Feetslaves’ Lives Volume 1
Startling insights into feetslaves’ humble lives.
They say that ‘sorry’ can be the hardest word, but if you are a male slave in the Gynarchy of Barbaria, grovelling public apologies to disgruntled mistresses are a part and parcel of your everyday life.
You may have to publicly apologise to a mistress even for relatively ‘minor’ infringements, such as:
· Having a demeanour unbefitting in an oppressed slave (i.e. having a look of contentment on your face; or, even worse – smiling!)
· Looking at her shoes and socks in a ‘disrespectful’ manner (or, again even worse, allegedly ‘balking’ at them, and hesitating to apply your lips to her dirty and/or sweaty footwear!)
· Getting under the mistress’s feet when she is in a bad mood
Your public apology will ordinarily take place in a manner such as this:
1) You shall be whipped across your bare back and shoulders by a single-tailed, brown leather punishment whip, in the middle of the town square, surrounded by the general female populace, whilst you are ignominiously confined in a set of rough, wooden kneeling stocks at your offended mistress’s comfortably-seated feet.
2) The number of lashes is normally predetermined, but is entirely dependent on the whim of your mistress; it will rarely be less than 20
3) As an added humiliation you may be whipped at her feet by an alpha free male – a handsome man who is admired and lusted after by all the ladies present, including, of course, the offended mistress whose scuffmarked and deliberately dirty, black leather, rounded loafer-toe is now pointing accusingly in the free air beneath your kneeling and confined face. It all adds to your sense of maleslavish powerless and impotence
4) As does the sight of your mistress’s exposed and creased, black anklesock on her hovering, right foot, set against the backdrop of her smooth, white legskin beneath her slightly raised, black polyester trouser hem
5) As you cry out with the pain of each searing whip-strike, the female crowd jeer and mock you, mimicking your emasculated male pleas for sweet feminine mercy. You are only vaguely aware of the female audience’s feet and legs surrounding you through your haze of piquant pain (they too, like your mistress, are all comfortably seated, so that they can relax and enjoy your public pain and humiliation), and the clicking and whirring of their modern, digital camera phones and camcorders as they film your public pain and humiliation for posterity (and for posting on their respective social networking sites)
6) On completion of your flogging, you will be required to stretch your scrawny neck forwards in the kneeling stocks, and kiss the dusty and scuffmarked loafer-shoe toe of your offended mistress. If you are lucky, and if she is feeling compassionate towards you, she will assist you in this act of self-abasement by stretching her dirty shoe-toe up to your lips; if not, you will experience much more pain as you desperately attempt to strain your confined neck forwards so that your dry and parched lips can make suitably contrite contact with her superior shoeleather
7) All the while you will be conscious of her short, black anklesock above you – creasing up with laughter at you
8) Again, the supportive (of your mistress) female crowd, and their privileged freemale partners, shall jeer and mock you as you pay your labial respects to your mistress’s shoe by the same amount of times that you have just received your punishing whipstrokes!
9) You will then be required to verbally thank the mistress for having you disciplined; apologise unreservedly to her for your maleslavish misdemeanour; and praise and bless her for her great beauty and mercy – all in the flowery, obsequious language of ‘slave-speak’. Thus you might say something like this (assuming your crime was to take your eye off her socks):
‘Oh pray, mistress Marion; if it pleases you, goddess-mistress Marion; thank you for having me publicly flogged in front of all your friends and acquaintances, mistress. Truly this slave is sorry for not looking you in the sock earlier today, whilst you were talking to your manly boyfriend, master Peter sir, whose prowess with the whip I have now experienced at painful first-hand, mistress! Oh pray, mistress, if it pleases you most pretty and magnanimous merciful-mistress Marion, please whip me again if I ever fail to please you, for you are my female master and better, madam, and I am not worthy to be in the presence of your superior shoes and socks, most beautiful and intelligent mistress Marion madam!’
10) There then comes a moment of extreme tension whilst everyone waits to see if your mistress accepts your grovelling, public apology.
11) If she does, you will continue to be confined in the stocks for anything up to 12 hours, so that the general populace can finger your whip-wounds (for they are, naturally, interested to know what whip-pain feels like – if only from the outside!) and continue to heap their public opprobrium down upon you, by verbally berating you; by having you kiss their dirty feet and footwear; and even, in some cases, by rubbing their feminine nosepick onto you. You must thank them all for taking the time to admonish and torment you, and assure them again of your penitence for your sins, and the reform of your footslavish character
12) If your mistress does not forgive you, and dismisses your pathetic apology out of hand, you will continue to be confined in the stocks for a further 24 hours, pending another public flogging at the same time, and in the same place, the following day!
