The Secret Footslave Life of Walter M_
A Slave Nylonsniff Story
The young Chinese woman is watching me being whipped.
She is attired in an exotic costume that is a fusion (actually more of a con-fusion) of Egyptian, Turkish and Hollywood styles, all wrapped together. A golden snake-head singlet circles her forehead. Above the waist she wears a heavy glittering necklace studded with fragments of coral, lapis lazuli and jade. Her unadorned navel coyly peeks out from below the neckpiece.
Her cute round face is the very model of youthful perfection. It scarcely needs enhancement, yet she wears make-up somehow more suited to a theatrical performance than to close-up viewing. Her eyes are shadowed with blue nearly up to her eyebrows, and rouge enhances, quite unnecessarily I think, the natural blush of her cheeks. Her full lips are painted bright crimson. Short cut, jet-black hair frames her face, turning inward where it passes her jawline, and terminating an inch or two short of her delicate Feminine shoulders.
She wears a short skirt of some unidentifiable material that shimmers when she moves. Not fabric; the skirt appears to be constructed from strips, something like a bead curtain, and when she walks her knees and thighs are alternately revealed and concealed. Below the knees she wears nothing at all. She is barefoot, and her pretty, high-arched feet are sporting bright lacquer on the toenails that matches the color of her lips.
Her expression is blank, a beautiful China-doll devoid of empathy, as she watches me suffer. Yet somehow her dark eyes shine balefully under the shadowed lids. Clearly she detests me. Why does she hate me so much? Do I even know her? I have to think!
CRACK!!! The black, braided, single-tail whip explodes across my shoulders. It carves a path of fire, exquisitely painful, like a hot razor. I shut my eyes and choke back a cry.
My arms are held tight by iron manacles. Stripped to the waist and suspended by a chain, I am being whipped in place of a young woman whose auburn hair is drawn back into a voluminous pony tail. The Chinese girl is simply supervising the whipping. Somehow I know that both girls are only slaves, like myself.
I notice for the first time that we are not alone in the room. Far from it. There is a king, seated not too far away like a pharaoh on his throne. Yes, he has that snake thing on his forehead too. And there are courtiers, banqueters, and revelers. There is the fragrance of incense and cinnamon hanging in the air. And music. Exotic Eastern melodies tracing up and down unfamiliar scales.
From the corner of my eye I see barefoot dancing girls dressed in the same manner as the Chinese girl. I suppose that I must be just another part of the entertainment. Perhaps this really is a theatrical performance, after all? Gladly, for the most part the banqueters seem to be uninterested in my plight. Just another whipping of just another male slave.
CRACK!!!! Another searing pain across my shoulders. I suck in air between my clenched teeth.
The Chinese girl holds a long pink feather in her hand. She now uses it to gently tickle me in the face, then she moves down to my chest and armpits. She tickles me gently, ever so delicately on the tightly stretched skin over my right ribcage. Then she withdraws the feather, never losing eye contact with me.
CRACK!!!! The whip cuts me on the right ribs exactly in the place where she had been tickling me. She is directing the whip. She is cruel.
The young woman with auburn pony-tailed hair sits nearby and watches. I am being whipped in her place for... something. It's against the law to whip Females, even female slaves; nonetheless they occasionally must be ‘chastised’. What is she being punished for? Carelessness? Laziness? Is this really an effective punishment for her – watching me being vicariously whipped? She doesn't appear to be too distressed about it, if you ask me! She seems rather bored if anything. No, wait... there is the ghost of a smile… She is amused!!
Swishhh.... CRACK!!! The Chinese girl studies my face intently, reading the agony in my expression. A cruel smirk dawns on her beautiful, red lips. Hatred for me blazes in her eyes. She tickles me gently across the nipples with the plume.
Only males have to get whipped. Have I mentioned that already? If a Female slave breaks the rules, any of a thousand minor transgressions, the guards fetch one of the male slaves to take lashes in her place. Every male slave is eligible for whipping regardless of age or physical condition.
Swwwwwwwwwwwwwwiiiiiiiiiiisssssssshhhhhh........ CRACK!!!! This time the whip not only cuts me across the back, it wraps around my torso so that the cutting tip catches me across the chest and ribs, slicing the sensitive nipples. A whimper of agony escapes me. I see Pony Tail's eyes locked on my chest, looking at the emerging welt, then her eyes raise and look into my own. She looks disgusted.
Her lip curls.
The Chinese girl smiles. A remarkably pretty smile. She takes the feather and tickles me teasingly in the face again, then down my chest and ribs. I look down at her bare feet. They are becoming sullied by contact with the stone floor. I wonder if a footslave will tongue wash them for her later today. Do they allow Female slaves to have footslave service? Would I be the one to attend to her feet? So many questions!
CRACK!!!! Another whiplash across my back. I can't hold it in any longer, so now I let out a grunt and a little moan. The China doll smiles at me again, showing pearly white teeth. This time her eyes smile too. Pony Tail is only about eighteen years old. She is pretty, I have to admit. Barefoot, too, and her toenails are painted pink. As a Female, she enjoys the privilege of having a male slave sacrifice himself to protect her. It is his duty to do so. I'm more than three times her age, but I have to get whipped in place of her because she is Female. I am her whipping boy.
CRACK!!!! Again the CUTTING, unceasing pain across my shoulders. This time the lash smacks across one of the tender welts on my back, drawing blood. I grunt loudly, and my contorted facial expression telegraphs my agony. "Tsk!", Pony Tail clicks her tongue in disgust at me. "Don't be such a weakling! You make me sick, with all your whining. Take your whipping like a man."
But now, really, wasn't it HER whipping that I was taking? This is all rather unfair!
The Chinese girl now looks like she is about to speak too. No doubt she is going to add her own verbal taunts and teases to my misery. She says:
"May I help you?"
...
"May I help you?", she repeated. Walter blinked, and the exotic daydream abruptly vaporized. Poof!
The young Chinese woman was new at the Company's reception desk. A little line now appeared between her eyebrows, a clear sign that she was becoming somewhat irritated.
Ah, reality! Walter M__ stood, briefcase in hand, facing the Chinese girl and another woman. He had come to an abrupt stop when, upon entering the lobby at his workplace, he saw the new Asian girl at the Company receptionist desk. She was definitely a stop-dead-in-your-tracks knockout. A young auburn-haired intern with a pony tail, probably from the Personnel Department (Janet something?), was sitting next to her giving her some last minute new-hire instructions. Walter wondered how long he had been standing there, just a few feet away from the desk, staring at the two of them. Below the desk, one could see that both of the young ladies were wearing strappy shoes that left most of their feet exposed for the warm spring day. Pink toenail polish on one girl, and red on the other.
"Sorry, I was just... uh... just... umm... thinking", Walter stammered. He stood open-mouthed as if to say something else, but he was so flustered that he couldn't think of anything to add. Blushing brightly he shut his mouth and hurried away to queue for the elevator. "What a weirdo!", he heard from behind him, but he didn't turn around, and he didn't know which one of them had voiced such an opinion. Humiliated, hearing girlish giggles behind him, he shuffled into the crowded elevator.
Ding! The elevator doors opened and Walter exited to the 25th floor, nearly tripping over the office footslave who happened to be crawling past the elevators at that very moment. "I must be late!", Walter reflected. Usually when he arrived in the morning, the footslave was still servicing the offices to the right of the elevator bank. "I must be really late. How long was I standing there?" Fortunately, his Boss was nowhere in sight, and it was a quick trip to his desk: just five steps from the elevators. Walter had the same scratched desk they had given him when he first joined the Company over thirty years before. And for all of those years he sat in the same location next to the elevators, listening to the Ding! each time the elevator doors opened.
Walter nodded to Alex, the man who had occupied the scratched desk next to his own for the past twenty years. Alex was the closest thing to a friend Walter had, yet they rarely exchanged words. Idle chitchat was discouraged amongst class 2 employees of the Company. Walter had been class 2 ever since he started working for the Company, although he was now ranked 2aa. For the previous twenty years or so he had been told he might be promoted to class 1c if he kept up the good work. Walter thought that Alex was only 2b, but there was no way to be sure without engaging in a little forbidden chitchat. So, 2b or not 2b, that is the question! Ding! went the elevator.
On the other side of Alex there was an aisle, then beyond that two more equally scuffed desks manned by two more equally sullen class 2 employees. And in front of the four desks were four more identical desks with four more class 2 employees, and four more beyond that, and so on stretching into the distance. It was a Kafkaesque office nightmare, but Walter was glad to have his job. An unemployed freemale in the Gynarchy might be arrested for Vagrancy, sent to prison or worse. And the Company would certainly notify the authorities the minute he might quit his job. He could have twenty-four hours or less to find a new job and avoid the dreaded Vagrancy conviction. Walter didn't want to lose his job, so he kept his head down and endured. Ding!
Walter didn't think that it was a Company rule, but somehow it appeared that all of the class 2 employees were freemales. There were lower levels, too. Male slaves were level 8, and footslaves were 9s. Walter didn't think that levels 3 through 7 were used at all, but it was a sobering thought to consider that there was room to go down if he screwed up. The Female employees all seemed to be class 1a and class 1b. Walter wasn't aware of any class 1 males. The 1a Females had the window offices, and the 1b's had the windowless offices on the same wall as the elevators. Janet, the pony-tailed intern, on the job for only about a month by then, somehow merited a 1c, and furthermore got one of the private offices. But Walter wasn't bitter... (Yes he was.) Ding!
