Thinking Footslaves’ Dirty Thoughts Vol 1
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 is soon filled as I catch-crawl up to the backs of her shapely, socked legs.
Leopard-print pumps, walking across a zebra-crossing, and followed to heel by a slimy-slave slug with a stripy-red back. What a curious menagerie we make!
My master-sir is very angry with me; thus he is emphasising each verbal rebuke with a stinging blow of the whip across my kneeling back, as I blubber and fawn into his wife’s low-top, black and white, lace-up, converse sneakers, and short black sneaker-socks:
‘You’re my wife’s slave, boy!... Swish…Crack!…Therefore you need to keep your pig-ugly face attached to her sneakers and socks… Swish…Crack! … Do you understand me, boy?... Swish…Crack! ...’
‘Aoowww! Y…Yes, m…master-sir!...kiss female sneaker …kiss female sneaker …nuzzle female sock…nuzzle female sock… Pray have m...mercy on me, most m…magnificent m…master-sir and m…mistress madam!... kiss female sneaker …kiss female sneaker …nuzzle female sock…nuzzle female sock…’
My mistress, seated in front of me, isn’t helping much. I want to verbally grovel to the whip-wielding master-sir behind me even more, but she beats me to it:
‘Ha! Ha! Beat him to a pulp, David darling! Show him who’s boss! Beat him for disrespecting your wife’s black sneakers and socks on her lovely, white feet!’
Swish…Crack!
‘You bet, honey!... Swish…Crack! ...’
‘Aoow! Oh pray, m…master-sir! Oh do!...’
The mistress’s feet aren’t, in actual fact, all that ‘lovely’ – more pasty and pockmarked, than alabaster white. But I do have to admit that her scruffy black canvas and white-rubbery-soled sneakers, and accompanying short, black, bobbled sneaker-socks, are lovely – especially when seen through a haze of angry whip-pain, as I am seeing them now!
And so I continue to fervently kiss and nuzzle them – spurred on by the masterly whip; though I think nothing I do will elicit any mercy in my dominant master-sir. Right now, whipping me is all his rage!
Swish…Crack!
‘Ai master! ...m…master-sir!... Oh master!... kiss female sneaker…nuzzle female sock…’
30-something, Indian streetcleaner-mistress Pratima has bluntly informed me that she will no longer be cleaning my dirty, rundown, graffiti-strewn, city-centre footoire booth. She strongly implies, in her mega-cute, Indian accent, that I am beneath her high standards of cleanliness, and that she would rather leave me to rot in the filth left by my footoire customers – both legitimate and illegitimate i.e. the pissing, drunken master-sirs who illegally use my footoire booth as a convenient pissoir, as well as those legitimate customer-mistresses who use me to lickshine their dirty, feminine footwear (as nature intended!).
Speaking of which, before she literally walks out on me for the last time, she stretches forth her own dainty, dusty-sneaker-clad, Indian feet – one at a time – for me to kiss-worship one last time each. I can scarcely believe that this will be my last ever taste of her sweaty, checked sneaker-canvas and grubby-white, rubbery sneakersoles, as well as my last viewing of her prized, plain grey, sneaker-sock tops, next to her portable bucket and street-mop!
Sure, I am a hopeless case – a physical, human cesspit, and a moral one too, since I am obliged to watch the many courting couples who use my footoire both as shelter from other, more important, prying eyes (a dirty footoire-slave’s eyes don’t count, since he is powerless, under the Female law, to tell anyone about the filth he witnesses in his city-centre, footoire booth – be it the stink of a customer-mistress’s sock, or her having an affair!). But I would still very much appreciate a quick mopping of my concrete, footoire floor every now and then, if only to get rid of the stench of stale, male-human piss for the sake of my legitimate customer-mistresses’ delicate, feminine nostrils!
Then again, why should I expect glorious goddess-mistress Pratima to put up with the stench – just because she’s employed as a street-cleaner? My footoire was never an official part of her streetcleaning duties – she just liked to pop in every now and then on the pretence of cleaning my surroundings, but for the real purpose of turning her dainty, Indian nose up at me and having her cheap, lower-caste sneakers lickshined by a being much lowlier than herself!
