Slave Perma-Stocks

Image Author: ŠJů, via Wikimedia Commons [CC-BY-SA-3.0]. Modified by Patheticus Minimus using Fotosketcher

They come from far and wide to torment him in his pain and misery – the stupid prisoner-slave confined permanently in the public kneeling stocks, in the middle of a muddy field, on a cold and lonely hill situated on the outskirts of the Gynarchy’s female capital, Barbaria; even though it’s quite a trek through muddy fields to get there!

They persevere through the mud because they are curious to know how he feels, being cooped up forever on public display in such ignominious and shameful, rugged brown wood? Do his muscles ache? Or are they now numbed after years of atrophy? What can he actually see from his wooden window? The muddy ground – obviously; but what expanse of ground? And can he move his neck around even an inch or so – to enable him to see up as high as his tormentresses’ pretty kneecaps? Or is he forced by the heavy wood to only look down at shapely, feminine ankles all the time?

They come as single women; as groups of women (hen parties, college groups and office outings amongst them); or even with their freemale boyfriends. In any other society, they would be muddy festival-goers. And like young festival-goers, none of them are too fastidious about their footwear – even though they know it is likely they shall be foisting their dirty feet onto Slave Perma-Stocks’s face, and having their pictures taken with him kissing their feet, for subsequent posting on their social media sites and personal blogs.

Indeed, if anything they deliberately dress down – footwear-wise – and not just because they are aware of the mud surrounding him, but because they instinctively know that wearing scruffy, unkempt footwear only adds to the permanent prisoner-slave’s sense of degradation and humiliation. And that’s what they like – degrading and humiliating him in front of their friends; showing their utter contempt for him, as he is a, quite literally, a lower being than them!

Thus he sees a lot of muddy wellington boots – of all different colours; black; green; pink; flowery-patterned; even rainbow-coloured; but always with dirty, mud-encrusted drawstrings. And ankleboots – mainly black; (or brown with mud!). And sneakers – low-top; high-top; canvas and leathery – but invariably bedraggled, like their student-girl wearers. And thick, woolly, kneelength hiking-socks, worn outside jeans or corduroys . Not many dainty, high-heeled stilettos, it has to be said (though a few of the drunken hen parties noticeably fail to dress properly for the muddy occasion!)

Some female visitors even come armed with their dirty, used, unwanted socks and tights in a smelly laundry-bag, and rub them all over Slave Perma-Stocks’s imprisoned face, before ‘decorating’ it with them i.e. hanging them from his ears; or draping them around his nose; even shoving them inside his mouth – crusty toe-ends first, of course! In the olden days, mediaeval crowds threw rotten eggs and vegetables at prisoners in the stocks. In the modern Gynarchy, it’s lumps of scraped together toejam, dead footskin and scabrous toenail-clippings!

And yet – he cannot escape! He cannot move! That’s the whole point – he must take whatever is thrown at him, or placed into his mouth, and submit to whatever his out-of-town tormentresses choose to do to him. He is in their female power and at their sweet feminine mercy! That’s precisely why it is worth their while wading through mountains of mud to get to him; after all, he is in no position to visit them!

Needless to say, no-one comes to see him in order to show him any sympathy or compassion – and nor should they; for he is just a dirty, convicted criminal-slave in the stocks! Convicted of exactly what, no-one can quite remember; but it must have been serious for him to be sentenced to life in the kneeling stocks, high on a windswept and muddy hill outside the Female Capital?

‘Slave Perma-Stocks’, as he is known, has thus become something of a famous tourist-site in the Gynarchy; a must-see, must-torment item on any self-respecting, foreign female tourist’s itinerary. But it’s not the sort of fame anyone in their right mind would hanker after – famous for being immobilised and helpless in the stocks; forced to kiss and lick dirty, unkempt, shoes and boots, and survive on morsels of feminine shoe and boot mud; obliged to sniff and suck on stinky, vinegary socks and nylons; compelled to chew on lumps of toejam and dead footskin-filings; being constantly sat upon and photographed with female legs and calf-muscles wrapped around the sides of his ugly slave-face, with female-socked anklebones digging painfully into his temples; and all the while being mercilessly mocked and whipped (for, yes – visitors are encouraged to whip him across his pinioned, bare back and shoulders – either with a whipping-stick supplied by one of the many local gypsy whip-vendors who make a good living out of him; or utilising their own makeshift, or purpose-built, whips which they have brought with them!)

Many clever, young women even cruelly finger his whip wounds with their dirty digits, for the ultimate goal of the visitors to the stocks is to make the incumbent prisoner cry; to see him weep; to hear him beg for mercy at their muddy feet – and then listen to him praise and bless them for taking the female time to come and torment him in the stocks. Such undignified and weak, maleslavish reactions on his part make them feel big and strong – and cause them to despise him all the more, so that they feel compelled to spit on him as they leave.