13) Of course, everyone in the crowd is hoping it’s the latter – as it will mean another jolly day out for them, watching you being whipped. Only you are hoping that your apology will be accepted first time
It rarely is!
Links to animations below. Hit your browser’s back button to return to this page.
The snivelling wretch of a fat, lazy, male slave is about to be bullwhipped by a beautiful, female representative of the Barbarian Army!
A raucous, boisterous, Gynarchy crowd at the footslave-auction house…
The slave is just hangin’ around for the amusement and entertainment of his masters and betters…
Most people's careers see them progress upwards, with ever greater responsibility, status and respect until they eventually reach a happy and well-deserved retirement.
In the Gynarchy of Barbaria, if you are a humble footslave, the opposite is true. Not only do you never get to retire, your 'career' is on an ignominious, continuous, and inevitable downwards spiral, as thus:
* you may well, if you are a reasonably handsome footslave, be purchased at auction by a private mistress as her household footslave when you are in your early twenties. She may even foot-flirt with you, as you wash her bare feet in front of her husband, in order to make him jealous
* but sooner or later she will tire of playing footsie with you, and will replace you with a younger model, casting you out and selling you back to the Gynarchy State as a public footslave – probably whilst you are in your early thirties
* at that stage, if you have kept your good looks and don't look too whip-wearied, you may be lucky enough to be given a 'sit-down' public footslave booth, where young women can sit and relax in front of you whilst you lickshine their dirty shoes and boots on their feet. Because they are seated and relaxed above you, they may still foot-flirt with you to some extent, letting you kiss them on the sock, for example (especially if it's a private booth!)
* as you approach middle-age, however, the Female Authorities will almost certainly remove you to a much more grotty, graffiti-strewn and vandalised public footoire, in which the lady merely stands to have her office shoes or boots hurriedly lickshined. There is no time for flirtatious (though respectful) sock-kissing, as you are no longer of any sexual interest to a young woman
* indeed, there will come a point when your wrinkly 'old' male face (probably when you are in your late forties) is just so offensive to bright, young women that you have to be masked, and demoted to the role of mute, ornamental footkisser in a female public powder room of some sort, where you must silently, anonymously and respectfully kiss the shoes and boots of young women as they preen themselves in front of the mirrors for their freemale boyfriends. Now you are forbidden to even speak to your female betters, let alone lickshine their dirty footwear; you may still kiss shoe or boot, but not taste and lick (and kissing sock is now way beyond your remit, for you are nothing but an anonymised, masked shoekissing machine to them!)
*when (or rather if) you reach your late sixties as a slave, even your masked presence becomes offensive to young ladies, and you are removed from polite society in order to merely mouth and hand-wash young women's dirty socks and nylons in some unseen, underground laundry room – where your only contact with the female is the smell and taste of their unattributable, stale footsweat from their socks and hosiery (plus, of course, you get to feel the constant sting of the female whip on your back, courtesy of the laundry supervisor-mistresses!)
* eventually, after years of hard labour and toil at young women's feet and footwear, as you enter your seventies, you will be consigned to the underground slave-mines to break salt on your hands and knees, using a mouth-pick. No more tasting sweet (or even salty) feminine footwear – just hard, backbreaking toil under the sting of the taskmistresses’ whips. Never will you have worked so hard in your life; never will you have been so whipped, as when you are an old slaveman toiling in the Gynarchy's slave-mines! And you will work hard down there until the day you die!
Yes, there is much to look forward to, when you embark on a lifetime as a Gynarchy slave!
He must kneel in public with his mistress’s dirty socks hanging from his face. No wonder he’s a laughing stock for passers-by!
We have much in common – the bright, young, blonde woman and me.
We are both outsiders – outside in the rain on a cold and loveless winter's eve; she, because she's a dirty smoker; I, because I'm a dirty prisoner-slave in the public kneeling stocks.
She ambles over towards me from the door of the nearby pub in her plain, black anorak with the hood done up against the drizzle; her short, black miniskirt; her stylishly oversized, loosely-laced-up, calf-length biker boots; and her thick, sparkly, fluffy, pink and white, scrunched-up bootsocks over her shapely, skintight, black cotton leggings.
She looks down on me through her pretty nose; deliberately blows her stale smoke into my face; and then rubs the rainwater off the top of the wooden crossbeam encircling my kneeling neck with the outer sleeve of her waterproofed anorak, before turning around and sitting down on top of me, her biker-booted ankles and sparkly, calf-length, pink and white fluffy bootsocks tucked demurely underneath my chin.
'What is you in for, and that, slave?' she eventually chirps out loud, in between puffing on her cigarette.