But that novelty, it seems, has now worn off (much like some areas of the patterned canvas on her sneaker uppers), and so she is finally beating a retreat with her bucket and mop. I suppose that’s preferable to being beaten by her with the public-use, footoire whipping stick – but I think I would even be prepared to suffer the blows of the stick from her delicate, hardworking, Indian-girl hands if only she would be prepared to reconsider her decision to abandon me to the city-centre elements.
I tell her as much – but she just laughs at me; on her way out!
My sleazy master-sir likes his ‘broads’ to have clean boots. That’s why I must lickshine his most recent conquest’s spike-heeled and pointy-toed, zip-up, black leather ankleboots whilst she is still wearing them with her pale grey, ankle-length bootsocks on her long and luscious, beautiful, bare black legs, while my master-sir – her soon-to-be lover – freshens up in the ensuite bathroom.
The footslave-inexperienced, free black lady, who is currently seated on the edge of the bed – still fully clothed – subconsciously leans down to straighten the tops of her grey bootsocks in front of my face whilst I am lickshining her ankleboots’ uppers. I hastily advise her to stop – as I think my master-sir actually likes to see a bit of wonky, grey cotton sock atop a black girlboot before he makes love; that’s precisely why he has asked her not to get undressed yet; indeed, that’s probably what attracted him to her in the first place!
Shocked by my interjection, she instead uses those same, black hands to slap me hard across the face for being impertinent (but I note she nevertheless heeds my footslavish advice, and leaves her socktops desirably unstraightened!)
I, for one, certainly find her wonky, grey socks attractive, set against the backdrop of her black leather ankleboots and soft, brown legskin – and not just because they go with her short, grey leather miniskirt; but because the socks look decidedly manky inside her boots; an afterthought when she got dressed this morning; the nearest pair of grey socks she could find; probably unwashed from the day before.
I’m pretty sure it won’t matter to my master-sir – indeed, if anything the opposite. For, somewhat curiously, although he likes a smartly-lickshined boot on a woman, he equally likes a grubby-grey, stinky sock!
Go figure!
I think the most important thing to do when approached by a young woman who is accompanied by her boyfriend to your public shoelick-stand, is to show her even more overt and ostentatious, footslavish respect than one might otherwise deem necessary – for the master-sir will most assuredly not take kindly to any perceived disrespect on a public footslave’s part towards his sexual partner! His freemale machismo is at stake, and thus he will seize upon any opportunity to discipline you, thereby simultaneously demonstrating his manly strength and authority as well as his love for his young lady!
So, when foot-serving an accompanied customer-mistress, you must always remember to:
· First respectfully kiss the toe-area of the dirty, female shoe or boot that you are about to lickshine
· Verbally praise and admire it (even if it is not to your personal taste)
· Ensure that your humble, footslave eyes do not stray above the young woman’s shapely anklebones (even if you are required to lickshine above the ankles e.g. with a pair of dirty half-calf, full-calf, or knee-high boots, you must always be looking downwards towards the young woman’s lower boot and ankles – lest the master-sir become jealous that the dirty footslave may be ogling up his loved one’s legs!)
· Express your fear and trembling vis-à-vis not just the mistress madam, but also the master sir
· Remind the happy (or surly) couple that they are your betters; that you are in their power and at their mercy; and that the public-use whipping stick is never far from your back, as it hangs ominously from a hook on the wall above your bootshining head
· Invite the master sir to inspect your tonguework on his lady’s outer footwear, and to correct you with the aforementioned whipping stick should either she, or he, be dissatisfied with your efforts
· Offer to straighten the hosiery of the mistress – be it sock or nylon – as and when required.