Walter's Boss was a 1a, a powerful woman in a corner window office. He was proud of the fact that he reported directly to a 1a, especially since all of the others in her group were 1b's (which is to say, Females) with level 2 employees reporting to them. On the down side, he was the only one who was required to stand during her group meetings. (Standing is an old Company rule that was intended to speed up meetings. Females were exempted out of deference to their sex.) Meetings seemed to go on forever, but Walter was indispensable owing to his deep knowledge of the business. He was always exhausted when he returned to his desk by the elevator. Alex reported to a 1b, as did virtually all of the other 2's. Walter mulled this fact over optimistically. Ding!
He began to attack the absurdly high stack of work already piled up on his desk, making rapid progress. He was the most efficient worker on the floor by far. Soon he was absorbed in his task. Next to him, Alex got a phone call, then immediately jumped up and ran to the office of his own Boss not far away on the 1b wall. Not long afterwards Walter saw women from nearby offices migrating towards the doorway Alex had just passed through. So Alex was being caned yet again! A hush fell over the entire office area. Somehow it was sensed by all - those who feared that the same could happen to them, and those who found it to be jolly entertainment. The entire office collectively held its breath and listened. Even the telephones seemed to stop ringing for a moment.
Walter listened along with everyone else. He was too far away to hear the swish of the cane or the impact, but he did hear a grunt of male pain. Then another, louder. And again. The sixth and final exclamation was more of a scream than a grunt. Again there was silence, then a chorus of Female laughter from the 'schadenfreude set'. Soon it was all over. Women were streaming away from the office and the phones began ringing again. Shortly afterwards, Alex returned to his desk. His cheeks were glistening wet, and he sat down gingerly. Walter pretended not to notice. Ding!
Poor Alex got caned all the time. Some of the Bosses were like that: cane happy. They had never felt the cane against their own skins and didn't realize how painful it was. But the fact was that Alex had agreed to be caned as necessary when he joined the Company, as did everyone else. He had signed the papers. It was Company Policy. Motivational caning. Level 2's got the cane; levels 8 and 9 got it much worse with the single-tail whip. Level 1 was exempt. The legal authorities wouldn't interfere in a private Company matter involving freemales who had agreed to the terms, so caning was tolerated. And if Alex couldn't take it any longer he could always quit, run the risk of a Vagrancy arrest. Walter himself hadn't been caned in more than fourteen years. He was an exemplary employee, but even so there was always the possibility, the threat, a 'cane of Damocles' hanging over his head. Ding!
Walter's optimistic mood persisted gamely in spite of the bleak facts. Really, he reflected, this could be his year to get a promotion and a nice quiet private office. This could be his year to become a 1c and earn immunity from the cane. As Walter considered the possibility, he looked at the imposing stack of papers in his in-box, then drifted into a reverie...
Ding!
...
Ding! goes the bell, and I move warily to the center of the boxing ring. I am not eager to get there, but I know that if I hesitate, my Female partner will propel me forward with her foot like she did in round 1, bringing a chorus of loud guffaws from the bloodthirsty crowd. This is round 3, and it's male-Female mixed boxing. In this unique sport, there is one male and one Female on each competing team. At the top of round 1, the male from Team Red competes against the Female from Team Blue, and the other two individuals enter the ring at the bottom of the round. The first Female who knocks out her opposing male wins it for her team. I am disappointed that my partner didn't knock out her opponent in round 1. He is old and feeble, almost begging to go down. Clearly she is toying with him, trying to prolong this for the amusement of the packed arena.
By the rules of Gynarchian Mixed Boxing, the Female does the punching and the male does the dodging. I am forbidden by law to punch back, and just to be absolutely certain that I don't, my wrists are handcuffed at my sides to a metal belt. Nonsensically, and completely unnecessarily, I am also required to wear puffy, oversized boxing gloves, making me look and feel ridiculous. This, in spite of the fact that I cannot lift my hands to punch. (And even if I did, somehow, I would face judicial whipping for striking a Female!)
My opponent has no boxing skills, but she makes up for that with a great deal of enthusiasm. She was one of the ringside spectators less than an hour before, chosen by lottery to enjoy a delightful time in the ring swinging at a Gynarchy freemale. So now she is decked out in boxing gear: red sateen shorts with elastic waist, black high-top laced shoes and, for the ladies only, a white sleeveless pullover shirt to conceal Feminine charms from unworthy male eyes. Her breasts strain against the fabric. Oh, and she doesn't wear silly, puffy, boxing gloves either. There is nothing to cushion the blows if she does happen to connect. On her hands there is merely tape to protect her knuckles. Her auburn hair is pulled back into a pony tail.
I do have boxing skills, although I am well past my prime. To be honest, I'm old, and this male-Female gig is the only work I can get. Still, I suppose it's better than a Vagrancy arrest and prison... or the mines... or the galleys... or footslavery.
Pony Tail aims another right-hand blow at my jaw which I neatly dodge. I can see that she is back to head-hunting again in this round. That's fine with me; she is wearing down quickly. She targeted my face during the entire first round and only connected the one lucky blow to my left eye. In round 2, she switched to pummeling my midsection, which is awfully difficult to avoid. My naked stomach and chest are now glowing pink as a result. But she's no boxer. She doesn't realize how effective these multiple body punches are over time. She just wants to see my face as bloodied as that of her male partner.
I've slipped every one of her punches so far during this round, wily veteran that I am, and she is becoming angry and frustrated. She aims a left hook at my jaw. I lean back and it whizzes by. She follows with a right overhand, and when I move out of its path the impetus of the punch drives her body against mine. The feel of her clothed bosom against my naked chest sends an electric charge through my body, but it is a short-lived thrill. She vents her frustration by grabbing my shoulders with her hands and bringing her knee up hard into my crotch. This time she's right on target.
Now mind you, a knee to the groin is considered a foul blow even by Gynarchian standards. I look towards the young Chinese woman who is acting as referee, but she doesn't seem to care. In fact, she's laughing. The pain is slow to develop, but then it comes with a rush and it's excruciating. My opponent repeats the knee action, and I double over, chin thrust out.
I think it's an uppercut to the point of my projecting chin that puts me on the mat. I'm not sure; I guess I blacked out for a second or two. My opponent is now enthusiastically kicking me with her black high-tops. This is entirely legal. The fight is not over until one of the males loses consciousness. It is not possible to dodge the kicks, and now there is blood on the mat -- my blood. I think we are near to the end of the round. Where is the bell? The bell should ring any second now! I can't get up with my arms pinioned to my sides. I can see the crowd screaming for blood. I can see my Female partner screaming at me to get up. I curl up and try to protect my face with my knees. Where is that bell?
Rrrriiinnng! Ah, the bell at last. But it sounds strange. She keeps kicking me.
Rrrriiinnng!
Rrrriiinnng! The bell sounds totally wrong. Is it all in my head? It should ding, not sound like a...
...
Rrrriiinnng! The telephone!
Walter snatches it up. "M__ speaking."
"M__! You f* lazy bastard! Why didn't you pick up the f* phone? It rang like ten f* times. I'll have your balls for this!" (The Boss. Miss Sylvia S__. She had a habit of seasoning her language with F-bombs when she was angry. She was always angry when speaking to males, it seemed, but gladly she cursed a lot and caned very little.) "Get your lazy f* ass into my office on the double!"
Walter hurried into her office at the corner of the window wall. Miss Sylvia was seated at her desk, and there were two other people in the room with her: a rigidly standing gentleman and, seated comfortably on the office couch, an attractive young woman with shortish blonde hair.
The Boss said, "Claire, I'd like you to meet your co-worker, Walter M__. Walter, this is Claire W__. She will be joining your group starting today."
Claire smiled and, by way of greeting, as is customary for Females meeting freemales in the Gynarchy, she extended her petite foot towards Walter.
Now at this point it would be perfectly acceptable for him to simply drop to one knee, lower his nose to her profferred foot and gently kiss it, possibly embellishing with a noisy inhale. But, lightning quick, the thought occurred to Walter that this young lady was being added to his group. A Female, she might become his supervisor some day. So he quickly decided to seize the rare opportunity and impress her, and everyone else, with his chivalrous manners.
Walter knew that a true gentleman must be stripped to the waist when he kissed a lady's foot. This says to her, "Before you I am nothing, a mere slave you may choose to whip!", which of course he was not, but this would all be for show. So he wrestled off his necktie, jacket, shirt and undershirt while the three onlookers waited patiently, a little surprised and, perhaps... hopefully... impressed(?).
Having divested himself of upper garments, Walter dropped to his knees before the lovely Miss W__ and, ever so gently, placed his hand under her heel to help support her foot. He bowed and kissed her shod foot on top of the toes and then, ever EVER so gently, he slipped off her high-heeled shoe. She extended her little nylon-covered foot towards him in a lovely toe-point, causing Walter to wonder momentarily whether she had trained as a gymnast. Or perhaps ballet.
He noted that her toenails had been lacquered with a light pink to match her fingernails. Her toes were clearly visible, though somewhat subdued, through the film of nylon. But there was no time to wonder. He had only seconds to soak in the visual beauty of her toes through her translucent tights. It was time to lower his "nose to her toes" as the poets say in the Gynarchy.
Her nylon-stockinged foot was mildly fragrant after its confinement in her leather shoe. Walter's nose made contact with the reinforced toe area. He drew air noisily into his nostrils through the darker part of the stocking stretched across her toes. As he inhaled through the gossamer fabric, his first impression, touchingly, was the scent of the soap she had used that morning, something floral and girlish. But there was much more besides, an intricate melange of aromas. There was a certain mustiness, as her foot had been perspiring.
Walter inhaled again, pulling the aromatic humid air deep into his lungs. It was dank and sweaty. Oh yes, atop the floral fragrance there drifted a pungent tartness, a definite vinegary swirl. And under it all, in the background, there lurked something darker... the most subtle of unpleasant odors, a sort of cheesiness or, one might even say, a mousey odor.
