I Appear To Be…
These recently captured, dumbass males have seemingly little or no understanding of their newfound predicament as male slaves in the glorious Gynarchy of Barbaria.
More fool them!
… A Public Footwipe
‘I appear to be some sort of footwipe for the general, female populace as they enter a place of female worship. I am embedded, face upwards, in the ground with only my nose, eyes and lips above ground level – presumably because these are my most useful facial protuberances for scraping off dirt from the soles of the female feet above me?
Curiously, though, it is not their outer footwear that I must clean with my helplessly upturned face, but their inner footwear – their smelly socks or tights. The smugly smiling young ladies above me actually kick off their dirty shoes or boots before they then drag their socked or nylon-stockinged feet across my eyes, nose and lips; never bare feet, for some reason – the ones who were barefoot inside their shoes, boots or sandals just walk on by into the female church in their bare feet. Perhaps I am not considered facially worthy enough to wipe dirty, bare feet?
I am certainly regarded with contempt by those socked or stockinged, young women who use me to wipe their dirty feet on before entering the hallowed building – for their socks and tights are invariably moist and sweaty; yet they don't seem to care! Perhaps that's precisely why I need to wipe the soles of their feet on me before entering this holy place – because their feet are dirty and sweaty? They need to leave the offensive smells on my male face, outside the female sanctuary?
But then, what about the unwiped bare feet? Don't they smell too? (*editor's note: the ignorant slave doesn't realise that he has an enslaved colleague whose job it is to wash the barefooted ladies' feet before they enter the place of worship!)
Of course, in between the smells – some mild; some tart and vinegary – I also get to feel the varied textures of the hosiery that is so contemptuously dragged across my face. Some of them are coarse (like the nylons); some soft (like the majority of the cotton socks); some worn and bobbled (such that I can even see the skin underneath, even through dark-coloured socks); some holey (such that I can feel, as well as see, the forbidden, female footflesh within – and I would add that this appears to be a highly multiracial, female society, for I get to see all hues of sweet feminine sole skin); but all, perhaps inevitably, clammy and moist, to a greater or lesser degree. It is a rare thing indeed to be face-wiped by a dry, and completely odourless, sock or nylon.
And so my face tends to be covered not just in invisible, female footsweat – but in visible little, demeaning flecks of sock lint, which is stuck to that sweat; I lead a cruel and truly humiliating existence beneath stinky nylons and socks – surely I must be considered amongst the lowest of the low? (*editor’s note: correct!)
And yet, though I am lying, quite literally, in the gutter, I am perpetually looking up at the female stars above me – or, more accurately, at their shapely socked or nyloned anklebones inside their jean or trouser legs (or, occasionally, skirts – though most young women nowadays prefer, it seems, to wear the trousers!)
Pathetically, I feel honoured to be so lowly a male slave, and to be beneath contempt!’
…A Public Foot-Beggar
‘I appear to be some sort of ignominious footslave-beggar – required to kiss the dirty feet of female tourists to this strange land, under the auspices and the watchful eye of my young, 20-something, Romany-gypsy mistress.
To encourage the curious and titillated tourists to stop by and have their feet kissed by me, for a few Fems (*editor’s note: the ‘Fem’ is the currency of the Gynarchy. 1 Fem equals approximately 0.5 US Dollars) my beautiful swarthy-skinned, colourfully-dressed, Romany mistress has me constantly kissing her own dirty, white, low-top, lace-up, leather sneakers, and street-dustied, off-white anklesocks, by way of an advertisement of my services.
Every so often the Female Police move us along – for we are not meant to be charging gullible, female tourists from overseas to have their feet kissed; public footkissing is meant to be for free here in the Gynarchy; but my gypsy-mistress and her family have to make a living somehow, and so she might as well make her living out of my maleslave-mouth kissing female feet!
Besides, there are no penalties for my gypsy-mistress if she is hauled before the female courts for persistent offending – I shall be the one to be whipped, if and when any sanction is imposed!
