Five A Day – Day One
Your five portions of footslave-fantasy per day – for seven days on the trot!
Day 1
It’s a fair cop!
Unbeknown to me, the state-of-the-art, electronic, sight-tracking device which is painfully embedded into my temples clearly confirms my magnificent, blonde-ponytailed, correction-officer mistress’s suspicions that I had been staring, without her female-officer permission, at her bare, white legskin above her plain, grey bootsock-tops, whilst she was seated at her back-office desk.
My punishment, she informs me, is to receive 17 cuts of the old-fashioned whip – one cut for each second my eyes were raised above the legitimate parapet of her socks! For the cutting-edge, sight-tracker device never lies!
Just as, unfortunately for me, the pain of the cutting edge of my mistress's traditional, black leather, single-tailed whip never dies!
Some 10 minutes later, I kneel corrected, and in agony!
2. One Rule For Her… She is the only prison-officer mistress to be exempted from having to wear the heavy, black leather, chunky-heeled and round-toed, lace-up ankleboots that form part of the female prison-officers’ normal uniform. Instead, she is allowed to wear soft, pale pink ballet-flats beneath her navy-blue-uniform, trouser hems!
Mind you – she is the prison governor’s 19 year old, blonde-haired and blue-eyed daughter; and on the fast-track to promotion, I shouldn’t wonder!
None of we prisoner-slaves mind the fact that she is allowed to wear her pink ballet-flats to work, of course – especially as it means we get to see her black socks inside them, as we kneel with our heads humbly bowed and take our orders from her (unlike the boot-hidden socks of her fellow, female prison-officers).
But her bitchy, female colleagues don’t seem to like her very much!
This beautiful, big-boned, and somewhat tomboyish mistress in her early twenties just loves to see the pathetic, wizened, old slave man in his late fifties grovelling for mercy at her cruel, sneakered and socked feet. But is she abusing her female power over him?
Of course not! She has every right to threaten and beat him, since she is better than him!
Abuse of Power? by patheticus on GoAnimate
My 24 year old, brunette-haired mistress – miss Eleanor – has employed me as her personal sockslave for just over 3 years now. She has had my brain fitted with an electronic concentrator-device which plays the following, humiliating mantra continuously through my brain – day and night; even when I am asleep:
'My mistress's socks must be straight,
My mistress's socks, they are great!'
She chose the words, and made up the ignominious little rhyme, which is unlikely to win any poetry prizes! But at least it reminds me – constantly – of my only purpose in life, which is the care, and specifically the straightening, of my mistress's wonderful socks on (or off) her feet throughout the day!
'My mistress's socks must be straight,
My mistress's socks, they are great!'
Today my mistress Eleanor is wearing her familiar thick-ribbed, navy-blue cotton bootsocks inside her flat-heeled, black leather, laced-up, uniform ankleboots – which is entirely appropriate, given that she is a wren in the Gynarchy Navy! At the moment, however, she has a desk-job and doesn't go out to sea since she is three months pregnant (not by me, I hasten to add, but by her potent husband – master Samuel sir – also a navy man).
'My mistress's socks must be straight,
My mistress's socks, they are great!'
As she sits at her desk in the Gynarchy Navy HQ, I can humbly observe from my kneeling position next to her booted ankles that her navy-blue socktops are suitably neat, and straight, and folded over at the cuffs beneath her navy-blue, uniform trouser-hems – just the way my mistress Eleanor likes them to be!
Every so often – about once an hour or so – she will discreetly lean down and enquire of me, through her halitosis-breath (which seems to have gotten worse since she became pregnant?) how her socks are doing 'down there'? She says it to mock me, of course – to make fun of me and my humble task of ensuring the equilibrium of her socks on her feet, but I must nevertheless reassure her in all seriousness of the straightness, and greatness, of her socks; otherwise she is likely to have me whipped!
'My mistress's socks must be straight,
My mistress's socks, they are great!'
And her socks are great – all of them! I am now conditioned to admire them, and to study them at night when I am locked with them in her sock-cupboard (my mistress kindly leaves the light on inside her spacious sock-cupboard all night, just so that I can familiarise myself with the greatness of her socks rather than waste too much of my downtime sleeping).
This particular pair of thick, navy-blue bootsocks, for example, I happen to know (because I have studied them many times at night) contain a magnificent 17, 222 stitches in each sock, with 4,100 of those stitches in the ribbed, cuffed areas alone – the area I am looking at right now,!
'My mistress's socks must be straight,
My mistress's socks, they are great!'
They also retain my mistress's footsweat very nicely, and provide magnificently stinky pillows for me to rest my weary, sock-stitch counting head on at the end of the day. Even then, my mistress's socks must be straight as I lay them out on the floor of her sock-cupboard, because the mantra in my sock-concentrator head says simply that they are great and must be straight; it does not distinguish between whether they are on my mistress's feet at the time, or not. Always they must be straight!
Master Samuel sir loves making me straighten his beautiful, blonde wife's socks on her feet whilst she is cosying up to him on their living room sofa having her bump gently rubbed by him – the bump he so manfully created!
'Make sure your mistress's sweaty socks are straight and tidy around her ankles, down there, sockslave!'
'Yes, master sir. As it pleases you, master sir.'
'My mistress's socks must be straight,
My mistress's socks, they are great!'
Just like my master and mistress themselves – straight and great! Only I am warped and perverse!
Nobody quite knows what goes on in senior prison-officer mistress Seema's secret room. All we do know is that all those erstwhile rebellious and recalcitrant prisoner-slaves who enter the room with her, later emerge from it completely broken in spirit, and contrite – fawning and begging for mercy in abject, male fear and trembling, and showering respectful kisses all over her black leather, laced-up ankleboots as they, quite literally, worship the dusty, prison-corridor ground she walks on!
When you ask them what happened in there, however, they just don't want to talk about it – like even the memory of what went on in that secretive, soundproofed room is too painful for them to contemplate!
Well, I have now been summoned to senior prison-officer mistress Seema's secret room – and I ain't afraid of no jumped-up, twenty-something, slip of a Pakistani girl! I'll tell you exactly what happened in her room, bro, once I'm back in my cell!
............
Three hours later...
I've changed my mind. I don't want to talk about it. Please, I beg you – just leave me alone! The pain! Oh, the pain! Truly I now respect and fear Pakistani, prison-goddess mistress, senior officer miss Seema madam, and her black boots and socks! I too have been made to see the error of my ways... and that's all I'm saying!