No time to pause and reflect. Walter plunged onward. He raised the nylon-darkened toes to his mouth and kissed. Gently he pecked her on top of her toenails. Tenderly. Respectfully. Worshipfully. He hated having to debase himself like this. He detested it. Or did he love it? Walter himself really didn't know, but as he kissed, his inner masochist began to emerge. He savored the cobwebby texture of the nylon with sensitive lips. Again he kissed the tops of her toes, this time longer and reverently.
At this point Walter knew that he should stop, but he began to lose control as his inner masochist assumed command. He started to plant kisses fervently in quick succession on her toes, on the top and sides of her foot, and into her delicate high arch. Her foot was still locked into toe-point position.
The underside of her foot crinkled into little wrinkles visible through the nylon. Walter's tongue glided over them, and he felt every bump and ridge. He licked her pretty ankle tendon and felt the puckers of flesh there when she pointed her toes. Soon he begin to experience the flavor of Claire.
Her Female footsweat was decidedly salty, yet tangy and slightly bitter as well.
Losing himself completely then, Walter opened his mouth wide and took in all of her toes at once. His tongue played with the underside of her toes. He felt the rasp of the nylon against his tongue. Unbidden, saliva began to gather in his mouth. It bathed her toes, collecting molecules of bitter Female foot sweat, and he swallowed, sucked and swallowed. His entire universe consisted of his mouth and Claire's foot...
...and then suddenly and without warning Claire slapped him! Struck him with all her force across his left cheek. Walter looked up with her toes still in his mouth, and he saw the anger in her eyes. Slowly, deliberately, she drew her arm back again and gave him yet another slap across his stinging cheek. Shocking! (Actually, it is quite common for Females to slap freemales in the Gynarchy, and perfectly legal; practically encouraged. However, this was not the reception Walter had been hoping for!) Surprised and embarrassed he released her toes and stood up. He turned and found his clothing, then tried to put them back on in world record time.
When he had restored himself somewhat, he chanced a glance at lovely Miss W__. She had a wad of tissues given her by the Boss, and she was using them to wipe and pad her sodden toes. She looked up at Walter and it appeared that her anger had passed. In fact she seemed rather contrite. "Look," she said, "I'm sorry that I slapped you. I really am... but I have to wear these stockings all day, and you were getting them all wet and icky." She smiled, and Walter relaxed a little, but she continued, "If you were a slave, I would have you whipped bloody for this." Her smile was radiant. "Bloody", she repeated through her smile, and he somehow understood that more than one unfortunate male slave had been cruelly whipped to satisfy her whim. She was the type of Female who watched Punishment Time on the Femdom Channel, Walter thought. For pleasure.
"But you are such a gentleman!", Claire continued, and even Miss Sylvia gushed, "I had no f* idea you were so f* gallant." (Meaning, perhaps, “Why the f* didn't you ever kiss my f* feet like this?”)
And finally, last and by far the least, the Boss introduced the gentleman in the room. Ted H__, or something like that. They shook hands, and Walter got the feeling right away that Ted didn't like him. Perhaps Ted had only given Miss Boss-Lady Sylvia's foot the most perfunctory of kisses earlier, and now Walter's conduct made him look very bad in retrospect, boorish almost. Oh well, you win some and you lose some.
The Boss was talking, but Walter's thoughts were starting to drift. He had just humiliated himself for the second time that morning. And Claire... so pretty... so entitled... so haughty... Claire instantly reminded him of the type of Female that always appeared on the free-standing poster on the sidewalk outside of the Footslave Recruitment Office (FSRO). Walter passed the local FSRO every morning and evening on his way between the bus stop and the Company. The sign read 'I want YOU for the Footslave Brigade!' superimposed over the image of a young lady pointing directly at the reader with her foot. The text never varied, but the picture, and the girl, changed about once per month. Sometimes she pointed with a booted foot, sometimes a muddy ballet flat, sometimes in socks and sometimes barefoot. There is a small part of Walter that always wanted to go into that office every morning. Just out of curiosity. Just to look around...
...
...and this morning there is a new picture. The woman in the picture appears to be Claire, I'm almost certain. She is pointing with her foot directly at me, and she is wearing nylon stockings, no shoes. Or more likely nude tights. The reinforced area around the toes is somewhat darker, but her toes, with light pink polish on the nails, are clearly visible. They virtually demand to be sniffed, to be kissed and adored. I am surprised to find myself marching into the FSRO. I am afraid, but I have lost control over my legs.
Inside, an attractive young woman in a military outfit is seated behind a desk facing the door. She is not Claire, but I am not entirely disappointed. She is Chinese, and she is drop-dead gorgeous. She flashes a brilliant smile.
"Good morning!", she calls to me cheerfully. "Are you here to volunteer?"
I want to tell her that I am, that I really must become the eternal slave to the woman in the poster, but I find it difficult to talk. It seems that I have lost control over my voice as well. I can only nod my head stupidly.
Still smiling, Miss Congeniality stands and walks around the desk towards me. She has a clipboard in her hand.
"That's wonderful!", she bubbles, then looks down at the form on her clipboard. "Your Papers!", she snaps. Still looking down, she extends her free hand towards me palm up, waiting, all politeness forgotten. (Somehow, nobody ever asks to see a freemale's Papers politely; it's always spit out as a terse command.)
I know that she is referring to my "male Papers", the document that every male sub-citizen of the Gynarchy must carry at all times, every day of his entire life. They actually sell waterproof pouches so that you can, as required by law, have the Papers on your person in the shower, tub or pool. The Papers certify that a person is draft-eligible by virtue of being 1) male, and 2) alive. The only way to avoid the draft in the Gynarchy is to be either Female or (and the authorities accept this excuse rather grudgingly) dead.
I hand her my Papers, and she transcribes the information she needs to the form on her clipboard. Apparently all that us needed is my name, my male number and my signature. Nothing else. I am volunteering to become a footslave, and no information about a footslave's former life is pertinent. She daintily lifts the corner of my shirt to verify that I am not currently a branded slave, then takes a snapshot of my face and fingerprints from both of my hands.
Finished, she turns the clipboard to me so that I can sign my name at the place she marked. She rotates the board back to make sure that everything is in order. Her smile slowly fades from cordial... to prim... to gone forevermore. She half turns her body to set the clipboard on her desk then, from the vicinity of the desk she executes a full-arm, roundhouse, open-handed slap to my cheek that sets my ears to ringing and propels my glasses skittering across the room.
"Take off your shirt this instant, slave!" Slap! "How dare you cover yourself in my presence!" Slap! Slap! "Get down on your knees! How dare you stand in my presence! You should be kissing my shoes! I am going to whip you for your insolence!" Slap! Slap! "Hands on your head, slave!"
Attracted by the racket, an attractive young lady emerges from a back room. She has auburn hair pulled into a puffy pony tail. "Are you going to whip him?", she asks. "Hey! Are you f* listening to me?"
...
"Walter? Walter!! Are you even paying attention? Listen!! I'm f* talking here! Use your f* ears! They're f* big enough!"
Startled, Walter snapped to attention, blushing, and fixed his eyes on Miss Sylvia.
Collecting herself and smiling at her own crude joke, The Boss continued. "I was just saying that Claire is exactly the type of woman the Company is delighted to add to its ranks. Samantha is absolutely thrilled with her. Walter, you and Ted will be reporting to her, as will...", she looked down to consult her notes, "...Karen S__, Alex C__... ". (Alex!) She rattled off a half dozen other male names. "Also, Janet W__ will be transferring in from Personnel, and so will Cathy T__, the new receptionist..."
Walter pondered as she talked, trying to assimilate the information. This felt like a demotion. A bitter pill. He wouldn't be reporting directly to a level 1a any more. His earlier feelings of optimism evaporated. It sounded like Claire had some serious connections; the Boss must have been referring to Samantha V__, CEO of the Company. And this 'Cathy' must be the young Asian woman he was dreaming about in the lobby. He might be seeing more of her. That part was good, he supposed. A strange group, though, with himself and a receptionist and an intern from Personnel. What was their purpose? It was like they just wanted to scrape together a group, any group, so that Claire could have a group.
At least he was happy to have Alex in his group. Alex would no doubt be thrilled to get away from his current Boss, but it looked to Walter like it was going to be 'out of the frying pan, into the fire'. Claire was clearly a bitch... no, a Bitch.
Walter struggled to maintain attention. Miss Sylvia was directing her comments towards Miss Claire now: "...so all of your direct reports will be level 2 except for Karen and Janet, who are 1c's. I imagine they'll be rather like lieutenants for you?"
Claire sat on the couch with her left leg crossed over the right. Her high-heeled shoe dangled precariously from the toes of her left foot. She dipped her foot up and down, down and up, twisting her ankle from side to side. Walter stood mesmerized, waiting for the shoe to drop as he half listened to the women's conversation. He still had the taste of her toes in his mouth.
"Absolutely, they will. In fact I intend to have Janet administer all canings in my group."
"Canings? Oh dear, well, I don't really approve of that. I find that you can get good results without resorting to the cane. Walter, here, for example, is one of the top performers in the Company, and I haven't caned him for years and years..."
"Whether you approve of it or not is beside the point. Walter is in my group now, and, like any other freemale, he will be caned when necessary. He's only a male. It's time that he learned his place. In fact, he was late this morning, and that means, according to Company policy, exactly three cuts. He WILL receive those three strokes at my group meeting this afternoon. Also, the new receptionist, what's her name, Cathy? She was also late, today, her first day on the job! I will need a footslave to receive punishment on her behalf. I want him assigned permanently to me."
The Boss looked surprised. "A personal footslave? But how? You're only a 1b. You need to be a 1aa to have a personal footslave. Even I have to share with the entire 25th floor..." The Boss let her voice trail away as she began to understand: She was dealing with royalty here. The CEO's favorite. The Chosen One. Well, to hell with f* Walter! Let her cane him all she wants. Sylvia was going to score points with Samantha.
