Additional Foot Lifestyle Changes

Follow-up story by Slave Paul to ‘Foot Lifestyle Changes’ by Patheticus

 

In the two days that followed since the harsh caning I received over the punishment trestle from my beloved Mistress Ivy, I had enough time to absorb the unpleasant changes that were occurring all around me. The curt phrase that she had barked at me in the punishment room:

‘I am your mistress, not your friend. Do you understand, slave?’

still filled me with dread.

Why was Master Simon Sir so put out by my slavish attentions towards my Mistress Ivy? How could a mere slave cause upset of any kind to such a powerful, free male?

I had always had a soft spot for Mistress Ivy, ever since we were at college together. In fact that was where both our lives changed forever. Although Mistress Ivy was (and still is) an incredibly beautiful young brunette filled with the energy of life, she was, back then, the victim of the college bully – a nasty and obnoxious blonde-bimbo of a girl called Cheryl. It was one of those things that I could not stand to see, a stunning young female in distress (even if the protagonist is herself a member of the fairer sex!).

Every day I was forced to watch through the classroom window as we boys served after-college detention on behalf of the girls that had been playing up during lectures. In fact, it was my turn to take detention for Miss Cheryl! Ivy was sitting reading her book in the shade of an oak tree when the boorish Miss Cheryl descended mercilessly on her! She snatched Ivy’s book and tossed it asunder before violently grabbing at Ivy’s dark flowing hair! A loud shriek was clearly heard from outside the classroom.

I couldn't stand it anymore! I ran outside to assist Ivy, blatantly disobeying the orders of Mrs Somerville (the maths lecturer). Needless to say, it forbidden for any male to be involved in a female fight or disagreement.

I interjected rather harshly! I forced the brutish hands of Miss Cheryl away from Ivy’s hair with great anger! I knocked the college bully off balance and sent her tumbling down some concrete steps!

For a few precious moments it was all worth it. Ivy was hugging me and panting with relief. I had, it seemed, succeeded in wooing the object of my affections!

An ambulance was called for Miss Cheryl, and I was detained by the female police force for questioning. Even at the tender age of 18 I was subjected to the full force of the female law. It transpires that my somewhat heroic rescue of Miss Ivy had resulted in a broken arm for Miss Cheryl (and I had broken detention rules and disobeyed a college lecturer too)!

Miss Ivy graciously came to visit me while I awaited my trial. She was such a comfort to me:

‘I had no idea that you were so keen on me, silly! You should have said something! I suppose it is too late now, as my mother will not let me go out with a male criminal, you see?’

I had, at least, impressed Miss Ivy – the object of my desire – to such an extent that, when the courts decided to sentence me to life as a woman’s personal footslave, she convinced her wealthy parents to stump up sufficient cash to purchase me for their household!

At first it was hard to be accepted by people who once knew me as a free male. Soon, however, people stop noticing you at all when you are a slave! Fortunately, it was only Mistress Ivy’s mother that would comment occasionally that I needed to be whipped or pilloried for an oversight of some kind or other!

I got to know Mistress Ivy so well of the next six years. We had a good working relationship. She knew that I once had amorous intentions towards her, but, we both knew that this was something that would never now be allowed to happen. She had simply repaid my heroism with an act of infinite female kindness, and made me hers in the only way that could be permitted towards a convicted, male criminal under the Female Law. We were both happy with this arrangement (until now)!

………………………..

Master Simon Sir had been seeing more and more of Mistress Ivy for the last three months now. It was unpleasant to see them growing so close together, so quickly. Mistress Ivy was getting steadily more cold and disdainful towards me. To add insult to injury, Master Simon Sir was himself an ex-convict! He was one of the few males that were actually treated quite leniently by the courts (mainly because of his boyish good looks and masculine demeanour). He had been found guilty of theft, and in view of his first offence being a minor one (unlike mine – a crime of male violence), he had been sentenced to 18 months in male prison. He had been out for some four months now. He absolutely despised me!

I, meanwhile, was trying to adjust to my new life of more distant foot-servitude towards my beloved Mistress Ivy, in the seemingly constant presence of her beau, Master Simon Sir, but it was so hard after several years of previously intimate and loving foot-servitude! To be starved of my Mistress’s bare and socked feet – still always so physically close to my face – was soul destroying. I felt as though I was some kind of addict constantly being forced to go cold turkey!