· Invite the superior couple to return to your public footlick-stand at any time of their pleasing, and assure them that your tongue shall always be honoured to attend to the boots and/or shoes of the superior, young woman above you
· Describe her as ‘beautiful’ (even if she isn’t), but make sure to never give the impression that you have any sexual designs on the mistress – for that would be insulting, not just to her boyfriend, but to the young woman herself, who is much too high on the Gynarchy social scale to ever contemplate dating a public footslave!
· To this end, you may wish to remind the couple that you have a tiny penis, and are impotent – if you can manage to work the subject of your pathetic genitalia into the conversation
· Look suitably humble and contrite if/when the happy couple verbally mock and disparage you – especially the master-sir – and show fear and trembling when they threaten to beat or hurt you
· If they do decide to physically beat or hurt you, submit to the pain with humility and resignation – as befits a justly chastised slave
· Always, always, always remember that this young couple are your betters – the young woman, by virtue of the fact that she is female; her freemale partner, by virtue of the fact that he is her chosen, sexual partner; and together as a couple, by virtue of the fact that they are sexually active and in a relationship – something you, as a permanent, public footslave, shall never experience.
In short – be humble, and remember your place. Otherwise you can expect to suffer even more unnecessary pain!
Mutual Respect by patheticus on GoAnimate
I think my mistress is angry with me. In fact, I know she is – for she is currently oiling her brown leather, single-tailed punishment whip ready for action, whilst her manly husband manhandles me to the whipping post in their back yard!
And the reason for my pretty mistress’s ire? Well, today she was forced to wear inappropriately garish, blue and white, cartoon-themed socks to work with her plain black, office loafers and trouser-suit – and all because the pair of black socks she had left out to dry on my upturned face overnight were still wet and unwearable this morning!
It wasn’t for the want of trying, I can tell you! I had deliberately stayed awake all night, consciously directing my footslave-breath towards her socks on my face, as I knew it was going to be a tall order to blow-dry them over the course of just one night. Normally one would expect to be given two nights to blow-dry a pair of one’s mistress’s hand-washed socks. But, owing to an unfortunate lack of forward-planning on the part of my fallible mistress, she had discovered she had no pairs of clean, black socks to wear to work the following day, and had therefore whip-worked me hard into emergency-handwashing one of her dirty pairs of black, office socks in supposed readiness for the morning.
Like I said, it was always going to be a tall order – to handwash and then blow-dry a pair of black, feminine anklesocks in just 8 hours! But, I honestly gave it my best shot!
However, my slavish best wasn’t good enough, and I failed miserably! And so now I must pay the price – and rightly so! For just imagine how embarrassing it was for my personal footmistress to have to wear such garish, inappropriate socks to her office! I overheard her receiving a number of jocular and teasing comments from her fellow-workers about her ‘joke-socks’, even though the cartoon-themed socks remained hidden for the most part beneath her sombre, black cotton trouser-hems and, indeed, beneath her desk! Still, whenever she walked along the office corridors there were unavoidable flashes of incongruous blue and white, funtime-sock which just didn’t gel well with the formal atmosphere of a hardworking office!
My mistress is still wearing her plain, black loafers and blue and white cartoon-socks as she prepares to whip me in her back yard this evening. I understand that she is going to begin the punishment by giving me 30 harsh lashes of her own across my bare back, following which she will move round to sit in front of me with her legs outstretched before her and crossed over at the ankles, so that I may humbly view the offending, blue and white anklesocks in all their garish glory whilst her manly husband delivers the remaining 30 lashes.
Whilst her shoes and socks will be relatively far away from my face during the whipping – since I am suspended from the tall, wooden, whipping post – my hangdog head shall nevertheless still be forced to observe them throughout the delivery of my pain; and then, immediately after the whipping, the master-sir is going to untie me from the wooden whipping-post so that I can slump down onto the dirty ground in front his wife’s loafered and socked feet, and then crawl over towards them through the dirt in order to kiss them 1000 times each, by way of an abject apology to her!
Then, I am told, the master sir will fetch his wife’s still-damp black socks and forcibly rub them dry on my face. He will not even care if the skin rubs off my slave-face due to sock friction-burns, so long as his beloved wife’s plain black, office socks are finally dried and ready to wear to the office tomorrow morning!