"I'll see what I can do", she conceded. Boss Lady offered up a weak apologetic smile.
"If you don't take care of it, I will. And if I don't have a footslave by two o'clock today, I'll just have Walter whipped in place of Cathy. That's a simple solution. And tonight, I'll speak to Samantha personally. I'll guarantee you that by tomorrow, my group will have its own footslave!"
Claire turned to face Walter. "There will be a group meeting this afternoon at two o'clock. My office. You might get to be a whipping boy. How does six of the best sound to you? Not so good, huh? You'd better hope that Sylvia comes through with that footslave. You may return to your desk now."
Dismissed, and in shock, Walter made his way out of the office.
"I think that went rather well, don't you?", he heard Miss Sylvia simper nervously behind him. The tables had turned, and she was now sucking up to her new employee.
"Oh, swimmingly!", Claire answered. Her voice was dripping with sarcasm, and she no doubt embellished with rolling eyes. Both ladies had a nice chuckle.
Walter made a quick trip back to his desk. This was the second time today he had walked away with the sound of Female laughter behind him. Six of the best! He shuddered at the thought. The very words dredged up painful memories of his past, of his education and of his stepmother. No, he couldn't possibly endure that again. For just being a few minutes late?? Ridiculous! And the part about Cathy: She was a level 2, so she had to be caned, yet she was a Female, so she couldn't be caned. Walter shook his head.
Ding! He was back at his desk. The pile of work seemed to have grown during the few minutes he was absent. With a sigh, he took a stapled set of papers from the top of the stack and resumed his work. His earlier mellow mood was completely gone by now. In fact, this was turning out to be a really crappy day! One for the record books. He was even getting caned.
"Swimmingly," he groused to himself, then drifted into another dream.
...
The smell of chlorine fills the air. Here I am, standing at the edge of the swimming pool. It's Company Fun Night, and this evening, for our (mandatory) enjoyment and (obligatory) camaraderie, we are all spending three wonderful (compulsory) hours together at an Olympic-size pool. Whee!
Nobody is in the water yet. They have us all lined up on either side of the pool because we are all awaiting the grand entrance of Samantha V__. Yes, the great Samantha herself will briefly grace us with Her Presence and address the happy workers of the 25th floor. Until she gets here, they have us lined up like soldiers at attention, the level 1 managers on one side of the pool and the level 2 losers on the other.
It wouldn't be bad at all if I didn't have to be nude. But those are the rules, the pool regulations, and in fact the law of the land in the Gynarchy: Males throughout the country are required to be naked for swimming. No arguments or excuses. This is said to be for health reasons.
You see, fibers that shed from swimsuits are the bane of swimming pool filters, so I am told, where they can gather and clog and set up the ideal environment for those tiny creatures which cause disease. I'm talking about amoebic encephalitis, infectious hepatitis, dysentery, enteritis... oh, the list goes on and on, and it's enough to frighten anyone out of their wits.
So the rule is established that says freemales are NOT ALLOWED to wear any textiles in any pool, or even in the vicinity of the pool. That at least relieves some of the burden on the filters. But not all of it, because Females ARE allowed to wear bathing suits. Why? In deference to Female modesty and dignity, that's why. The standard for Females throughout the Gynarchy is a modest, one-piece swimsuit.
The ladies attending tonight's gala event have all been provided with new swimsuits at Company expense. They are all made in the same style: rounded neckline, plunging back, high cut leg openings and Company logo over the left breast. There is a difference among them, however, and that is color. The level 1a managers wear blue suits, and those at level 1b have red. There are a few of the high-power 1aa Females already present, and they are all in white suits. There are also a few pink suits present; these are level 1c girls, mostly interns, the younger set.
So swimsuits are forbidden and attendance is mandatory. I am caught between a rock and an even harder rock. Looking at the Females across the pool from me giggling and pointing, I just want to disappear. We don’t get to wear suits. We aren't even allowed to cover ourselves with our hands.
But all Females get to wear suits. It really makes me livid when I think about it. Females are allowed to cover their butts, private areas, breasts (even if they have none), and even midriffs, while we males are denied even a single scrap of material. Couldn't the Gynarchian legislators have analyzed the problem a little and come up with some kind of compromise that wouldn't place the full burden on the males? How easy it would have been to require the Females to wear a 2-piece instead. If they only wore 2-piece suits, that would dispose of as much fabric as we want to cover our loins. But NO! They get to cover even their belly buttons. Let's not give the freemales any cheap thrills!
I have my male Papers secured in the new plastic pouch (with Company logo, no less) that male employees all received as a door prize on our way in. Most of us have it affixed to our upper arms by the elastic band that was included. Some of the mavericks attached it to their ankles, but an officious level 1b manager is visiting all of them and making sure that all males have their male Papers secured on their upper left arm before Samantha arrives. The Company likes uniformity.
And the ladies? They don't have male Papers to carry, so the Company instead gave each of them a smart phone. Most of the ladies are using them to take pictures. Of us, mostly. I see Janet, the auburn-haired, pony-tailed intern from Personnel, now part of my group. She is talking to the girl next to her, laughing, and pointing directly at me! I am fighting back tears of humiliation. This is so unfair! I want to dig a hole in the floor and drop into it. I try to console myself: They can see my whole body, front and back, but at least I can see them all barefoot. A small victory.
So there they are, all lined up across from me, looking kind of cute. Blue suits, and red suits and the occasional pink. On our side it's more uniform. We are all skin color. I steal a quick glance down our row. I see Alex who is trying to stay far away. I don't blame him, having seen his cane marks. In the midst of all the naked males I see Cathy, the level 2 receptionist, and another Female I don't know. They have been given black suits and they really stand out amongst the nude freemales.
Why can't we do our team building and socializing at a bowling alley? Or a restaurant? Or a picnic? They have a buffet set up right here in the pool room. That means I have to stand in line naked and eat naked too. More humiliation.
We've been standing for more than ten minutes. Miss Samantha finally enters the pool area, a queen bee surrounded by a buzzing swarm of sycophants in white and red swimsuits. Last year she wore a plain black suit; the only one who did - she was so easy to spot. This year she is wearing a pink suit. The same color that the sylphlike Female interns wear, but on her thick-waisted, middle-aged form the effect is comical in comparison. At her side, very close, I see Claire in a red suit, looking adorable. The body language of Samantha and Claire makes it pretty obvious that they are an item.
Miss Samantha takes a cordless microphone and steps down into the water in the shallow end, advances up to the point where the water is almost waist high on her. She starts off with some kind of a lame joke about "seeing a lot more of you this year", which receives dutiful chuckles from the Female side of the pool when she pointedly looks at the row of naked freemales. I am one of the closest to her, and I can see her eyes fixed on my...
BOOM!!!
...
Walter was startled to attention by thick sheaf of paper that had just been slammed down on top of his work pile. He looked up and into the lovely eyes of Cathy, the late-for-her-first-day-of-work receptionist.
"I need you to work on these first", she dictated nonchalantly. "They have to be on my desk by one o'clock at the latest. You'll have to work through lunch I'm afraid."
Dumbfounded, Walter watched her walk away, admiring her shape from behind, her pretty legs, her ankle tendons, her perfect kissable feet...
But he shook his head. "What's going on? Her desk? The receptionist desk? Is SHE my supervisor now??" Walter felt like his career was in free fall. Now he was reporting to a level 2 whose main qualification was her gender. And she was reporting to a 1b who reported to a 1a who reported to a 1aa, all Female. And maybe there was a 1c in the chain of command he didn't even know about.
BOOM!!!
The upwardly mobile ex-receptionist deposited another thick stack of paper on the desk of another unlucky male not far away.
Walter felt that he had reached rock bottom. Things couldn't get any worse...
...
BOOM!!!
BOOM!!!
The timekeeper keeps rhythm on a massive drum with two heavy hammers. The stench in the area is overpoweringly disgusting, and I hear only clanking chains and grunts of male exertion and pain. That, and the sound of cracking single-tail whips. There are no birds singing here. I am in Hell. I am cold, and thirsty, and weary beyond description, but I must pull the ponderous oar in time with the drumbeat.
Another male slave is seated next to me. I think that his name is Alex, but I am not sure. I don't have enough energy to care. We pull on the same oar together. We are both affixed to it with heavy iron chains. We are similarly attired in loincloths, and whip marks add a touch of color to our dirty, sweating naked torsos. On the other side of Alex there is a raised walkway that runs the length of the ship, and beyond that are two more exhausted male slaves pulling at an oar on the other side of the vessel. Ahead of us are row after row of miserable, male slaves. How many I don't know, and I don't care. Behind us just as many, probably. I'm not sure, and I don't care.
BOOM!!!
BOOM!!!
I pull with all the strength I have. Every stroke feels like it could be my last. The overseers pace up and down the walkway, whip in hand, motivating us. They are slaves themselves, but they are Females. So they cannot be put into irons, or made to row, or whipped on naked backs. But still they have been sent to the galleys. They are given the task of making us do our utmost. They hate us, loser omega males that we are, and they blame us for the smell they have to endure, and the unending boredom.
The taskmistress with the auburn pony tail walks past me, malevolent black coil in her hand. She likes to whip. She stops, her back towards me, and plants her feet. She has selected her latest victim. She shakes out the tail of the whip, then delivers it with precision across the back of a slave a few rows ahead of me. He groans but maintains rhythm. Pony Tail readjusts her stance and delivers three more hard lashes to the same slave's back. One. After. Another. For no reason at all. I don't know how he manages to hang on.
Pony Tail turns suddenly, so quickly that she catches me looking at her. Her eyes lock on mine. She coils her whip.