I would oftentimes dream that Mistress Ivy relented from her harsh, new regime, and asked me to kindly kiss her bare, arched, right foot between those oh so familiar moles! Then, I would wake up lying on my stomach on the cold polished wooden floor, with Mistress Ivy’s discarded, black, ballet-flat toes neatly, but dispassionately, touching my forehead as they, and I, had been left for the night!

I had to work hard on the other comment that my Mistress had made about my contented expression when servicing her feet:

‘Oh, and another thing, slave! I don’t very much care for the look of smug contentment on your face whenever you are kissing my feet! If you can’t develop a more suitably downcast and downbeat demeanour, I shall be forced to fit a permanent footfool-mask on your smug face – one which will make you look suitably pained and oppressed! Do you understand, fool?’

One thing I could not stand was the idea of being a masked footfool!

Every morning my Mistress would now greet me by saying:

‘Morning, fool! Hope you slept badly? Avert your eyes, as I am going to dress my feet and put my shoes on. You may kiss the toes of my flats after I have finished, but touch my socks – and it’s the tops of the thighs for you, my little footfool!’

Fool. It still hurt to be referred to as that! I was not even allowed the small mercy of seeing her socked feet walking towards my floor level face as she inserted them into her flats and out of my view for evermore!

To make life unbearably worse for me, Master Simon Sir decided that they had reached a milestone in their relationship, and it was now time for him to move in permanently! Mistress Ivy was delighted with the new arrangement. I was immediately banished from the bedroom to the outside concrete bunker. Master Simon Sir had procured a small and very heavy slave cage for me to reside in. He took it upon himself to become my new slave trainer and prison warder.

Every night, as I would kneel sniffing the discarded, outer footwear of Mistress Ivy (facing the wall of course), the happy couple would sit watching the television in front of the roaring, log fire, as Master Simon Sir massaged Mistress Ivy’s feet (socked or bare). At 21:00 hours sharp, I was dragged away to the cold confines of the cramped, external cage. Just as Master Simon Sir snapped the padlock shut he would grin evilly into my shivering face and afford me one small mercy:

‘Here, slave boy. Sniff my hands – they stink of your Mistress’s workaday feet and socks! HA! Have a bad night, fool!’

Master Simon Sir had decided that, after one month of this new regime, the fool was not focussing enough on his Mistress’s outer footwear. He was no fool – for occasionally I would gain a furtive glimpse of her black anklesock sticking out over the top of her black ballet-flat, or even espy another member of the female population wearing bright sandals or flip flops! This was my lonely-footslave, coping strategy – my only way to stay sane!

Master Simon Sir decided that I would therefore need to be blinkered! He managed to get some money out of Mistress Ivy, so that he could purchase the dreaded, leathery, head strap harness. He returned home one afternoon, and hurriedly opened the box and produced the shiny black, strappy, head harness with chrome rivets and large side-blinkers. It was then ignominiously thrust over my head, and buckled and locked into position. Almighty Master Simon Sir retained the key in his pocket for ‘safety purposes’. From now on, for better or for worse, for richer or for poorer, I could only focus on my Mistress Ivy’s feet (outer coverings only); the feet of other women were well and truly shut off from me!

Mistress Ivy loved the head harness! In fact, she loved anything that made Master Simon Sir happy. She doted on him. She idolised his prison-toned, masculine body, and loved to be regaled with tales of prison fights and the harsh whippings that he received from a particularly cruel, guard-Mistress while he had been incarcerated. Master Simon Sir was equally delighted that he had a chance to revenge himself on society, by inflicting the same treatments on me – a lowly, helpless, male footslave.

Following a particularly loud, lovemaking session one Saturday afternoon, he opined that, as I was a ‘foot-prisoner and a lifer’, I should be shackled to prevent escape! Mistress Ivy replied:

‘Oh, whatever you say honey! You are always right! Trust a hunky ex-con to know best, eh?... Could you rub my feet for a while, darling? They’re killing me!’

I simply knelt there facing the wall, with my enraged, blinkered face hovering just over the top of the large, and heavily occupied, household shoe rack!

………………………………..

