Thinking Footslaves’ Dirty Thoughts Vol 4
Having been whipped 100 times for my beautiful, rich, 22 year old, young black mistress’s pleasure, I am ignominiously untied from the courtyard whipping post and thrown down into the dirt before her feet, in order that I might thank her for having had me flogged purely for her young-womanly delectation and entertainment.
I feverishly kiss her courtyard-dusty boots and socks:
‘Oh pray, mistress, oh pray!...kiss…kiss…kiss…Oh your dusty, black leather ankleboots, madam…kiss…kiss…kiss…kiss…and scrunched-up, white anklesocks!...kiss…kiss…kiss… Oh I kiss them, mistress-madam…kiss…kiss…kiss…. and praise and bless you for having me so soundly whipped at your female pleasure, miss…kiss…kiss…kiss…kiss…’
Sadly, she is unmoved by my show of maleslave contrition for having just been innocently whipped, and dismissively kicks my pained face away with the dusty, scuffmarked, pointy toe of her right, spike-heeled, black leather ankleboot.
Meanwhile the male whipper behind me – her manly boyfriend – laughs at me as he curls up the recently-used, still warm whip, and then gloats as the young mistress-madam knowingly takes him by the hand and leads him up towards their big house:
‘Ha! Ha! It seems your pretty mistress wants more than just her boots and socks kissed, whipped slave? Ha! Ha!’
And off they go – to make love; fired up by the sight and sound of my painful whipping, and leaving me to blubber and lick my wounds, alone in the dry dustiness of the unforgiving courtyard, desperately trying to keep the female mosquitoes from laying their eggs in my open whip-sores!
I think it’s clear who has been the male winner in this particular little scenario – and it certainly isn’t me! I am nothing but a whipped reject – and rightly so, for I make for a truly sorry sight!
The ever-vigilant concentrator device has come good again. It has painfully shocked me – and simultaneously my mistress (though, in her case not literally, but morally, as my disobedience is revealed!) – for focussing on a tiny, red blemish in my personal sockmistress’s lower, white calf-skin, rather than on the elasticated top of her plain grey anklesock atop her upper ankleboot rim!
There is no point in my denying it, for the fiendish concentrator-device never lies – and it has already sent a report on my wandering eyeline to my mistress’s mobile phone, so that she can take punitive action against me. Which she does – by immediately despatching me to the local whipping-house with a ticket ordering my summary chastisement with 50 harsh lashes of the whip!
I deserve all I get – for it’s not as if the top of my mistress’s right boot sock was unworthy of my full, footslavish attention. I mean, for one thing, it had been deliciously creased just below the elasticated part; and you could have spent hours counting the sock-lint bobbles on the grey, cotton sock-material, so multitudinous were they!
But somehow I had gotten ideas above my sockslave station, and allowed my eyes to wander up higher than the sock to my mistress’s lower legskin, just below the hem of her calf-length, green dress. Ah but the concentrator-device had not relaxed its concentration on my eye movements, and had ‘delighted’ in dobbing me in. I’m sure the electronic device gets a buzz whenever it catches a sockslave out! It certainly makes a buzzing noise as it injects pain through the recipient’s disobedient brain!
And now my back must pay for my wandering eye also. Oh what I wouldn’t give to have my mistress, and her boots and socks, in front of my face right now – how they would help to take my mind off the ferocious pain now enveloping my raw and reddening ribcage in the unforgiving, unsympathetic whipping-house!
But, like I said – it’s a fair cop, and I’ve only got myself to blame! (Did I mention that my personal sockmistress is a blonde police-officer by profession? But, in case you are wondering, she did her back in recently, and can’t whip slaves herself at the moment; hence my ticket to the local whipping house!)
The about-to-be-caned slave blubbers into his mistress’s black-ankleboots and red bootsock-tops as she bends him prostrate over the wooden punishment trestle and begins clasping his wrists and ankles into the metal restrainers at the base:
‘Oh p…p…pray mistress! P…pray tell me, p…pretty m…mistress; what have I done wrong, m…mistress?’
‘Wrong? Ha! Ha! You’ve not done anything wrong, slave! I just fancy beating you! Ha! Ha!’
The slave breathes a sigh of relief – for he now knows that he has done nothing wrong to displease his mistress. He has not inadvertently taken his eyes off her boots and socks; or been responsible for some sweaty, red sock-slippage within her boots; or neglected to lick a mudstain off the bottom of her boots. He is just being caned for her capricious pleasure – because it pleases his mistress; sexually and in other ways!
So, he can ‘relax’ in his impending agony and soreness, and remain safe and trussed up in the knowledge that his suffering has a purpose – the pleasure of his mistress!
Mind you, he’s very fortunate to have such a kind and compassionate mistress. Many a mistress would punish her slave for such impudence in even asking the impertinent question, ‘What have I done wrong, mistress?’, since she needs no reason, in law, to beat her slave!