Some days he is well and truly drenched in female spit and contempt (and that of the female visitors’ freemale partners, since their girlfriends willingly give their female permission for the male prisoner-slave to be spat upon by freemale saliva).

And the answers to the cruelly inquisitive questions listed in the opening paragraph to this piece?

• He feels overwhelming shame
• Yes, his muscles do still ache
• Even though they are atrophied
• He can only see the muddy ground directly beneath his perma-kneeling face (and the dirty footprints left on it by the soles of his tormentresses shoes and boots )
• No, he can’t move his aching neck up high enough to see his visitors’ pretty kneecaps, though he is subconsciously aware of them
• Yes, he is forced to look down at shapely, feminine ankles all the time – unless the female visitor’s foot is raised up to his mouth for kissing and worship, at which point his eyes are temporarily on a par with the visitor’s ankle whilst he sucks on her muddy, scuffmarked shoe or boot-toe

‘Slave Perma-Stocks – locked in the stocks, looking at socks!’ as the Female Tourist-Board’s jocular slogan goes. He is well and truly a public laughing stock.

…

22 year old, petite and comely, miss Mei-Ling from Hong Kong was excited. Today she was off to see the infamous ‘Slave-Permastocks’ tourist attraction with her manly boyfriend – also from Hong Kong.

She decided to wear her brown leather, double-strapped, low-heeled mary-janes, as they would be both practical footwear in the mud, and were sufficiently scuffmarked and worn to be a humiliation for the prisoner-slave to have to look at and mouth-worship in front of her boyfriend. Similarly, she would wear her manky, cream-coloured kneesocks, but rolled down around her ankles (the socks had, actually, once been brilliant white, but repeated washing and wearing had dulled them to a dirty, bobbly, shade of off-white cream!). To complete the Hong Kong Chinese tormentress’s ensemble, she would wear her short, black miniskirt, since she knew the prisoner-slave in the kneeling stocks would be unable to look up at her shapely, oriental legs – even though he would like to!

She also packed her dirty, black-toejammy, toenail clippings and dead heelskin-shavings from the night before, along with a makeshift whip consisting of a piece of plastic-coated, electrical flex cord from her portable hairdryer. She knew she could simply purchase a whipping-stick from the gypsy-women up at the monument, but she wasn’t convinced it would hurt the prisoner-slave as much as her electrical cord!

The happy, Hong Kong couple then took a tour bus to the site, and waded through the muddy fields from the coach park to get to Slave Perma-Stocks.

There were already several other tourist-mistresses and their boyfriends milling around him – whipping him; tormenting him; making him lick female shoe and kiss female sock. Although Mei-Ling was itching to get at him, she had to wait her turn; so she and her boyfriend had a quick picnic whilst they waited.

It occurred to Mei-Ling that the perma-slave might appreciate some of their leftovers from the picnic, as he must surely be permanently hungry surviving as he does on young women’s shoe and boot mud? But then she remembered that she had brought him the tasty morsels of her toejammy toenail-clippings – food fit for a footslave in the stocks. And she didn’t want to spoil his appetite! So, she and her boyfriend simply threw their picnic leftovers away for the numerous birds and rodents to peck at.

Whilst she was waiting, miss Mei-Ling inspected her now muddy shoes and socks; she was gratified to see that the mud from the surrounding fields had not just permeated her outer, already brown shoeleather, but also the creases and folds of her creamy, scrunched-down socktops. That would be extra-humiliating for the footslave – if she ever got the chance to torment him with them!

She looked at her watch.

Patience is a virtue – and after one, long hour she and her boyfriend finally reached the front of the stocks. It was quite a cold and windy day up on the punishment-hill overlooking the town; Mei-Ling’s bare legs were shivering somewhat beneath her black cotton miniskirt. But she evidently wasn’t as cold as the semi-naked, male slave in the stocks; he was quite blue, and looked like he was suffering from perma-frost. He too was trembling and shaking, but only partly through the cold; his tremulousness was also the result of fear!

And he was right to be afraid – for Mei-Ling had plans to impose not just her dirty, muddy shoes and socks on him; nor just her toejammy nail-clippings; but also her electrical-flex whip!

She began by ‘showing off’ her muddy shoes and socks to the prisoner-slave, by demurely positioning them in the mud directly beneath his face, and angling them like a footwear catalogue-model might do. She then decided it was time to make him kiss her scuffmarked, mud-splattered, rounded, mary-jane shoetoes first; then she would have him kiss her socks – on certain designated areas e.g. in between her double shoe-straps; on the muddy creases and folds around her ankles; on the elasticated, but twisted, socktops. She may even invite him to place one lip on her smooth, lower calf-skin, and one lip on her warm socktop – just to give him a taster of the beautifully soft, young-womanly flesh that he was missing (but of which she gave freely to her boyfriend).