The wellbeing of my mistress’s socks, you see, is much more important than my wellbeing! I’m just an ineffectual, human sock-dryer, who deserves to be replaced by a more efficient household footslave. So I must just be grateful that I am not being banished by my angry master and mistress to the underground slave-mines!
Most men – real men – would probably fall in love with her pretty, Pakistani face at first sight. But for me – it was her pretty, high-heeled, Pakistani ankleboots which I fell head-over-high-heels in love with on first seeing them; which is just as well, given that I am forbidden by law to look my customer-mistresses in the face!
As the unfamiliar, spike-heeled, round-toed and square-backed, black leather ankleboots click-clacked their approach to my railway-station, sit-down, public-bootlick stand – their concomitant, smart, grey-pinstriped, bootcut trouser hems flapping languorously around her shapely, black-booted ankles – I fell in love with them, and immediately wanted to lickshine them. It was therefore with great joy in my heart that I watched those Pakistani, young-businesswoman boots climb up onto the commuter bootlick-chair in front of me, and rest themselves on the two metal boot-plates directly in front of my kneeling nose!
A quick hitching up of the smart trouser-hems confirmed that they were zip-up ankleboots (down the sides), but, unfortunately, the hems were not raised high enough for me to be able to ascertain whether the bright, 20-something, Pakistani businesswoman – with the shoulder-length, curly-permed, jet-black hair – was wearing any socks inside her boots.
I’m guessing, though, that she would be the type of no-nonsense, young woman to wear plain black socks inside her boots!
‘Be shining up my boots with your tongue, dirty bootslave!’ she barks down at me in her confident, female-Pakistani accent, before casually taking her newspaper out of her black leather, businesswoman’s briefcase and opening it at the financial pages.
‘Yes, mistress. At once divine customer-mistress!’
She ignores me from then on, having done all she intends to do by way of helping me in my lowly task of lickshining the working day’s dust and grime off the surfaces of her busy boots – by having hitched up her trouser-hems, I mean. She clearly is not concerned about her uppermost ankleboot-rims being lickshined beneath those grey-pinstriped trouser-hems – just the streetdirt-stained soles; the heels; the insteps; and the lower uppers of her boots i.e. all the muddiest parts (it has been raining all day, and it is now 6 o’clock in the evening).
I go straight for a small patch of mud affixed to her, slightly scuffmarked, pointy right boot-toe – and, I must say, it tastes divine! But then, everything does when you’re in love!
Hah! In love! Who am I kidding? A superior and successful, young, Pakistani businesswoman like this wouldn’t even give me the time of day! After all, I have no prospects – being enslaved; I am the lowliest of all slaves – being a mere public footslave; and, I am too old and ugly for her – being in my early fifties, and having to wear an ignominious, sickly-green, rubbery footfool-mask with the words:
Loser Slave; Queer Lickshiner; & Public Foot-Trollop
emblazoned across the front in big, black letters, alongside little, dangling, miniature-rubbery representations of a pair of black, female ankleboots (rather like the ones this dear lady has on!); a little brown-rubbery whip; and a little red, rubbery bucket of discarded, toejam-encrusted toenails – all meant to be emblematic of my lowly, despicable position in life!
I’m just not good enough to win her affections, and therefore I must make do with her dirty ankleboots; and her barked orders down at me; and the rustling of her newspaper above me, as she totally ignores me.
I’m not, it seems, even worthy enough to be afforded a glimpse of her secretive bootsocks – like a personal, household bootservant might be! Oh, but I can dream! Dream of plain black cotton, ankle-length bootsocks on soft, brown, Pakistani-lady foot and ankle skin, inside those no doubt warm and steamy, provocatively high-heeled, officewear ankleboots!
