Patheticus Minimus 3D

  1. A Female Force To Be Reckoned With? I reckon that my new mistress's mother – 45 year old mistress Caroline – pint-sized though she may be, is nevertheless a female force to be reckoned with! I base that assertion on the fact that she has come out, fresh and early in the morning – fully clothed in her winter-warm, navy-blue anorak and matching, dark blue jeans with plain, black loafers – to the back yard whipping-post of the modest, terraced house she shares with her unmarried, 22 year old daughter; the very same back yard whipping-post to which I have just spent my first, shivering, semi-naked night tethered like an animal, because she reportedly cannot bear to have a male slave sleeping indoors, near to herself and her daughter, like a 'proper', free-man about the house would do! And she has come out into the cold, early-morning air – not to comfort me; or to check-up on my wellbeing; or even just to feed me some of her leftover breakfast; but to angrily warn me t

  1. Making Use of the Facilities Some cleaner-mistresses can be quite friendly, in my humble experience – but not this new, portly, 40-something, black cleaner-mistress. She is anything but friendly – remaining cold and aloof as she mops around my protruding, ankle-height, ornamental-footkissing face in the office-ladies’ restroom. It’s almost as if she views my protruding, plain rubbery-masked head as an annoyance – an obstacle to get round, rather like one of the porcelain sink-pedestals! Perhaps I do her a disservice; perhaps she simply doesn’t speak English; or perhaps she is just ultra-respectful of the office rules i.e. never to converse with the rubbery-masked, ornamental-footkissing slave in the restroom, even when there is nobody else about; or perhaps she just regards herself as being too high and mighty to interact verbally with a low-lying, footkissing ornament like myself – in which case she’s quite right, of course, for a cleaner-mistress is eons above the likes of me

  1. Menagerie à trois As I kneel obediently behind my 23 year old, blonde footmistress’s chunky, high-heeled, leopard-print pumps and tall, white, rib-stitched kneesocks by the kerbside at the zebra-crossing – waiting for her to cross the road – I am thinking: · How – like the leopard – she can bite · How the intermittent double-rowed, circular lines of ribbed stitching in her tall, white kneesocks above me resemble the double stripes across my back caused by her two-thonged whip · How lucky I am to be the personal footslave of such a style-conscious, young woman – and to be seen out with her leopard-print, high-heeled pumps and thick, white cotton kneesocks in public · How I am literally behind and beneath her; she is the leaderess, and I am the male follower. Even the stationary creases in the backs of her socks are better than me. The traffic stops, and she suddenly steps off the sidewalk – leaving a temporary gap between my daydreaming face and her leopard-print heels, which