And I know that she is coming for me.
The young Chinese woman is watching me being whipped.
She is attired in an exotic costume that is a fusion (actually more of a con-fusion) of Egyptian, Turkish and Hollywood styles, all wrapped together. A golden snake-head singlet circles her forehead. Above the waist she wears a heavy glittering necklace studded with fragments of coral, lapis lazuli and jade. Her unadorned navel coyly peeks out from below the neckpiece.
Her cute round face is the very model of youthful perfection. It scarcely needs enhancement, yet she wears make-up somehow more suited to a theatrical performance than to close-up viewing. Her eyes are shadowed with blue nearly up to her eyebrows, and rouge enhances, quite unnecessarily I think, the natural blush of her cheeks. Her full lips are painted bright crimson. Short cut, jet-black hair frames her face, turning inward where it passes her jawline, and terminating an inch or two short of her delicate Feminine shoulders.
She wears a short skirt of some unidentifiable material that shimmers when she moves. Not fabric; the skirt appears to be constructed from strips, something like a bead curtain, and when she walks her knees and thighs are alternately revealed and concealed. Below the knees she wears nothing at all. She is barefoot, and her pretty, high-arched feet are sporting bright lacquer on the toenails that matches the color of her lips.
Her expression is blank, a beautiful China-doll devoid of empathy, as she watches me suffer. Yet somehow her dark eyes shine balefully under the shadowed lids. Clearly she detests me. Why does she hate me so much? Do I even know her? I have to think!
CRACK!!! The black, braided, single-tail whip explodes across my shoulders. It carves a path of fire, exquisitely painful, like a hot razor. I shut my eyes and choke back a cry.
My arms are held tight by iron manacles. Stripped to the waist and suspended by a chain, I am being whipped in place of a young woman whose auburn hair is drawn back into a voluminous pony tail. The Chinese girl is simply supervising the whipping. Somehow I know that both girls are only slaves, like myself.
I notice for the first time that we are not alone in the room. Far from it. There is a king, seated not too far away like a pharaoh on his throne. Yes, he has that snake thing on his forehead too. And there are courtiers, banqueters, and revelers. There is the fragrance of incense and cinnamon hanging in the air. And music. Exotic Eastern melodies tracing up and down unfamiliar scales.
From the corner of my eye I see barefoot dancing girls dressed in the same manner as the Chinese girl. I suppose that I must be just another part of the entertainment. Perhaps this really is a theatrical performance, after all? Gladly, for the most part the banqueters seem to be uninterested in my plight. Just another whipping of just another male slave.
CRACK!!!! Another searing pain across my shoulders. I suck in air between my clenched teeth.
The Chinese girl holds a long pink feather in her hand. She now uses it to gently tickle me in the face, then she moves down to my chest and armpits. She tickles me gently, ever so delicately on the tightly stretched skin over my right ribcage. Then she withdraws the feather, never losing eye contact with me.
CRACK!!!! The whip cuts me on the right ribs exactly in the place where she had been tickling me. She is directing the whip. She is cruel.
The young woman with auburn pony-tailed hair sits nearby and watches. I am being whipped in her place for... something. It's against the law to whip Females, even female slaves; nonetheless they occasionally must be ‘chastised’. What is she being punished for? Carelessness? Laziness? Is this really an effective punishment for her – watching me being vicariously whipped? She doesn't appear to be too distressed about it, if you ask me! She seems rather bored if anything. No, wait... there is the ghost of a smile… She is amused!!
Swishhh.... CRACK!!! The Chinese girl studies my face intently, reading the agony in my expression. A cruel smirk dawns on her beautiful, red lips. Hatred for me blazes in her eyes. She tickles me gently across the nipples with the plume.
Only males have to get whipped. Have I mentioned that already? If a Female slave breaks the rules, any of a thousand minor transgressions, the guards fetch one of the male slaves to take lashes in her place. Every male slave is eligible for whipping regardless of age or physical condition.
Swwwwwwwwwwwwwwiiiiiiiiiiisssssssshhhhhh........ CRACK!!!! This time the whip not only cuts me across the back, it wraps around my torso so that the cutting tip catches me across the chest and ribs, slicing the sensitive nipples. A whimper of agony escapes me. I see Pony Tail's eyes locked on my chest, looking at the emerging welt, then her eyes raise and look into my own. She looks disgusted.
Her lip curls.
The Chinese girl smiles. A remarkably pretty smile. She takes the feather and tickles me teasingly in the face again, then down my chest and ribs. I look down at her bare feet. They are becoming sullied by contact with the stone floor. I wonder if a footslave will tongue wash them for her later today. Do they allow Female slaves to have footslave service? Would I be the one to attend to her feet? So many questions!
CRACK!!!! Another whiplash across my back. I can't hold it in any longer, so now I let out a grunt and a little moan. The China doll smiles at me again, showing pearly white teeth. This time her eyes smile too. Pony Tail is only about eighteen years old. She is pretty, I have to admit. Barefoot, too, and her toenails are painted pink. As a Female, she enjoys the privilege of having a male slave sacrifice himself to protect her. It is his duty to do so. I'm more than three times her age, but I have to get whipped in place of her because she is Female. I am her whipping boy.
CRACK!!!! Again the CUTTING, unceasing pain across my shoulders. This time the lash smacks across one of the tender welts on my back, drawing blood. I grunt loudly, and my contorted facial expression telegraphs my agony. "Tsk!", Pony Tail clicks her tongue in disgust at me. "Don't be such a weakling! You make me sick, with all your whining. Take your whipping like a man."
But now, really, wasn't it HER whipping that I was taking? This is all rather unfair!
The Chinese girl now looks like she is about to speak too. No doubt she is going to add her own verbal taunts and teases to my misery. She says:
"May I help you?"
...
"May I help you?", she repeated. Walter blinked, and the exotic daydream abruptly vaporized. Poof!
The young Chinese woman was new at the Company's reception desk. A little line now appeared between her eyebrows, a clear sign that she was becoming somewhat irritated.
Ah, reality! Walter M__ stood, briefcase in hand, facing the Chinese girl and another woman. He had come to an abrupt stop when, upon entering the lobby at his workplace, he saw the new Asian girl at the Company receptionist desk. She was definitely a stop-dead-in-your-tracks knockout. A young auburn-haired intern with a pony tail, probably from the Personnel Department (Janet something?), was sitting next to her giving her some last minute new-hire instructions. Walter wondered how long he had been standing there, just a few feet away from the desk, staring at the two of them. Below the desk, one could see that both of the young ladies were wearing strappy shoes that left most of their feet exposed for the warm spring day. Pink toenail polish on one girl, and red on the other.
"Sorry, I was just... uh... just... umm... thinking", Walter stammered. He stood open-mouthed as if to say something else, but he was so flustered that he couldn't think of anything to add. Blushing brightly he shut his mouth and hurried away to queue for the elevator. "What a weirdo!", he heard from behind him, but he didn't turn around, and he didn't know which one of them had voiced such an opinion. Humiliated, hearing girlish giggles behind him, he shuffled into the crowded elevator.
Ding! The elevator doors opened and Walter exited to the 25th floor, nearly tripping over the office footslave who happened to be crawling past the elevators at that very moment. "I must be late!", Walter reflected. Usually when he arrived in the morning, the footslave was still servicing the offices to the right of the elevator bank. "I must be really late. How long was I standing there?" Fortunately, his Boss was nowhere in sight, and it was a quick trip to his desk: just five steps from the elevators. Walter had the same scratched desk they had given him when he first joined the Company over thirty years before. And for all of those years he sat in the same location next to the elevators, listening to the Ding! each time the elevator doors opened.
Walter nodded to Alex, the man who had occupied the scratched desk next to his own for the past twenty years. Alex was the closest thing to a friend Walter had, yet they rarely exchanged words. Idle chitchat was discouraged amongst class 2 employees of the Company. Walter had been class 2 ever since he started working for the Company, although he was now ranked 2aa. For the previous twenty years or so he had been told he might be promoted to class 1c if he kept up the good work. Walter thought that Alex was only 2b, but there was no way to be sure without engaging in a little forbidden chitchat. So, 2b or not 2b, that is the question! Ding! went the elevator.
On the other side of Alex there was an aisle, then beyond that two more equally scuffed desks manned by two more equally sullen class 2 employees. And in front of the four desks were four more identical desks with four more class 2 employees, and four more beyond that, and so on stretching into the distance. It was a Kafkaesque office nightmare, but Walter was glad to have his job. An unemployed freemale in the Gynarchy might be arrested for Vagrancy, sent to prison or worse. And the Company would certainly notify the authorities the minute he might quit his job. He could have twenty-four hours or less to find a new job and avoid the dreaded Vagrancy conviction. Walter didn't want to lose his job, so he kept his head down and endured. Ding!
Walter didn't think that it was a Company rule, but somehow it appeared that all of the class 2 employees were freemales. There were lower levels, too. Male slaves were level 8, and footslaves were 9s. Walter didn't think that levels 3 through 7 were used at all, but it was a sobering thought to consider that there was room to go down if he screwed up. The Female employees all seemed to be class 1a and class 1b. Walter wasn't aware of any class 1 males. The 1a Females had the window offices, and the 1b's had the windowless offices on the same wall as the elevators. Janet, the pony-tailed intern, on the job for only about a month by then, somehow merited a 1c, and furthermore got one of the private offices. But Walter wasn't bitter... (Yes he was.) Ding!
Walter's Boss was a 1a, a powerful woman in a corner window office. He was proud of the fact that he reported directly to a 1a, especially since all of the others in her group were 1b's (which is to say, Females) with level 2 employees reporting to them. On the down side, he was the only one who was required to stand during her group meetings. (Standing is an old Company rule that was intended to speed up meetings. Females were exempted out of deference to their sex.) Meetings seemed to go on forever, but Walter was indispensable owing to his deep knowledge of the business. He was always exhausted when he returned to his desk by the elevator. Alex reported to a 1b, as did virtually all of the other 2's. Walter mulled this fact over optimistically. Ding!
