicknames? They should be called by their numbers – the numbers branded onto their bare thighs the day they first arrived at the hot and steamy plantation.
At least, that was Kerry-Ann’s viewpoint – and she was now the one in charge; so her viewpoint is important!
But she was not about to whip Patheticus because of his name; he had disrespected her – in the fields – when she had ordered him to stop what he was doing and lick a mud stain off the side of her low-top, pink and white sneaker. Kerry-Ann could not abide to walk around in muddy sneakers – and was too lazy to scrape the mud off herself.
Patheticus had appeared to baulk at the idea; to somehow imply through his facial grimaces that he thought himself higher than a dirty-sneaker licker – and that was why he was about to be whipped! Mistress Kerry-Ann would soon cut him down to size!
Miss Kerry-Ann now ran the entire length of the black whip through her dainty, white fingers. It was a bit frayed in places, and inevitably somewhat dry and parched after all these years lying around up here in the loft; it needed lubrication to make it more supple – so that it would painfully wrap around slave Patheticus’s scrawny, middle-aged ribs with each stroke. But that wasn’t a problem; Kerry-Ann knew where she could get some lubricant.
She recoiled it up in her right hand and climbed down the ladder out of the loft in order to make her way to the bathroom…
Meanwhile, in the barn outside, slave Patheticus was hanging painfully by the wrists from an overhead beam; semi-naked apart from his flimsy, white slave-shorts; his back fully exposed; and waiting to be whipped! A beaming, male overseer – the one who had trussed him up – was standing nearby watching him sweat, and winding him up:
‘Ha! Ha! Soon the black whip will reawaken humility and respect for the mistress in you, dirty slave! Ha! Ha! Prepare yourself for the pain!’
Slave Patheticus sobbed, for he was anything but a brave slave; in fact, he was an incredibly cowardly slave (as well as stupid – turning his nose up at a girl’s dirty sneaker!)
The door of the barn suddenly creaked open, framing mistress Kerry-Ann in a halo of light. She stood for a dominant moment, hands on hips, facing the suspended slave; and, sure enough, in her right hand, was the coiled up, freshly lubricated, black cowhide whip!
She then moved forward to smile with cruel intent into Patheticus’s downcast eyes, before moving around to stand behind him – at whipping distance. He noticed that she had changed out of her jeans, T shirt, and muddy, low-top, pink and white sneakers with short, white sneaker-socks, into a bright yellow, free-flowing, knee-length yellow summer’s dress, with a brightly-coloured flower motif running all the way down it. On her feet, she was now wearing a solid-looking pair of flat-heeled, black leather, calf length, buckled, biker-style boots, with thick, calf-length, scrunched-up, grey cotton bootsocks, beneath her incongruously bright yellow and flowery-motifed, summery whipping-dress. He presumed this was because the thick boots and socks would help give her feet greater purchase on the dusty floor of the barnyard as she wielded the whip!
She had also tied her blonde hair back into a tight ponytail – again, presumably, to ensure that she had unimpeded sight of the slave’s back throughout the flogging she was about to administer to him?
Now Patheticus felt penitent! Now he would do anything to show some labial respect for his powerful, young mistress’s footwear, and would happily lick the dirt off her boots! For now he was under threat of the black whip!
Kerry-Ann performed a few practice strokes through the air behind him, relishing the swishing sound as the black whip cut through the air; it was a sound that brought back so many happy memories of her misspent youth – lying in her bed; listening to that same swishing sound outside her bedroom window. Only now she was the one doing the swishing!
Patheticus started to blubber and pray for mercy:
‘Oh pray, mistress Kerry-Ann!...sob…sob…Oh pray, mistress! ...sob…sob… Please forgive this impudent slave for grimacing and baulking at your sneaker dirt, madam! ...sob…sob...sob… Oh pray, madam! ...sob…sob…sob… Truly this slave will be honoured to lickshine your dirty boots for you now, mistress-madam, if you will but let him, madam? ...sob…sob… Oh pray! Oh pray! ...sob…sob… Please don’t whip me with your black whip, madam! ...sob…sob...sob… I’m a good slave, madam! ...sob…sob…sob…sob…’
Miss Kerry-Ann’s pretty face (though slave Patheticus couldn’t see it, as she was standing directly behind him fingering the black whip) said it all – a cruel grin was etched on her naturally aquiline features. For her part, she decided there and then that she wanted to see the fear and distress in Patheticus’s miserable, middle-aged face, and so she moved around to stand in front of him again, this time with the black whip trailing ominously in the barnyard dust behind her (in fact, bits of dust were sticking to the leather lash, due to its still being moist from the fresh oiling she had only recently given it!)