When she has finished reading her newspaper (and/or it is time for her to go catch her train) she puts it back into her briefcase above me, and climbs haughtily down from the bootlick chair without superior-female comment on my inferior-male performance on her dirty, officewear ankleboots. She, literally, walks out of my life without so much as a curt by-your-leave, and I have no way of knowing if she’ll ever grace me with her superior, female presence again!
I’m also left wondering about what might have been if I had met her as an almost-equal – i.e. as a free man, with an admittedly still ugly, but at least unmasked, human face? Could I have won her over then?
Probably not! I think this smart and bright-looking, twenty-something , young Pakistani-businesswoman is well out of any fifty-year-old man’s league! Still, at least I have the lingering taste of her Pakistani-girl, lower bootdirt to console me – and I shall long remember the day she first walked up to my mouth, even if I am destined never to lickshine those beautiful ankleboots again!
It goes without saying, I hope, that for a male, public footslave to even think of his customer-mistress's vagina is a treasonable offence in the Gynarchy of Barbaria! A lady's private parts are above him – literally so, since he must live life on his hands and knees, looking only at feet (and primarily clothed feet, at that!). And that's the whole point – his business is on a downwards trend, on his mistress's feet and footwear; not upwards towards those hallowed, private, female parts that are the domain of real men (i.e. free men)
But some young women just love to get a slave of the Gynarchy into trouble!
Take my somewhat plump, but pretty, regular customer-mistress, miss Zoe, who visits my public-shoelick stall most every day for a quick lick and a shine of her plain, black leather, office loafers. Her pretty, white-ankleflesh-revealing, short black, sneaker-style socks are more than enough to endear her to a humble, public footservant like me, and to make me admire her. But she insists on being mischievous, and asks me the following, danger-laden question as my tongue seeks out dirt on her sultry shoeleather:
'Slave, is you finking about my vagina again, an' that?! Tch! W*nker! Jus' concentrate on my shoes and socks, yeah? F***in' pervert!'
'Oh pray mistress Zoe! Oh pity pray! Please be assured, mistress, this slave would never be so impudent as to think of your private, female loveliness above your ankles, miss!'
Whack!
She leans down to slap me hard across the face, like I had made some sort of ungallant, male remark!
'Don't you answer me back, an’ that, dirty slave! Is you callin' me a liar, or somefing? I knows what a dirty, old man like you is finking whenever you is supposed to be concentratin' your filfy mind on your customer-mistress's shoes an' socks, an' that! Tch! You makes me sick, an' that!...'
Whack!
Another blow to my already stingingly-rebuked face – this time a female-backhander!
I hang my maleslave head in shame – not at my alleged fantasising about customer-mistress Zoe's fleshy, jeans-covered pudenda (for, whatever mistress Zoe swears under oath in a Female Court of Law, I genuinely wasn't thinking about her precious, private parts above me as I dutifully lickshined her shoes, but was conscientiously focusing all my public-footslave attention on her black shoes and socks beneath my kneeling face); but because of my crimes of contradicting her (viewed as almost as serious a slave-crime in the Gynarchy as contemplating a superior lady's pink-luscious private parts), and of making her feel sick!
Fortunately for me, sweet and forgiving customer-mistress Zoe says no more about my alleged indiscretion – until she later reports me to the Female Authorities for ‘lasciviousness and insubordination’ (or street-words to that effect), following which I am whipped 1000 times in her accusatory presence, on the very same spot where my alleged crimes took place, both for her fat-young-womanly pleasure, and in order to make her feel better about herself.
I think you can safely say I have been well and truly vagina-whipped (or 'pussy-whipped' in the rather crude vernacular!)
My mistress's mother was concerned that I wasn't showing her 22 year old daughter enough footslavish respect as I followed her to permanent heel, in so far as I had a permanent, contented-looking smile on my slave-smug face.
I honestly couldn't help it, for a number of reasons:
- I am a natural slave, content with the lot of a slave
- My face, just naturally, appears upbeat and happy (and infuriatingly smug)
- Why wouldn't I be happy to be the personal footslave of a beautiful, young, dark-haired woman who wears plain, black loafers and short, black anklesocks to work, beneath her black, bootcut trouser-hems; and low-top, grey and white, laced-up, leather sneakers with those same black socks in her free time? It is, after all, an honour and a privilege to be the servant of such pretty shoes, sneakers and socks!