Two days later Master Simon Sir announced his triumphant success!

‘I got them, honey! The antique prison-shackle set from the old abandoned prison auction are now on their way to us!’

Master Simon Sir wasted no time in planning a little ‘man date’ for us! I was thrust into the back of his car and taken to the parcel office. He left the car for a moment, and then returned and threw a large cardboard box into the back of the car. The contents made a loud rattling noise! Next we were off to the old forge! We arrived in the back yard of a period-perfect, working, historical forge. Master Simon Sir was exchanging money with the blacksmith, who began pumping the bellows on the brazier. The box was taken from the car and ripped open by Master Simon Sir. He smiled widely as he pulled aloft a heavy set of convict shackles!

Leg irons were connected to a short chain that ran through a large steel hoop on a metal belt. Adjacent to this loop, and connected to this interlocking chain, was a set of wrist shackles connected by three stout links. The wrist irons then led, by means of an identical chain, to the smaller iron belt – just big enough for a neck; a slave’s neck perhaps? The whole set was interconnected through this belt contraption! It seemed that the set was to be applied in the traditional way, using hot, formed rivets and not padlocks! Master Simon Sir looked on in anticipation as the master blacksmith hammered away on the slave’s new ‘adornments’!

Once the rivets had cooled, Master Simon Sir kindly took the time to graciously descend to my enforced kneeling level, and explain, through his halitosis breath, how the set works:

‘You see, fool? The whole thing is designed so that you will never stand again. The belt pulls your hands in tight when you straighten up. Do you see? This is because my Ivy has no use for your hands any more, as she has me to attend to her in an intimate way. So, fool, do you feel comfortable in your new iron jewellery?’

This next sentence was going to be a hard one to form…..

‘Yes, most gracious Master Sir. Thank you for shackling and blinkering this humble, convicted slave, oh great and mighty Master!’

I crawled as best I could in my new permanent fetters towards the car, as a jubilant Master Simon Sir and the self-satisfied blacksmith leant on the anvil, and laughed mockingly at my ill-balanced shuffling through the dirt.

……………………………..

Mistress Ivy was thrilled to see me all trussed up! She knew that Master Sir Simon would be gratified by my new oppressive treatment. And, as usual, she was correct! That night, as I faced the wall and Mistress Ivy had her black-nyloned feet massaged by Master Simon Sir (I know her feet and legs were opaque, black-nyloned, because I saw them projected onto the wall by a shadow from a nearby lamp; plus I had watched her get dressed up to the nines earlier that evening, in preparation for her hot date out on the town with the magnificent Master Sir), the man of the house regaled her with yet more tales of his prison woe when he himself was, allegedly, once confined in leg irons for three whole days – apparently for not eating all of his stale-bread ration! They then both laughed in my direction when Mistress Ivy opined that I was likely to spend the rest of eternity in my medieval style fetters, never mind just three days!

‘Oh Simon, I’ve just thought, maybe we could fit him into a footfool mask next? I know for a fact that he would hate that! Ha! Ha! I remember, when I told him that he was no longer to serve my feet directly, that if he did not buck up his ideas, and take on a more downtrodden attitude, that I would mask the little cretin! Oh how did I phrase it now… ‘Oh, and another thing, slave! I don’t very much care for the look of smug contentment on your face whenever you are kissing my feet! If you can’t develop a more suitably downcast and downbeat demeanour, I shall be forced to fit a permanent footfool-mask on your smug face – one which will make you look suitably pained and oppressed! Do you understand, fool? Ha! Ha! Yes – a garish, sickly-green mask with a wonky, downcast mouth and sad eyes; and the words ‘Property of mistress Ivy madam and master Simon sir’ written all along the front in big, bold letters! Ha! Ha! Yes - I like that idea, slave!’

Oh please God not that!

My prayers seemed to have been heard:

‘I’m not so sure, honey. That’s a little drastic, don't you think?’

Like, casting me into permanent shackles and fitting a set of blinkers onto my head, with the express order that I may not meet the direct gaze of my Mistress’s comely feet and inner footwear is not drastic, then, Master Simon Sir?

Despite my unspoken sarcasm, for once I was very grateful of Master Simon Sir’s ‘moderating’ presence in the room!