Miss Kerry-Ann – she who now very much held the whiphand – looked directly up at Patheticus’s pitifully downcast eyes:
‘Ha! Ha! Oh so now you want to clean my boots, do you slave? Even though my dirty sneakers weren’t good enough for you earlier? Ha! Ha! Well, let’s see how keen you really are to attend to my dirty footwear?... Luke, lower him down face-first to my boots, so that he can lick them while I stand here in front of him!’
‘Yes ma’am!’
The enthusiastic overseer – master Luke sir – who was very much looking forward to being able to utilise the black whip once more to keep the slaves in line, under miss Kerry-Ann’s new regime, smiled cruelly and began lowering Patheticus face forwards by means of the pulley attached to the crossbeam that was holding him up. The pulley creaked, as did Patheticus’s bones!
Soon his face was hovering just inches above miss Kerry-Ann’s outstretched, right boot-toe; a dirty boot-toe (as she had forewarned him) covered in muck and dust from the barn. But if he needed any encouragement to get his tongue straight to work on that female boot-dirt, there was:
a) The sexy sight of her scrunched-up, grey socktop above the upper bootrim
b) The unsexy sight of the business-end of the whip, trailing in the dust behind her flat bootheel (actually, the ‘business’ end of the whip was often referred to as the ‘male’ end, since it was designed to cut through male flesh; whereas the ‘female’ end was the handle – somewhat ironically shaped like a male member, if you discount the wrist-strap!)
Though it physically pained him to do so, Patheticus stretched forward his neck so that his mouth made humble contact with that dirty, outstretched, biker-boot toe, and began to feverishly divest it off its barnyard mud and other detritus.
All the while he licked, he blubbered into the boot:
‘Oh pray mistress Kerry-Ann…sob…sob… Oh pray! ...sob…sob…sob…sob… Pray forgive me, mistress Kerry-Ann! ...sob…sob...sob…Please don’t whip me, madam! ...sob…sob…sob…sob… I lick your boot with fear and trembling, madam! ...sob…sob…sob…’
And he didn’t just confine himself to licking, and sobbing into, her muddy boot-toe; he also sought solace in her scrunched-up, grey socktop, nosing and nuzzling it in a desperate attempt to elicit sweet young-womanly mercy in its blonde-ponytailed owner and wearer!
Miss Kerry-Ann smiled sweetly above him, and switched boots. Again the penitent and fearful mouth of Patheticus got to work on her dirty, scuffmarked, black bootleather – inspired by the black whipleather behind it. And, again, his nose nuzzled sock.
And then – a curious thing happened:
‘Untie him, Luke; and bring him up to the house! I’ve got lots of other dirty shoes and boots for this sorry wretch to clean – including my dirty sneakers!’
Yes – Patheticus’s pathetic pleas, bootlicking and sock-nuzzling had seemingly worked! He had actually elicited sweet feminine mercy in the whip-happy miss Kerry-Ann! She had taken pity on the grey-haired, middle-aged blubbering old slaveman, perhaps because he would be about the same age as her father (had her father lived). And she was, actually, quite impressed with his whip-inspired devotion to her boots and socks!
She had arbitrarily decided she would take him as her household footslave; change his name to that of his original brand mark, still emblazoned on his right thigh (FH 1749); and have him lickshine her dirty boots and sneakers for the rest of his miserable slave-life. And she would also have him regularly suckwash her dirty socks, since she had very much enjoyed the feel of his blubbering face on her grey bootsocks. She would have him massage her tired, stinky-socked feet at the end of each long day supervising her rubber plantation, and he would accompany her to booted (or sneakered) and socked heel throughout the day – on his hands and knees; as befits a bright, young, plantation-owning, blonde woman’s trophy-footslave.
And she was entirely confident that he would turn out to be a good personal footservant to her – since her black whip would never be far from his back!...