But my slave-face, it seemed, said otherwise and, instead of an appropriately pained and downcast expression, it displayed joy, self-satisfaction and contentment – an insult to her daughter Julie, in the eyes of mistress Carol, her mother.
And so, she initially tried to beat the smile off my face, with frequent whippings at her daughter's feet. But this only gave my face a temporarily pained and sad expression, for, as soon as the biting whip-sting wore off and I felt well again, my apparently smug grin reappeared on my kneeling face, as I once again became conscious of the great beauty of my 22 year old mistress Julie's black loafers (or white sneakers) and black anklesocks!
My mistress's mother then toyed with the idea of fitting me with a suitably downcast and downbeat, green-rubbery, footfool-mask, but the idea didn't appeal to her daughter, who thought it was overly cruel to hide my 'humanity' away from the world (?!)
And so my mistress Julie's clever mother then hit upon the idea of having the smile surgically wiped from my face! Her female doctor-friend carried out the operation on me (without the use of any anaesthetic, of course – since I'm just a slave and accustomed to pain) free of charge, and I now have a permanently droopy and sad-looking mouth – even though I am still perfectly content inside with my humble lot as my mistress Julie's personal shoe, sneaker and sock servant. It is now physically impossible for me to smile or look anything other than downcast and oppressed, and so everyone is happy!
It’s Gynarchy Day, and the bunting and the bands are out! As are the bound – those male slaves who underpin the successful Female Society.
There are a number of fascinating traditions on Gynarchy Day – all designed to celebrate the superiority and victory of the female over the male:
1) The Female Military Parade – when the might and power of the glorious Female Army of Barbaria (F.A.B) is ably demonstrated by thousands of smartly-uniformed, pink-leather-kneebooted, female conscripts marching in line across a sea of ground-level-embedded, upturned, maleslave faces. It’s gotta hurt those poor, unfortunate, male faces that end up forming the female marching ground, since the traditional Female Army style of marching involves heavy goose-stepping in their chunky-heeled kneeboots? But nobody has much sympathy for the sea of red and bruised, male faces – since they are all Gynarchy prisoner-slaves who have fallen foul of the Female Law, or irritated their personal footmistresses in some typically male way; so they deserve to be goose-stepped over!
2) The Foot-Kissing Relay – when the 18 to 21 year old ‘maidens’ of each Gynarchy sink-estate, town or village line up by the roadside – all kitted out in their pink and white, Gynarchy-coloured tracksuits and matching pink and white, low-top, lace-up, leather sneakers with traditionally feminine-white, short sneaker-socks – in order to proudly have their sneakered feet kissed by a continuous coffle of crawling, male footslaves (all of whom are normally employed as permanently tethered, public shoelicks or ornamental footkissers on the local street corners, but who, for one day only each year, are graciously permitted to ‘stretch their kneeling limbs’ and crawl along the dirty, Gynarchy streets respectfully kissing the scruffy, lined-up sneakers!)
3) The Beating of the Bound – a collective, communal flogging of local prisoner-slaves deemed by the local Female Magistrates’ Courts to be lacking in male respect for Female Society. Any free person – male or female – can purchase a whipping-stick from the local Council salespersons, and beat any number of the bound and tethered male slaves in the local town square or village stocks, any number of times. Many free citizens make a picnic of the event – beating and eating alternately throughout the happy holiday period!
4) Wank Holiday – a tradition whereby mistresses unlock their personal footslaves’ chastity belts (or penis restrainers) and provide them with some much-needed, manual relief. This is designed, not so much to provide sexual pleasure for the slave, as to emphasise the mistress’s complete and absolute power over her male subject, as she alone can decide whether or not to bring him all the way to ejaculation, or whether to cruelly refit the chastity device on him for yet another year before he is fully spent (it is said that mistresses’ freemale partners often influence them to do the latter, as they are jealous of the slave’s once-a-year arousal!)