‘Oh, don't be such a spoil sport, Simon! Come on – let me at least tell you what I was planning, eh?’ Kiss… kiss… kiss… kiss…’.

Lots of pleasurable hugging and kissing sounds ensued. Fevered whispering could just be heard as Mistress Ivy explained her plans in secret to Master Simon Sir. All of a sudden, a masculine voice could be heard laughing and chuckling in amusement:

‘Oh, now I understand, babe! Yes, we will go mask shopping tomorrow, then! Whatever my Princess wants, she gets!’

As Master Simon Sir later locked the hatch on my cramped, outdoor bunker-cage, he stood, hands on Alpha-male hips, looking dominantly down on me in the cold night air and smirked:

‘Ha! Not many slaves get to go shopping with their Master and Mistress! Get a good night’s sleep, fool. We will be off early in the morning, as we don't want to miss the frost on the ground. It should be hilarious watching you drag yourself up and down the high street on your bare hands and knees in those stupid chains, dork!’

………………………………

The next day brought me little relief from the overnight cold. The crisp, morning air was ideal for my Mistress, as it meant that she could fully cover her shapely ankles in her calf length, brown leather, wedge heeled boots. No sock-distractions for me today; just public humiliation and suffering!

While in prison, I heard many tales of terror, from fellow male inmates and guard-Mistresses alike, regarding the soul-destroying, dehumanizing, foot fool mask. It was the last thing that could be taken away from the slave – the final vestige of personal identity; his face! We were all used to the idea of being nothing more than anonymous slaves, now but this was something else. I would be ‘vanishing’ for evermore, as of today it seemed!

It took a long time for us to reach our destination, what with my off-balance shuffling along the icy, cobblestoned pavements of the old Gynarchy town. Many onlookers stopped my Master and Mistress to enquire after my shackles, and the blinkers that I was forced to wear. Master Simon Sir was happy to talk at length about my convict history, and the need for me to be permanently shackled. Mistress Ivy would occasionally interject:

‘Our slave is so inept and loathsome, that I have forbidden him to even look upon my feet from now on! And he is so disgustingly ugly, that we are off to have him masked for evermore!’

She would focus closely on my wincing, facial expressions at this point, to see my uncontrollable fear and anguish breaking through!

We finally reached the mask emporium. A vast plethora of colourful, rubberised masks with garish, mismatched features were hanging from display stands along the high walls. Some live slaves were even lined up at the back of the shop, as display dummies showing their establishment’s cruel and comical wares!

Master Simon Sir suddenly boomed:

‘I’ve got it, honey! This is the one I want him to wear!’

He reached up and pulled down a dusty, pink and yellow, rubbery mask displayed on a plastic-mannequin head. The demeaning mask had a Mohican-style haircut, made from wispy, pink acrylic hair, and long droopy green and brown ears. The eyes had blue, tears affixed, to make it look as though the wearer was permanently crying. The mouth was ‘protected’ by a steel-metal mesh, so that nothing of consequence could pass through its lips (which were luminous, orange and downturned at the edges!).

‘Not fair! I get to choose the mask! He is primarily my slave, after all, Simon!’

Such a forceful air of defiance from my Mistress Ivy. That put him in his place! Master Simon Sir was looking rather embarrassed, as the female shop assistants giggled quietly in the background!

Mistress Ivy called one of the assistants over. She was now out of view, and all I could hear was:

‘Can I have this one with these ears and this snout? And can I have it fitted with permanent blinkers please?... Also I need these words written on it in bold black letters…’

A rustling of paper ensued.

My Mistress Ivy and the pretty shop assistant went away, leaving Master Simon and myself to witness another terrified slave being fitted permanently into his new mask! The poor wretch was imprisoned in a metal neck restraint and had his head shaved. He was now being smeared with some kind of adhesive mixture (the lady applying it was heavily protected in latex rubber gloves and a breathing mask). The slave was too busy blabbing and begging his tanned, dark-haired, Latina Mistress for one last chance of clemency!

She, however, was too busy looking at her smartphone, and filming the event to show to her friends. Her red stilettos were swaying and clicking with excitement:

‘Ha! No way, slave! I have had it with you looking too happy! Bye bye, ugly face, and say hello to Mr Gimp Mask! Ha! Ha!’