My mistress is a delightfully demanding, young mistress – I must kiss feet all day; but then, she must supervise me all day, slapping my face and punching, kicking and spitting at me when I displease her or fail to live down to her lowly expectations of me! On the plus side, at least we get to see all the famous tourist sights of the capital city, as my Romany mistress moves me to dusty-white-sneakered and white-socked heel behind her, all around the usual touristy hotspots.
Only late into the evening, when the tourists have gone to bed, do my mistress and I return to her gypsy encampment in the suburbs – she, to share in her ill-gotten gains with her family; I, to spend the night in a heavy set of wooden kneeling-stocks outside their colourfully decorated and cosy, gypsy caravan. And if I've not earned them enough money to my gypsy masters' liking, one of the men of the family – my Romany mistress's husband, father or brother – shall horsewhip me mercilessly as I kneel in the stocks, to remind me to work harder the next day!’
…A Public Floggee
‘I appear to be about to be whipped – for I am being roughly secured to a wooden, whipping post of shame in the town square (*editor’s note: otherwise known colloquially as ‘the pole of pain’) by a uniformed member of the Gynarchy Female Constabulary , with a sea of eager, civilian, female faces arrayed in front of me, waiting to watch!
I'm not sure precisely why I am to be whipped; I don't speak Gynarchian (*editor’s note: ‘Gynarchian’ is the official, female language of the Gynarchy, sometimes known colloquially as ‘mistress-speak’), and so I didn't really understand the female court proceedings. What is clear, though, is that I am to be whipped at my gypsy-mistress's behest, since I was obliged by the police to publicly kiss her feet 70 times before mounting the podium on which the whipping-post is erected.
I suppose I need to be punished with the whip, since publicly kissing my colourfully-dressed, young Romany mistress's dirty and dusty sneakers and socks is how I earn my living out on the streets, by way of entertainment for the crowds (*editor’s note: see above account entitled ‘A Public Foot-Beggar’; though this is a different slave, there are many such illicit footkissers run by gypsies on the streets of the Gynarchy) so that alone would be no great punishment for me, though it would be a total humiliation for anyone else!
Swish...Crack!
The whip strikes, and a feminine-pitched cheer goes out from the mainly female crowd of onlookers – not the least of which is from the vocal chords of my seemingly unsympathetic, Romany mistress. Like all the others she is smiling, and looking deep into my rolling eyes in order to savour my pain, which is now spreading across my bare back and shoulders like wildfire, as well as being evident on my face!
Oh, won't someone please put out the burning pain in my back? But no – instead there is another Swish and a Crack and a cheer, and, unbelievably, even more Pain!
Oh woe is me! Oh why am I being whipped? I must have done something very bad in a previous life to be subjected to so much pain; or rather, my Romany mistress must have done something really bad in this life?’
…A Public Penitent
‘I appear to be some sort of vicarious, public penitent for all male sinners in the Gynarchy.
All day long I am forced by the Female State to kneel in the central town square, on cobblestones, and take the whip from female passers-by across my bare back and shoulders – and a very thin and stinging whip it is too!
I must then kiss the feet of all those young women who deign to whip me – and those who whip me the longest and the hardest must have their feet kissed with the most maleslavish humility and respect, even if they are a dirty pair of beaten-up sneakers or ankleboots. I must also verbally thank each whipping mistress – and praise and bless her for stopping by to ‘punish’ me.
Two heavy stones are chained around my neck, in order to keep it penitently low at all times. They dangle on either side of my pained face like two monstrous earrings! On the left hand stone the words ‘Male Shame’ are engraved; and on the right hand stone ‘Male Fear’. My stones eloquently sum up my emotions as I kneel and get whipped all day long.
After several hours, my poor, kneeling back is a mishmash of red whip wounds, and I become a pleasing photo-opportunity for the many foreign, female tourists to the Gynarchy (the locals are all used to me, and barely give my pain and suffering a second glance!)
By the end of my day of puritanical, public penance, my neck is so weighed down by the ignominious stones that my face is barely inches off the dirty, dusty ground on which my superiors and betters have been standing, having their feet kissed. I can still see their treadmarks.
And the agony is that I shall have to do it all again tomorrow – for I am a full-time, professional, maleslave penitent!