He began to attack the absurdly high stack of work already piled up on his desk, making rapid progress. He was the most efficient worker on the floor by far. Soon he was absorbed in his task. Next to him, Alex got a phone call, then immediately jumped up and ran to the office of his own Boss not far away on the 1b wall. Not long afterwards Walter saw women from nearby offices migrating towards the doorway Alex had just passed through. So Alex was being caned yet again! A hush fell over the entire office area. Somehow it was sensed by all - those who feared that the same could happen to them, and those who found it to be jolly entertainment. The entire office collectively held its breath and listened. Even the telephones seemed to stop ringing for a moment.
Walter listened along with everyone else. He was too far away to hear the swish of the cane or the impact, but he did hear a grunt of male pain. Then another, louder. And again. The sixth and final exclamation was more of a scream than a grunt. Again there was silence, then a chorus of Female laughter from the 'schadenfreude set'. Soon it was all over. Women were streaming away from the office and the phones began ringing again. Shortly afterwards, Alex returned to his desk. His cheeks were glistening wet, and he sat down gingerly. Walter pretended not to notice. Ding!
Poor Alex got caned all the time. Some of the Bosses were like that: cane happy. They had never felt the cane against their own skins and didn't realize how painful it was. But the fact was that Alex had agreed to be caned as necessary when he joined the Company, as did everyone else. He had signed the papers. It was Company Policy. Motivational caning. Level 2's got the cane; levels 8 and 9 got it much worse with the single-tail whip. Level 1 was exempt. The legal authorities wouldn't interfere in a private Company matter involving freemales who had agreed to the terms, so caning was tolerated. And if Alex couldn't take it any longer he could always quit, run the risk of a Vagrancy arrest. Walter himself hadn't been caned in more than fourteen years. He was an exemplary employee, but even so there was always the possibility, the threat, a 'cane of Damocles' hanging over his head. Ding!
Walter's optimistic mood persisted gamely in spite of the bleak facts. Really, he reflected, this could be his year to get a promotion and a nice quiet private office. This could be his year to become a 1c and earn immunity from the cane. As Walter considered the possibility, he looked at the imposing stack of papers in his in-box, then drifted into a reverie...
Ding!
...
Ding! goes the bell, and I move warily to the center of the boxing ring. I am not eager to get there, but I know that if I hesitate, my Female partner will propel me forward with her foot like she did in round 1, bringing a chorus of loud guffaws from the bloodthirsty crowd. This is round 3, and it's male-Female mixed boxing. In this unique sport, there is one male and one Female on each competing team. At the top of round 1, the male from Team Red competes against the Female from Team Blue, and the other two individuals enter the ring at the bottom of the round. The first Female who knocks out her opposing male wins it for her team. I am disappointed that my partner didn't knock out her opponent in round 1. He is old and feeble, almost begging to go down. Clearly she is toying with him, trying to prolong this for the amusement of the packed arena.
By the rules of Gynarchian Mixed Boxing, the Female does the punching and the male does the dodging. I am forbidden by law to punch back, and just to be absolutely certain that I don't, my wrists are handcuffed at my sides to a metal belt. Nonsensically, and completely unnecessarily, I am also required to wear puffy, oversized boxing gloves, making me look and feel ridiculous. This, in spite of the fact that I cannot lift my hands to punch. (And even if I did, somehow, I would face judicial whipping for striking a Female!)
My opponent has no boxing skills, but she makes up for that with a great deal of enthusiasm. She was one of the ringside spectators less than an hour before, chosen by lottery to enjoy a delightful time in the ring swinging at a Gynarchy freemale. So now she is decked out in boxing gear: red sateen shorts with elastic waist, black high-top laced shoes and, for the ladies only, a white sleeveless pullover shirt to conceal Feminine charms from unworthy male eyes. Her breasts strain against the fabric. Oh, and she doesn't wear silly, puffy, boxing gloves either. There is nothing to cushion the blows if she does happen to connect. On her hands there is merely tape to protect her knuckles. Her auburn hair is pulled back into a pony tail.
I do have boxing skills, although I am well past my prime. To be honest, I'm old, and this male-Female gig is the only work I can get. Still, I suppose it's better than a Vagrancy arrest and prison... or the mines... or the galleys... or footslavery.
Pony Tail aims another right-hand blow at my jaw which I neatly dodge. I can see that she is back to head-hunting again in this round. That's fine with me; she is wearing down quickly. She targeted my face during the entire first round and only connected the one lucky blow to my left eye. In round 2, she switched to pummeling my midsection, which is awfully difficult to avoid. My naked stomach and chest are now glowing pink as a result. But she's no boxer. She doesn't realize how effective these multiple body punches are over time. She just wants to see my face as bloodied as that of her male partner.
I've slipped every one of her punches so far during this round, wily veteran that I am, and she is becoming angry and frustrated. She aims a left hook at my jaw. I lean back and it whizzes by. She follows with a right overhand, and when I move out of its path the impetus of the punch drives her body against mine. The feel of her clothed bosom against my naked chest sends an electric charge through my body, but it is a short-lived thrill. She vents her frustration by grabbing my shoulders with her hands and bringing her knee up hard into my crotch. This time she's right on target.
Now mind you, a knee to the groin is considered a foul blow even by Gynarchian standards. I look towards the young Chinese woman who is acting as referee, but she doesn't seem to care. In fact, she's laughing. The pain is slow to develop, but then it comes with a rush and it's excruciating. My opponent repeats the knee action, and I double over, chin thrust out.
I think it's an uppercut to the point of my projecting chin that puts me on the mat. I'm not sure; I guess I blacked out for a second or two. My opponent is now enthusiastically kicking me with her black high-tops. This is entirely legal. The fight is not over until one of the males loses consciousness. It is not possible to dodge the kicks, and now there is blood on the mat -- my blood. I think we are near to the end of the round. Where is the bell? The bell should ring any second now! I can't get up with my arms pinioned to my sides. I can see the crowd screaming for blood. I can see my Female partner screaming at me to get up. I curl up and try to protect my face with my knees. Where is that bell?
Rrrriiinnng! Ah, the bell at last. But it sounds strange. She keeps kicking me.
Rrrriiinnng!
Rrrriiinnng! The bell sounds totally wrong. Is it all in my head? It should ding, not sound like a...
...
Rrrriiinnng! The telephone!
Walter snatches it up. "M__ speaking."
"M__! You f* lazy bastard! Why didn't you pick up the f* phone? It rang like ten f* times. I'll have your balls for this!" (The Boss. Miss Sylvia S__. She had a habit of seasoning her language with F-bombs when she was angry. She was always angry when speaking to males, it seemed, but gladly she cursed a lot and caned very little.) "Get your lazy f* ass into my office on the double!"
Walter hurried into her office at the corner of the window wall. Miss Sylvia was seated at her desk, and there were two other people in the room with her: a rigidly standing gentleman and, seated comfortably on the office couch, an attractive young woman with shortish blonde hair.
The Boss said, "Claire, I'd like you to meet your co-worker, Walter M__. Walter, this is Claire W__. She will be joining your group starting today."
Claire smiled and, by way of greeting, as is customary for Females meeting freemales in the Gynarchy, she extended her petite foot towards Walter.
Now at this point it would be perfectly acceptable for him to simply drop to one knee, lower his nose to her profferred foot and gently kiss it, possibly embellishing with a noisy inhale. But, lightning quick, the thought occurred to Walter that this young lady was being added to his group. A Female, she might become his supervisor some day. So he quickly decided to seize the rare opportunity and impress her, and everyone else, with his chivalrous manners.
Walter knew that a true gentleman must be stripped to the waist when he kissed a lady's foot. This says to her, "Before you I am nothing, a mere slave you may choose to whip!", which of course he was not, but this would all be for show. So he wrestled off his necktie, jacket, shirt and undershirt while the three onlookers waited patiently, a little surprised and, perhaps... hopefully... impressed(?).
Having divested himself of upper garments, Walter dropped to his knees before the lovely Miss W__ and, ever so gently, placed his hand under her heel to help support her foot. He bowed and kissed her shod foot on top of the toes and then, ever EVER so gently, he slipped off her high-heeled shoe. She extended her little nylon-covered foot towards him in a lovely toe-point, causing Walter to wonder momentarily whether she had trained as a gymnast. Or perhaps ballet.
He noted that her toenails had been lacquered with a light pink to match her fingernails. Her toes were clearly visible, though somewhat subdued, through the film of nylon. But there was no time to wonder. He had only seconds to soak in the visual beauty of her toes through her translucent tights. It was time to lower his "nose to her toes" as the poets say in the Gynarchy.
Her nylon-stockinged foot was mildly fragrant after its confinement in her leather shoe. Walter's nose made contact with the reinforced toe area. He drew air noisily into his nostrils through the darker part of the stocking stretched across her toes. As he inhaled through the gossamer fabric, his first impression, touchingly, was the scent of the soap she had used that morning, something floral and girlish. But there was much more besides, an intricate melange of aromas. There was a certain mustiness, as her foot had been perspiring.
Walter inhaled again, pulling the aromatic humid air deep into his lungs. It was dank and sweaty. Oh yes, atop the floral fragrance there drifted a pungent tartness, a definite vinegary swirl. And under it all, in the background, there lurked something darker... the most subtle of unpleasant odors, a sort of cheesiness or, one might even say, a mousey odor.