The black mask, with some colourful accents, was pulled forcefully over his head. It fitted well but had some slack in the material? It was a dull matt finish too. Then came the heat gun. It pulled the rubbery material taught all over the wearer’s anonymous features – for evermore.

‘Please! Mercy Mistress! Mercy! Spare this wretched slave the mask, it begs you Mistress!’

But his frantic screams were too late and ineffective! The dull features changed to a shiny, polished mirror-gleam of glossy black, with miniature, bright garish-red stilettos and blue rubbery socklets attached to the black-rubber forehead!

I, actually, momentarily smirked at the forlorn slave’s new face. Then I remembered it was going to be me next!

……………………………..

A while later Mistress Ivy emerged from the back room with the sales assistant. They all crouched down in front of me so that they could witness my reaction to what was soon to be my new, personalized, comical appearance! I was shocked to be presented with:

A green rubber mask! It was quite minimalist, and had a down turned mouth that was lockable. The eye slits were wonky, making it look a little dim! The eyes had permanent blue latex blinkers fitted, so that my gaze would never again wander! The black words had been chosen in line with Mistress Ivy’s earlier threats of:

Property of Mistress Ivy Madam and Master Simon Sir

This was it, then! My punishment for facial failure! But surely I had not looked ‘smug and content’? Not since Master Simon Sir had appeared on the scene?

To my utter astonishment, I was not secured in the shop’s metal neck-hoop contraption in preparation for fitting! Instead, we were suddenly paying for the mask, and some other accessories, that Mistress Ivy had purchased.

We were now on our way home (on VERY public transport)! It was not until much later that evening that my fate became clear. Master Simon Sir had objected to the mask being fitted to me as it was too cruel in his eyes. He told Mistress Ivy about having to wear a blank expressionless anonymity mask while in the communal areas of the prison he spent time in, and explained that the humiliating experience had left a lasting impression on him.

I was elated – and relieved! God bless Master Simon Sir!

Mistress Ivy announced to us both, however, that this was my final warning, and that, from now on, I would have to sit in my cage facing my new mask, which would be placed on a mannequin head looking in at me through the bars, to ensure that I did not even dream about Mistress Ivy’s bare or socked feet ever again. If she ever even suspected me of doing so, she would personally fit my new mask permanently over my head using an amateur blow torch!

She then turned the mask around so that I could see the back. It had a picture of a woman’s bare foot in silhouette (that I would not be able to see if ever I was forced to wear the mask on my head, of course) with a big, symbolic red cross over it!

‘No feet for you, slave! HA!’

Nevertheless I was delighted to have been spared such an ignominious face-covering!

……………………………..

Mistress Ivy then emptied the shopping bag onto the floor. The other items she had purchased were riding crops, whips, canes, and lashes!

‘At least Master Simon Sir can show me how to whip properly, slave!’

Master Simon Sir wasted no time in insisting that I kiss just the scuffmarked toe-areas of Mistress Ivy’s brown leather, calf-length, wedge-heeled boots, before I present myself for whipping at both my owners’ feet! I kissed her brown boot toes differently this time! For once I was not in the slightest bit interested in the contents of her boots. Normally I would be pondering questions such as:

Is she wearing boot socks, or ankle socks? Or is she barefoot in there? Has she painted her toenails?

So the threat of the mask had done its job! I simply could not contemplate theorising on matters that did not concern me any longer! From now on boots, shoes and discarded (worn out of site) socks or nylons will be my only pleasure in life! I deserve it! I had finally resigned myself to my future fate, and consequently it did not hurt so much anymore!

As the thick girthed, single-tailed, black leather punishment whip cracked down on my shoulders, courtesy of the strong and mighty, right arm of a triumphant Master Simon Sir, my Mistress Ivy visibly felt a tingle of absolute power and pleasure! It caused her to make an impromptu announcement:

‘Oh, swish and crack; break his back, darling! Aim for the backs of his legs! He hates that! Oh, and by the way, slave – if it helps get you through the pain, Simon and I are getting married! I thought I should deliver the news while you were suffering under the sting of a real man’s lash! Just think, you are the first to know! HA!’

Now that did hurt more than any lash could!

A Masked Footfool At Work by patheticus on GoAnimate