She seems like a nice, unshockable girl, so I tell her:
'Oh pray, pretty mistress; if you will forgive me pretty, young mistress-madam; this slave is being publicly punished for faking disgust at his mistress's sweaty sock-smells, pretty, young madam; if it pleases you, pretty, young madam?'
She laughs. Being disgusted at the stinky aroma of a mistress's sweaty socks is a serious enough crime for a male footslave in the Gynarchy; but faking it reeks of sheer desperation (if you'll forgive the pun!). This pathetic prisoner-slave must actually like being punished? Ha! Ha! He must have a death-wish, or summink?
That's what she's thinking as she swings her booted feet below my face, inadvertently tickling my chin with her thick, fluffy socktops.
If I do have a death-wish, it's just one more thing this young lady and I have in common – for she is the one who is chain-smoking at the age of just 22. She surely can't be much older than that?
Perhaps reading my mind and my foolish thoughts about death-wishes, she suddenly tightens her rain-dampened, black leather, biker boots around my face as if she were about to squeeze the life out of me, and put me out of my misery once and for all. I groan unmanfully with the pain from her boots in my temples, and whimper for sweet feminine mercy, at which point she relaxes her thick-socked, calf muscles and eases the bootside-pressure on my brain.
She then takes one last drag of her cigarette and casually flicks it down onto the damp ground beneath my face. Next she rises up off the stocks, and shows me a dirty pair of black leather, biker-boot heels as she walks back towards the pub in order to rejoin her friends inside.
This is where we differ, she and I; for the blonde mistress is only a temporary outsider; unlike me, she is free to leave the stocks; just as, again unlike me, she is free to walk upright (rather than crawl everywhere on her hands and knees, as a down-in-the-dirt slave)
Plus, of course, she has friends!
My pretty, dreadlock-haired, 22 year old, fat black mistress is tucking noisily into her tea at the family kitchen table above me, surrounded by her loved ones – namely her parents; elder sister; and younger brother.
My pretty, black mistress is not naturally fat. Just greedy; so her ankles and calf muscles are still incredibly shapely (though her calves are currently covered by her blue-denim, jean hems; only her grey and red, low-top, lace-up, designer leather sneakers and tiny slithers of her plain, black anklesocks are visible to my humbly kneeling nose).
I am starving at my black mistress's sneakered and socked feet beneath the household kitchen table, and not just because I haven't eaten in three days (I am reliant on my mistress's half-chewed leftovers for sustenance, and there haven't been any for the last few meals!); I am equally starved of:
· affection – for my beautiful, young, black mistress despises me, and therefore neglects me
· the absence of physical pain – as my beautiful, young, black mistress is wont to beat me with her personal whip at every opportunity (she sees me as a lazy and oftentimes disobedient slave, neglectful of her needs)
· sock – as her jean-hems periodically interfere with my kneeling view of her full-length, black anklesocks above her grey sneaker-rims (though, as I moan, a subliminal movement in her right ankle causes a pleasing expanse of beautiful, dreadlocked-black-girl, black anklesock to suddenly become visible on her shapely right anklebone – and with several, subliminal creases!)
My scrawny tummy rumbles beneath the kitchen table which is groaning under the weight of the delicious food so lovingly prepared by my mistress's mother for her family – spicy, jerk chicken and other tasty, Jamaican delicacies. But, fortunately, my rude empty-tummy interruption is not heard by my masters and betters as they are too busy conversing with one another in loud and boisterous Jamaican patois above me – a language and conversation I am not allowed to participate in as an outsider-slave)
After her sumptuous meal, my Jamaican mistress kicks off her sneakers and relaxes with her black-socked feet up on the end of the living-room sofa in front of the tele. Meanwhile, she has me kneel at the foot of the sofa and massage her sweaty-socked feet whilst she picks the food debris from in between her pearly, white teeth with a wooden toothpick. I'm so hungry, I would gladly devour her tooth-pickings, but she merely wipes them onto the arm of the sofa. She also belches and farts in my presence, since I'm a lesser human-being than her, being a mere household footslave. She can't remember the last time she fed me her slops, since she can't remember the last time she didn't gobble up all her food; and besides, she has other things on her mind right now – such as the latest twists and turns in her favourite soap opera on the tv!
Her socked toes wriggle with pleasure at my respectful touch, and with contentment from her full and fat belly.
I, meanwhile, shamefully hunger for her sticky, black toejam beneath her black, bobbled socks, for my belly remains agonisingly empty!
Is she an angel of sweet feminine mercy? Or a succubus in disguise?
It can be hard to tell, given her crazy mood swings!