No time to pause and reflect. Walter plunged onward. He raised the nylon-darkened toes to his mouth and kissed. Gently he pecked her on top of her toenails. Tenderly. Respectfully. Worshipfully. He hated having to debase himself like this. He detested it. Or did he love it? Walter himself really didn't know, but as he kissed, his inner masochist began to emerge. He savored the cobwebby texture of the nylon with sensitive lips. Again he kissed the tops of her toes, this time longer and reverently.
At this point Walter knew that he should stop, but he began to lose control as his inner masochist assumed command. He started to plant kisses fervently in quick succession on her toes, on the top and sides of her foot, and into her delicate high arch. Her foot was still locked into toe-point position.
The underside of her foot crinkled into little wrinkles visible through the nylon. Walter's tongue glided over them, and he felt every bump and ridge. He licked her pretty ankle tendon and felt the puckers of flesh there when she pointed her toes. Soon he begin to experience the flavor of Claire.
Her Female footsweat was decidedly salty, yet tangy and slightly bitter as well.
Losing himself completely then, Walter opened his mouth wide and took in all of her toes at once. His tongue played with the underside of her toes. He felt the rasp of the nylon against his tongue. Unbidden, saliva began to gather in his mouth. It bathed her toes, collecting molecules of bitter Female foot sweat, and he swallowed, sucked and swallowed. His entire universe consisted of his mouth and Claire's foot...
...and then suddenly and without warning Claire slapped him! Struck him with all her force across his left cheek. Walter looked up with her toes still in his mouth, and he saw the anger in her eyes. Slowly, deliberately, she drew her arm back again and gave him yet another slap across his stinging cheek. Shocking! (Actually, it is quite common for Females to slap freemales in the Gynarchy, and perfectly legal; practically encouraged. However, this was not the reception Walter had been hoping for!) Surprised and embarrassed he released her toes and stood up. He turned and found his clothing, then tried to put them back on in world record time.
When he had restored himself somewhat, he chanced a glance at lovely Miss W__. She had a wad of tissues given her by the Boss, and she was using them to wipe and pad her sodden toes. She looked up at Walter and it appeared that her anger had passed. In fact she seemed rather contrite. "Look," she said, "I'm sorry that I slapped you. I really am... but I have to wear these stockings all day, and you were getting them all wet and icky." She smiled, and Walter relaxed a little, but she continued, "If you were a slave, I would have you whipped bloody for this." Her smile was radiant. "Bloody", she repeated through her smile, and he somehow understood that more than one unfortunate male slave had been cruelly whipped to satisfy her whim. She was the type of Female who watched Punishment Time on the Femdom Channel, Walter thought. For pleasure.
"But you are such a gentleman!", Claire continued, and even Miss Sylvia gushed, "I had no f* idea you were so f* gallant." (Meaning, perhaps, “Why the f* didn't you ever kiss my f* feet like this?”)
And finally, last and by far the least, the Boss introduced the gentleman in the room. Ted H__, or something like that. They shook hands, and Walter got the feeling right away that Ted didn't like him. Perhaps Ted had only given Miss Boss-Lady Sylvia's foot the most perfunctory of kisses earlier, and now Walter's conduct made him look very bad in retrospect, boorish almost. Oh well, you win some and you lose some.
The Boss was talking, but Walter's thoughts were starting to drift. He had just humiliated himself for the second time that morning. And Claire... so pretty... so entitled... so haughty... Claire instantly reminded him of the type of Female that always appeared on the free-standing poster on the sidewalk outside of the Footslave Recruitment Office (FSRO). Walter passed the local FSRO every morning and evening on his way between the bus stop and the Company. The sign read 'I want YOU for the Footslave Brigade!' superimposed over the image of a young lady pointing directly at the reader with her foot. The text never varied, but the picture, and the girl, changed about once per month. Sometimes she pointed with a booted foot, sometimes a muddy ballet flat, sometimes in socks and sometimes barefoot. There is a small part of Walter that always wanted to go into that office every morning. Just out of curiosity. Just to look around...
...
...and this morning there is a new picture. The woman in the picture appears to be Claire, I'm almost certain. She is pointing with her foot directly at me, and she is wearing nylon stockings, no shoes. Or more likely nude tights. The reinforced area around the toes is somewhat darker, but her toes, with light pink polish on the nails, are clearly visible. They virtually demand to be sniffed, to be kissed and adored. I am surprised to find myself marching into the FSRO. I am afraid, but I have lost control over my legs.
Inside, an attractive young woman in a military outfit is seated behind a desk facing the door. She is not Claire, but I am not entirely disappointed. She is Chinese, and she is drop-dead gorgeous. She flashes a brilliant smile.
"Good morning!", she calls to me cheerfully. "Are you here to volunteer?"
I want to tell her that I am, that I really must become the eternal slave to the woman in the poster, but I find it difficult to talk. It seems that I have lost control over my voice as well. I can only nod my head stupidly.
Still smiling, Miss Congeniality stands and walks around the desk towards me. She has a clipboard in her hand.
"That's wonderful!", she bubbles, then looks down at the form on her clipboard. "Your Papers!", she snaps. Still looking down, she extends her free hand towards me palm up, waiting, all politeness forgotten. (Somehow, nobody ever asks to see a freemale's Papers politely; it's always spit out as a terse command.)
I know that she is referring to my "male Papers", the document that every male sub-citizen of the Gynarchy must carry at all times, every day of his entire life. They actually sell waterproof pouches so that you can, as required by law, have the Papers on your person in the shower, tub or pool. The Papers certify that a person is draft-eligible by virtue of being 1) male, and 2) alive. The only way to avoid the draft in the Gynarchy is to be either Female or (and the authorities accept this excuse rather grudgingly) dead.
I hand her my Papers, and she transcribes the information she needs to the form on her clipboard. Apparently all that us needed is my name, my male number and my signature. Nothing else. I am volunteering to become a footslave, and no information about a footslave's former life is pertinent. She daintily lifts the corner of my shirt to verify that I am not currently a branded slave, then takes a snapshot of my face and fingerprints from both of my hands.
Finished, she turns the clipboard to me so that I can sign my name at the place she marked. She rotates the board back to make sure that everything is in order. Her smile slowly fades from cordial... to prim... to gone forevermore. She half turns her body to set the clipboard on her desk then, from the vicinity of the desk she executes a full-arm, roundhouse, open-handed slap to my cheek that sets my ears to ringing and propels my glasses skittering across the room.
"Take off your shirt this instant, slave!" Slap! "How dare you cover yourself in my presence!" Slap! Slap! "Get down on your knees! How dare you stand in my presence! You should be kissing my shoes! I am going to whip you for your insolence!" Slap! Slap! "Hands on your head, slave!"
Attracted by the racket, an attractive young lady emerges from a back room. She has auburn hair pulled into a puffy pony tail. "Are you going to whip him?", she asks. "Hey! Are you f* listening to me?"
...
"Walter? Walter!! Are you even paying attention? Listen!! I'm f* talking here! Use your f* ears! They're f* big enough!"
Startled, Walter snapped to attention, blushing, and fixed his eyes on Miss Sylvia.
Collecting herself and smiling at her own crude joke, The Boss continued. "I was just saying that Claire is exactly the type of woman the Company is delighted to add to its ranks. Samantha is absolutely thrilled with her. Walter, you and Ted will be reporting to her, as will...", she looked down to consult her notes, "...Karen S__, Alex C__... ". (Alex!) She rattled off a half dozen other male names. "Also, Janet W__ will be transferring in from Personnel, and so will Cathy T__, the new receptionist..."
Walter pondered as she talked, trying to assimilate the information. This felt like a demotion. A bitter pill. He wouldn't be reporting directly to a level 1a any more. His earlier feelings of optimism evaporated. It sounded like Claire had some serious connections; the Boss must have been referring to Samantha V__, CEO of the Company. And this 'Cathy' must be the young Asian woman he was dreaming about in the lobby. He might be seeing more of her. That part was good, he supposed. A strange group, though, with himself and a receptionist and an intern from Personnel. What was their purpose? It was like they just wanted to scrape together a group, any group, so that Claire could have a group.
At least he was happy to have Alex in his group. Alex would no doubt be thrilled to get away from his current Boss, but it looked to Walter like it was going to be 'out of the frying pan, into the fire'. Claire was clearly a bitch... no, a Bitch.
Walter struggled to maintain attention. Miss Sylvia was directing her comments towards Miss Claire now: "...so all of your direct reports will be level 2 except for Karen and Janet, who are 1c's. I imagine they'll be rather like lieutenants for you?"
Claire sat on the couch with her left leg crossed over the right. Her high-heeled shoe dangled precariously from the toes of her left foot. She dipped her foot up and down, down and up, twisting her ankle from side to side. Walter stood mesmerized, waiting for the shoe to drop as he half listened to the women's conversation. He still had the taste of her toes in his mouth.
"Absolutely, they will. In fact I intend to have Janet administer all canings in my group."
"Canings? Oh dear, well, I don't really approve of that. I find that you can get good results without resorting to the cane. Walter, here, for example, is one of the top performers in the Company, and I haven't caned him for years and years..."
"Whether you approve of it or not is beside the point. Walter is in my group now, and, like any other freemale, he will be caned when necessary. He's only a male. It's time that he learned his place. In fact, he was late this morning, and that means, according to Company policy, exactly three cuts. He WILL receive those three strokes at my group meeting this afternoon. Also, the new receptionist, what's her name, Cathy? She was also late, today, her first day on the job! I will need a footslave to receive punishment on her behalf. I want him assigned permanently to me."
The Boss looked surprised. "A personal footslave? But how? You're only a 1b. You need to be a 1aa to have a personal footslave. Even I have to share with the entire 25th floor..." The Boss let her voice trail away as she began to understand: She was dealing with royalty here. The CEO's favorite. The Chosen One. Well, to hell with f* Walter! Let her cane him all she wants. Sylvia was going to score points with Samantha.