He – the boyfriend – meanwhile gallantly helped steady his pretty girlfriend as she raised each mary-janed foot up to the prisoner-slave’s lips, rubbing the larger globules of mud from the bottoms of her recently kissed shoe-toes onto his chin, as if pretending to help him clean her muddy, unkempt shoes!

Slave Perma-Stocks could smell the mustiness of the Chinese girl’s shoes (he knew she was Chinese only from the sound of her voice above him as she spoke in Cantonese to her boyfriend, joking and laughing – all at his expense, no doubt!). He also admired her slovenly, scrunched-down, cream-coloured socks, and the way they stylishly filled out her dainty, oriental-girl anklebones – even though, if he was able to do so, he would have desperately tried to roll her socks back up her legs for her with his face, since the poor girl’s bare legs must be terribly cold!

Next, Mei-Ling did the typical, touristy thing of sitting herself smilingly down on the heavy, wooden crossbeam over his neck, and wrapping her socked ankles around his shoemud-smeared chin, so that her boyfriend could stand a few steps back and take a picture of her sitting triumphantly astride the slave. Slave Perma-Stocks appreciated the feminine softness of the young Chinese woman’s manky and bobbled, creamy socks on his cheeks as she squeezed her scrunch-socked anklebones into his temples. The socks helped soften the painful pressure on his brain, though he still felt humiliated and helpless; the prisoner of a Chinese girl’s socks.

Then it was time for mistress Mei-Ling to feed the prisoner-slave the oriental delicacy of her raw, toejam-smeared, toenail clippings and dead heelskin; an acquired taste – judging by the initial baulking of the prisoner, but one which she was determined he would acquire! She even, egged on by her boyfriend, kindly shoved each greasy toenail-clipping underneath his nostrils so that he could first smell that which he was about to taste.

Finally, she took out her electrical flex-cord and moved to stand behind Slave Perma-Stocks – her magnificent, manly boyfriend helping her to judge her distance as she sought out a foothold in the mud and prepared to bring the makeshift whip crashing down onto the ungrateful slave’s back. Ungrateful – because he had literally turned his nose up at her slimy toenail-clippings, and choked on them!

He now sang her praises, however, spurred on by the sting of the makeshift whip! Indeed, he glorified her, and begged her to allow him to kiss her shoes and socks again. She wondered if he could see her feet as she stood behind him in the mud, whipping him? Could he, for example, observe the movement in her outstretched, right anklesock as she brought down the whip upon him – a kind of warning to him to brace himself for the imminent shock of electrical-cord pain?

She hoped not – for that would surely lessen the impact of the pain?

After his whipping, Mei-Ling moved back to stand in front of her whipped prisoner, and to enjoy the pain reactions now etched into his lowly, bowed face. She magnanimously acceded to his request to lick the fresh mud from her mary-jane shoes, and even allowed him to find some solace in her scrunched-down socks, by burying his face in them and blubbering into them. The gypsy tourist-site attendants then, politely, asked her to move on – as the next party of female tourists were anxious to step up to the muddy marks and torment him with their multicoloured, mud-splattered wellington boots.

Reluctantly, Mei-Ling left the perma-slave with the taste of her shoemud inside his mouth, and the lingering burn of her makeshift whip on his back. Hand in hand with her ever-supportive boyfriend, she gingerly made her way back through the muddy fields towards the tourist bus which would take them back to their hotel.

Once back in their warm and cosy hotel room, after Mei-Ling had showered away the mud and washed and dried her hair (yes – the makeshift whipcord was still fit for its original purpose!), she and her boyfriend made mad passionate love – using the pictures he had taken of her humiliating the prisoner-slave in the stocks, as foreplay. They then post-coitally uploaded the pictures onto her social networking site, so that they could be enjoyed by a wider circle of her friends and family.

All in all, it had been an enjoyable, if sometimes frustrating, day out for Miss Mei-Ling – frustrating only because she would have liked to have spent more time tormenting the stupid prisoner-slave in the stocks.

It had been a frustrating day for the prisoner too. How he wished that pretty, Chinese girl had taken off and left her manky, cream-shaded socks in his mouth! He would have willingly sucked all her oriental foot-juices out of them – if only to wash away the bad taste of her toejam! Instead those socks now lay in an untidy, stinky heap on her hotel-bedroom floor, next to her equally pungent shoes; going to waste!

He should be very grateful to miss Mei-Ling, however – not just for her taking the time to torment him with her shoes, socks, toenail-clippings, dead heelskin and whip, but also for her coming to the Gynarchy as a tourist in the first place, and thus helping to boost the economy of the country which keeps him in bondage.

And the answers to Mei-Ling’s cruelly inquisitive questions whilst she had been warming his back with the whip?

• No, Slave Perma-Stocks could, sadly, not see her rolled-down, creamy socks creasing and folding around her ankles with each whip-stroke she delivered to his backbone; the thick wood of the crossbeam was, frustratingly, in the way
• So he had no forewarning of the biting pain to come (other than the ominous swish of the whip through the chilly, hilly air)

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