Patheticus Minimus 3D

Still more pleasing scenes of jolly (and not so jolly) foot-servitude! 1. Uggs vs Pumps   My ordinarily ugg-booted, 27 year old, blonde-ponytailed, market-trader mistress Courtney has tonight dispensed with her thick, beige-brown uggs and scruffy, blue-denim jeans, and is instead dolled up to the nines in her fetching, black leather miniskirt; her sheer, dark nylons; and her black patent leather, high-heeled pumps. It is a timely reminder to me – as I crawl behind her to heel towards the noisy, city-centre nightclub – of the sheer shapeliness of my young, blonde, market-trader mistress's ordinarily hidden ankles, and of just how privileged I am to be her personal footservant, accompanying her to such dens of iniquity (for I am normally a very prudish footservant – all work and no play!) Needless to say, my mistress Courtney soon 'pulls' a lecherous freemale in the noisy nightclub, and before the night is out I have the indignity of having to watch my blonde mistress

The soft-faced, but slave-hardened, 25 year old, Colombian cleaner-mistress – clad in her customary cleaner’s uniform of pale blue tabard, and dark blue denim jeans, with scruffy, white, low-top, slip-on sneakers and almost hidden, pale grey sneaker-socks – drops me some sweet feminine pearls of wisdom as she mops around (but not on) my fevered brow whilst I kneel confined, and in pain, chained by the neck to the ladies-restroom, male-punishment pillory. She begins by commenting on my freshly-whipped back: ‘Ha! Ha! Slave back sore? Whipped?’ ‘Yes, mistress Carmen; if it pleases you mistress Carmen, madam.’ ‘Ha! Ha! I like ! Whip good – keep slave low and in pain! Ha! Ha! You broken! Ha! Ha!’ ‘Yes, mistress Carmen. Thank you, mistress Carmen madam.’ She moves her right sneakered-foot over to the freshly-mopped floor directly beneath my lips: ‘You kiss miss Carmen foot, whipped slave!’ ‘Yes, miss Carmen. At once, miss Carmen!’ She’s right, you see – the sting of the female whip

‘The mistress’s shoe, is better than you. The mistress’s sock, is of higher stock. The mistress’s boot, reflects her repute. The mistress’s feet, confirm her conceit. For you are her footslaves; just two a penny. But she is divine, the mistress of many. So sniff and adore, as befits a foot-server. And worship her shoe, with appropriate fervour!’ …………………………………… Fitness fanatic miss Kirsty is very blonde; very beautiful; very rich; very young (only 19); and not very bright. But she still qualifies for a whole host of personal footwear-servants, each one dedicated to an individual item of her footwear in her expansive collection, thanks to her being the consort of a mega-wealthy, middle-aged, Gynarchy businessman, who absolutely dotes on his young, blonde wife! And so, the dumb-blonde has a vast array of personal footslaves at her beck and call – all of them straining at the leash to be the ones to serve her on any given day. But that, of course, is dependent on whe

Road Rage By Slave Paul Based on an Idea by Slave Nylonsniff It was a normal, ultra-busy rush hour morning in the bustling Gynarchy X capital city. The roads were heaving with the crowds of people trying to get to their places of work on time. Paul was working a double shift as a taxi driver in order to make ends meet. His night shift in the tennis shoe factory was only paying 1.5 Fems an hour (an equivalent female wage for this type of job would be valued at 17.5 Fems per hour; and rightly so!) Paul had just completed his third drop off of the morning shift and was returning to base for a well- earned break and early morning breakfast. He was just setting off from the busy, junction traffic lights when he was mercilessly cut up by a bright green estate car ploughing across the treacherous junction at great speed (disregarding the red signal light). The shock was intense as it was a real near miss! Paul wound down the window of the car to offer some rather ‘curt’ advice and signa

Yet more pleasing scenes of jolly (and not so jolly) foot-servitude! 1. Salt & Vinegar The pretty, twenty-something, black girl, face-in-the-crowd is tucking into a packet of ready salted crisps (potato chips) as she joins the rest of the free townsfolk in enjoying my public flogging in the town square kneeling-stocks. After the other onlookers have gone, however, she lingers; and fingers my fresh, open whip-wounds with her salty digits – not softly, or sympathetically; but cruelly, and for her own enjoyment. The ‘vinegar’ comes when she slips off one of her scuffmarked and well-worn, black leather ballet-flats and holds her black-socked foot up to my kneeling nose in the stocks. She then wriggles her dainty, black toes inside the short, black anklesocks in order to release more of her intoxicating, humiliating footsmell up my nostrils, before rubbing her moist socksole-sweat and foot-grease all over my helplessly imprisoned face. So I have her salt on my back, and her vinega