"I'll see what I can do", she conceded. Boss Lady offered up a weak apologetic smile.
"If you don't take care of it, I will. And if I don't have a footslave by two o'clock today, I'll just have Walter whipped in place of Cathy. That's a simple solution. And tonight, I'll speak to Samantha personally. I'll guarantee you that by tomorrow, my group will have its own footslave!"
Claire turned to face Walter. "There will be a group meeting this afternoon at two o'clock. My office. You might get to be a whipping boy. How does six of the best sound to you? Not so good, huh? You'd better hope that Sylvia comes through with that footslave. You may return to your desk now."
Dismissed, and in shock, Walter made his way out of the office.
"I think that went rather well, don't you?", he heard Miss Sylvia simper nervously behind him. The tables had turned, and she was now sucking up to her new employee.
"Oh, swimmingly!", Claire answered. Her voice was dripping with sarcasm, and she no doubt embellished with rolling eyes. Both ladies had a nice chuckle.
Walter made a quick trip back to his desk. This was the second time today he had walked away with the sound of Female laughter behind him. Six of the best! He shuddered at the thought. The very words dredged up painful memories of his past, of his education and of his stepmother. No, he couldn't possibly endure that again. For just being a few minutes late?? Ridiculous! And the part about Cathy: She was a level 2, so she had to be caned, yet she was a Female, so she couldn't be caned. Walter shook his head.
Ding! He was back at his desk. The pile of work seemed to have grown during the few minutes he was absent. With a sigh, he took a stapled set of papers from the top of the stack and resumed his work. His earlier mellow mood was completely gone by now. In fact, this was turning out to be a really crappy day! One for the record books. He was even getting caned.
"Swimmingly," he groused to himself, then drifted into another dream.
...
The smell of chlorine fills the air. Here I am, standing at the edge of the swimming pool. It's Company Fun Night, and this evening, for our (mandatory) enjoyment and (obligatory) camaraderie, we are all spending three wonderful (compulsory) hours together at an Olympic-size pool. Whee!
Nobody is in the water yet. They have us all lined up on either side of the pool because we are all awaiting the grand entrance of Samantha V__. Yes, the great Samantha herself will briefly grace us with Her Presence and address the happy workers of the 25th floor. Until she gets here, they have us lined up like soldiers at attention, the level 1 managers on one side of the pool and the level 2 losers on the other.
It wouldn't be bad at all if I didn't have to be nude. But those are the rules, the pool regulations, and in fact the law of the land in the Gynarchy: Males throughout the country are required to be naked for swimming. No arguments or excuses. This is said to be for health reasons.
You see, fibers that shed from swimsuits are the bane of swimming pool filters, so I am told, where they can gather and clog and set up the ideal environment for those tiny creatures which cause disease. I'm talking about amoebic encephalitis, infectious hepatitis, dysentery, enteritis... oh, the list goes on and on, and it's enough to frighten anyone out of their wits.
So the rule is established that says freemales are NOT ALLOWED to wear any textiles in any pool, or even in the vicinity of the pool. That at least relieves some of the burden on the filters. But not all of it, because Females ARE allowed to wear bathing suits. Why? In deference to Female modesty and dignity, that's why. The standard for Females throughout the Gynarchy is a modest, one-piece swimsuit.
The ladies attending tonight's gala event have all been provided with new swimsuits at Company expense. They are all made in the same style: rounded neckline, plunging back, high cut leg openings and Company logo over the left breast. There is a difference among them, however, and that is color. The level 1a managers wear blue suits, and those at level 1b have red. There are a few of the high-power 1aa Females already present, and they are all in white suits. There are also a few pink suits present; these are level 1c girls, mostly interns, the younger set.
So swimsuits are forbidden and attendance is mandatory. I am caught between a rock and an even harder rock. Looking at the Females across the pool from me giggling and pointing, I just want to disappear. We don’t get to wear suits. We aren't even allowed to cover ourselves with our hands.
But all Females get to wear suits. It really makes me livid when I think about it. Females are allowed to cover their butts, private areas, breasts (even if they have none), and even midriffs, while we males are denied even a single scrap of material. Couldn't the Gynarchian legislators have analyzed the problem a little and come up with some kind of compromise that wouldn't place the full burden on the males? How easy it would have been to require the Females to wear a 2-piece instead. If they only wore 2-piece suits, that would dispose of as much fabric as we want to cover our loins. But NO! They get to cover even their belly buttons. Let's not give the freemales any cheap thrills!
I have my male Papers secured in the new plastic pouch (with Company logo, no less) that male employees all received as a door prize on our way in. Most of us have it affixed to our upper arms by the elastic band that was included. Some of the mavericks attached it to their ankles, but an officious level 1b manager is visiting all of them and making sure that all males have their male Papers secured on their upper left arm before Samantha arrives. The Company likes uniformity.
And the ladies? They don't have male Papers to carry, so the Company instead gave each of them a smart phone. Most of the ladies are using them to take pictures. Of us, mostly. I see Janet, the auburn-haired, pony-tailed intern from Personnel, now part of my group. She is talking to the girl next to her, laughing, and pointing directly at me! I am fighting back tears of humiliation. This is so unfair! I want to dig a hole in the floor and drop into it. I try to console myself: They can see my whole body, front and back, but at least I can see them all barefoot. A small victory.
So there they are, all lined up across from me, looking kind of cute. Blue suits, and red suits and the occasional pink. On our side it's more uniform. We are all skin color. I steal a quick glance down our row. I see Alex who is trying to stay far away. I don't blame him, having seen his cane marks. In the midst of all the naked males I see Cathy, the level 2 receptionist, and another Female I don't know. They have been given black suits and they really stand out amongst the nude freemales.
Why can't we do our team building and socializing at a bowling alley? Or a restaurant? Or a picnic? They have a buffet set up right here in the pool room. That means I have to stand in line naked and eat naked too. More humiliation.
We've been standing for more than ten minutes. Miss Samantha finally enters the pool area, a queen bee surrounded by a buzzing swarm of sycophants in white and red swimsuits. Last year she wore a plain black suit; the only one who did - she was so easy to spot. This year she is wearing a pink suit. The same color that the sylphlike Female interns wear, but on her thick-waisted, middle-aged form the effect is comical in comparison. At her side, very close, I see Claire in a red suit, looking adorable. The body language of Samantha and Claire makes it pretty obvious that they are an item.
Miss Samantha takes a cordless microphone and steps down into the water in the shallow end, advances up to the point where the water is almost waist high on her. She starts off with some kind of a lame joke about "seeing a lot more of you this year", which receives dutiful chuckles from the Female side of the pool when she pointedly looks at the row of naked freemales. I am one of the closest to her, and I can see her eyes fixed on my...
BOOM!!!
...
Walter was startled to attention by thick sheaf of paper that had just been slammed down on top of his work pile. He looked up and into the lovely eyes of Cathy, the late-for-her-first-day-of-work receptionist.
"I need you to work on these first", she dictated nonchalantly. "They have to be on my desk by one o'clock at the latest. You'll have to work through lunch I'm afraid."
Dumbfounded, Walter watched her walk away, admiring her shape from behind, her pretty legs, her ankle tendons, her perfect kissable feet...
But he shook his head. "What's going on? Her desk? The receptionist desk? Is SHE my supervisor now??" Walter felt like his career was in free fall. Now he was reporting to a level 2 whose main qualification was her gender. And she was reporting to a 1b who reported to a 1a who reported to a 1aa, all Female. And maybe there was a 1c in the chain of command he didn't even know about.
BOOM!!!
The upwardly mobile ex-receptionist deposited another thick stack of paper on the desk of another unlucky male not far away.
Walter felt that he had reached rock bottom. Things couldn't get any worse...
...
BOOM!!!
BOOM!!!
The timekeeper keeps rhythm on a massive drum with two heavy hammers. The stench in the area is overpoweringly disgusting, and I hear only clanking chains and grunts of male exertion and pain. That, and the sound of cracking single-tail whips. There are no birds singing here. I am in Hell. I am cold, and thirsty, and weary beyond description, but I must pull the ponderous oar in time with the drumbeat.
Another male slave is seated next to me. I think that his name is Alex, but I am not sure. I don't have enough energy to care. We pull on the same oar together. We are both affixed to it with heavy iron chains. We are similarly attired in loincloths, and whip marks add a touch of color to our dirty, sweating naked torsos. On the other side of Alex there is a raised walkway that runs the length of the ship, and beyond that are two more exhausted male slaves pulling at an oar on the other side of the vessel. Ahead of us are row after row of miserable, male slaves. How many I don't know, and I don't care. Behind us just as many, probably. I'm not sure, and I don't care.
BOOM!!!
BOOM!!!
I pull with all the strength I have. Every stroke feels like it could be my last. The overseers pace up and down the walkway, whip in hand, motivating us. They are slaves themselves, but they are Females. So they cannot be put into irons, or made to row, or whipped on naked backs. But still they have been sent to the galleys. They are given the task of making us do our utmost. They hate us, loser omega males that we are, and they blame us for the smell they have to endure, and the unending boredom.
The taskmistress with the auburn pony tail walks past me, malevolent black coil in her hand. She likes to whip. She stops, her back towards me, and plants her feet. She has selected her latest victim. She shakes out the tail of the whip, then delivers it with precision across the back of a slave a few rows ahead of me. He groans but maintains rhythm. Pony Tail readjusts her stance and delivers three more hard lashes to the same slave's back. One. After. Another. For no reason at all. I don't know how he manages to hang on.
Pony Tail turns suddenly, so quickly that she catches me looking at her. Her eyes lock on mine. She coils her whip.
And I know that she is coming for me.