5) Mocking the Masked Minions – A chance for all free citizens of the Gynarchy to let off some steam, and mock any humiliatingly masked, male footslave whom they encounter during the day, be it a public or private footslave, by adding a dirty, female sock; or a miniature pair of female boots or shoes; or perhaps some stinky, toejam-laden, feminine toenail-clippings to the outside of his garishly-coloured and rubbery-strange, footfool mask. They then prod him with sticks as they take photos of him on their mobile phones.
6) Sports Day – As you would expect, the athletic female form is very much a cause for celebration on Gynarchy Day. Traditional female sporting events on Gynarchy Day include:
Ø Mixed-sex boxing – in which the female always wins, of course, since the male boxer must remain on his knees at all times; has his arms restrained by his side; has no headguard or gumshield to protect his face; and is punched and beaten by the properly protected, boxing-glove-wearing, female boxer until he is knocked out for the count. Afterwards, when he comes round, he must kiss his victress’s boxing-booted feet 1000 times, and congratulate her on her female win
Ø All-female tennis – but with maleslave ‘ballboys’, who not only crawl and fetch stray tennis balls, but also mouthwash and massage the lady tennis-players’ sweaty, bare feet in between sets
Ø Female darts – with naked maleslaves as the dartboards.
Ø Female gymnastics – with the maleslave’s stomach being the launching pad for the vaulting horse
Ø Footslave-ball – with a male footslave being the ball! Kicked about the female football pitch from one end to the other, he must move rapidly on his hands and knees and endeavour to kiss the feet of the two female goalkeepers (he scores 1 point for the opposing side if he manages to kiss the other team’s female-goalkeeper’s muddy, football boots; two points if he manages to get his lips on her kneesock-covered shinpads!)
Ø Whipcracking Exhibitionism – when both professional and amateur whipmistresses can publicly demonstrate their whip-cracking prowess (unlike in non-Gynarchial societies, the whips are always ‘cracked’ across maleslaves’ bare backs, since it is considered a waste of a whip-stroke to merely crack it through thin air; much better to utilise the maleslave back, which is made for whipping!)
Ø Sock and Nylon Sniffing – when personal footmistresses get to demonstrate just how well trained, and attuned to the personal smell of their feet, their personal footservants are, since the slave will be blindfolded and forced to inhale an array of sweaty, female-socked feet – only one pair of which will belong to his personal footmistress. He can sniff, but not touch. So, can he identify them? We hope for his sake that he can!
Ø Shoe and Boot-Licking against the Clock – Can the pairs of public footslaves reach their unfeasibly high targets of public, female shoe and boot-lickshining against the tight deadlines set by their supervisor-mistresses? The slaves are in competition with one another, and the loser gets a severe whipping; the winner gets to keep a pair of freshly-lickshined, female boots or shoes of his choice, and to sleep with them for the rest of his life!
I think that these, and other, Gynarchy Day traditions play an important part in celebrating the enduring success of the glorious Gynarchy of Barbaria, both for mistresses and slaves alike. Everyone is reminded of their place, and the continued wealth and prosperity of the Great Gynarchy is once again confirmed.
You should go along and join in the fun, some day!
![flag98e56697-acfc-4387-9bdb-09fa9fd731f5_thumb[6]](https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLNF2iVuD6c6bdfogfKtBjRtS7mFXsiXCcaLpvtGruPs2BXfWwO69qVAgaisuuGb1StdUsBS4bTrV8zZU96hO2_Fc97oRIDVgWvJwK3SSeTB0Lq3tJauNrJ2OEbIHQHQLPGdmmlXevnFZY/s1600-h/flag98e56697-acfc-4387-9bdb-09fa9fd731f5_thumb%25255B6%25255D%25255B2%25255D.gif "flag98e56697-acfc-4387-9bdb-09fa9fd731f5_thumb[6]")