Some nights, twenty-summink, frizzy-brown-haired miss Melanie from the local sink-estate visits me in the stocks in order to rub soothing balm into my aching joints. She still has me kiss her dusty, plain back, suede leather loafers and angular, short black cotton anklesocks, mind you; she still insists on my prisoner-slave fear and respect – and rightly so! But it is an uncharacteristic act of kindness towards a dirty, male slave on the part of a magnificent, young Gynarchy woman; to soothe and manipulate his aching joints. It’s almost as if she fancies me, or something – as she would her freemale boyfriend!
On other nights, however, in the dead of night, she braves the cold and the rain to merely tease and torment me in the stocks. To sit on top of me on the already heavy, neck-muscle-straining, wooden crossbeam whilst wrapping her black leather, kneebooted calf-muscles around my face and cruelly digging her booted anklebones into my prone and vulnerable temples as she gleefully tells me all about the latest public whipping she has witnessed earlier that day in the town square – describing in libidinous, feminine detail each gory cut of the female lash into the maleslave's back; each stinging wraparound of the whip; each agonizing overlay; each and every pain reaction on the miscreant's forlorn face (miss Melanie has informed me that her favourite position at a public whipping is to stand in front of the slave, so that she can witness the pain etched onto his face; she apparently finds that much more stimulating than a reddening, glistening back!)
On occasions, manipulative miss Melanie will even show me the footage she has recorded on her smartphone of my fellow-slave's suffering on the whipping-post, all whilst sitting above me on the stocks.
And yet, she cannot be an innately cruel young woman; she must care about me to some extent – to rub salve into my tired and aching muscles? Unlike the other indigenous inhabitants of the sink-estate, she doesn't just leave me to seize-up and rot in the public kneeling-stocks!
Perhaps I'm being naive? Perhaps I've got her all wrong, and she is just seeking to prolong my agony (for by soothing my muscle pain and lubricating my confined joints she is, in effect, delaying any numbness)?
And yet, I detect no ill-will on her part; just the confidence of a somewhat esoteric, frizzy-haired, beautiful and soft, young woman who knows her own warped mind, and who loves being in control; who loves determining another's fate, and the degree of his suffering. Who is, above all, curious about judicial pain and suffering since she, being female, shall never experience it!
And so, whenever I get the chance, I always demonstrate my maleslavish powerlessness and helplessness at her feet, by kissing her dusty, black-suede loafers and short, angular, black cotton anklesocks; for I realise this moody, young madam is just as likely to harm me, as to heal me, should I show her the slightest disrespect.
She is still a mistress, and I am still a slave – and her shoes and socks are still only inches away from my face, even whilst she is rubbing salve into my aching and confined, prisoner-slave shoulder muscles!
P.S. In case you were wondering, I've not done anything wrong to merit being in the stocks. It's just that the Gynarchy is currently experiencing a superfluity of male slaves, and so the female authorities, as is their prefect right, have set many of us up as a form of public street-furniture and entertainment. Right now, every sink-estate has a male prisoner-slave languishing indefinitely in the stocks. I'm nothing special – and I could be confined here for years, unless there is a sudden shortage of footslaves!
But I'm counting my blessings – for the same thing goes for many of the slaves whom miss Melanie, my arbitrary angel of mercy, so enjoys watching writhe at the whipping post!
Plump, but pleasing-on-the-eye, Pakistani office-goddess mistress Sameena emerges triumphantly from the public-lavatory cubicle to the gushing applause of the dirty water flushing away her evacuated bowel matter, and, still surrounded by the intimate, residual aroma of her insides which permeates the air, makes her way over to the washbasins where she quickly washes her hands, before clomping towards my wall-confined, ornamental-footkissing, green-rubbery-masked head and imperiously stretching forth her right, blocky-heeled, black leather anklebooted foot onto the low, wooden footblock beneath my humbly bowed face, with a nonchalant hitching up of her black cotton, bootcut trouser-hem, for respectful kissing of her rounded, scuffmarked, office boot-toe.
She had no need of words, because her gesture in stretching forth her germ-ridden, boot toe and exposing her concomitant, black-cotton socktop beneath my face says it all:
'I am your better, slave! So put your lowly mouth on my scuffmarked, black leather, boot toe in an act of humility and obeisance, and silently admire my twisted, black cotton, elasticated socktop set against the pleasing backdrop of my soft, smooth, brown, young-Pakistani-woman legskin beneath my arrogantly hitched-up, black cotton trouser-hem, all whilst inhaling the lingering aromas of my bodily wastes, and thinking yourself blessed and honoured to be my inferior, boot-worship boy – however fleetingly!
And now repeat the process with my left boot-toe.'
I lap up the boot germs of my female superior, before she heads off to the staff canteen in order to replenish her recently emptied belly. How I wish I could watch her boots and socks on her feet whilst she eats!