The exotic mistress is well wrapped-up against the inclement weather. She doesn’t give a monkey’s that I am soaked through to the skin, fully exposed as I am to the elements on my roofless, public-footslave stall!
So long as she is warm and comfortable, and her green rubbery wellington-boots are clean and mud-free; that’s all that matters to her.
And rightly so.
As I hang from my wrists on the whipping dais in the centre of the town square, I survey the sea of happy, mainly female, faces come to witness me being whipped.
And what do I see in front of me as I await the sting of the whip on my bare back?
· I observe a gaggle of young, modern, hijab and tight-jeans wearing, Muslim girls, all jostling for position to hold their mobile phones up towards me in order to capture my suffering on camera for their families back home in Indonesia. Soon the whole world will be able to witness my flogging, thanks to their amateur videos being posted on their respective social-networking sites. Some of the young Muslim women, I notice, are wearing strappy, brown or white leather sandals on their pale brown feet; but others are wearing sneakers or ankleboots. The one with the bright blue sneakers has just a hint of yellow sneaker-sock showing beneath her skinny-tight, ankle-length, blue denim jean-hems; and the one with the chunky-heeled, brown leather, zip-up ankleboots has a fetching pair of red socks tucked over the bottom hems of her skinny-tight, black denim jeans.
· I observe a redheaded biker-chick, and her blond boyfriend, both dressed up in their black biker-leathers and holding their motorcycle crash helmets in one hand, whilst they tuck into refreshing ice-creams with their other hands. It must be nice to have some refreshment in those leathers, for it is a stiflingly hot day here in the Gynarchy. I’m guessing that the young, redheaded biker-woman’s feet are sweating profusely inside those hot, black, heavily-buckled, black leather, calf-length boots of hers (presumably worn with matching, goth-like, black socks) whilst she licks her ice-cream blatantly in front of me, and my parched and dried-with-fear mouth?
· I observe a stylishly-dressed, blonde-ponytailed, young woman in her early twenties wearing a pair of tight-fitting, calf-hugging, spike-heeled, and pointy-toed, patent black leather, pull-on, knee-high boots, over tight, black cotton leggings. Her boots catch the sunlight, and temporarily blind me. I’ve seen her before – at previous whippings – though not from the perspective of the whippee; rather from the perspective of a slave kneeling behind his own mistress’s flat-heeled, black leather pixie-boots as she too had joined the crowd to witness some other footslave being publicly chastised. The spikey-booted girl evidently loves to witness a public whipping, and is a regular attendee at such events; she would never miss one, except through illness. Good for her! I notice an area of dust on the lower instep of her right, patent black leather kneeboot, accentuated by the dazzling sunshine (hardly surprising given the amount of dust in the dusty wasteground of the town square being stirred up by all those impatient and excitable, female feet), and wish I were in a position to lick it off for her. But I’m not in such a position – not yet, anyway. I’m currently positioned to be whipped; perhaps after the whipping, when I am released from my bonds in order to slump down and kiss the eagerly outstretched feet of the watching masses? (I know how this works, even though I have never been the recipient of a public flogging before; like I said, I’ve been to many public whippings before, in the flat pixie-booted company of my beloved mistress Angela!)
· I observe two delightful-looking, dark-haired, young oriental women in their early to mid twenties – Japanese tourists I would say, judging by the black sneakers and matching, black kneesocks beneath a short, yellow miniskirt on one of them; and the scrunched-up, purple anklesocks and black ballet-flats on the other one. They are both holding their dainty, Japanese hands up to their mouths and giggling behind them, and whispering to one another about me with cruelly wicked grins on their pretty, oriental faces. Are they discussing my male – and as yet unwhipped – torso; or are they focussing more on the even more muscular and manly torso of the first-class, male slave who is about to whip me? His rippling muscles had garnered a ripple of female applause when he had first stepped up onto the dais, coiled black leather whip in hand; whereas my relatively scrawny torso had merely elicited female jeers and ridicule. So, I suspect, it’s the whipper’s male body that is turning the giggling and demure, young Japanese women on. I wonder if that will still be the case when they start to see wrap-around, red stripes appearing on my naked ribcage, and I start to sweat and writhe in my chains? Will those giggle-concealing, dainty feminine hands fall discreetly to their respective, oriental-girl groins, as they too, like me, become breathless (though, in their case, for altogether much more benign reasons not connected with the experience of acute pain coursing through their bodies)?
· I observe smugness-personified on the face of a cruelly grinning, but familiar face; certainly not a ‘friendly’ face. It is not just another smiling, female face in the crowd – it is the face of my beloved mistress Angela, still wearing her ubiquitous, black leather pixie-boots over her tight, blue-denim jeans; the boots which, indirectly, have led to my current predicament, since I am being so publicly punished for allegedly taking my eyes off the balls of my mistress’s booted feet, and for allowing my downcast eyes instead to focus on the spike-heeled , bright red leather ankleboots, and white frilly socktops set against pure, black skin, of a passing, red-leather-miniskirt-wearing, streetwalker-mistress. How my plain mistress Angela had been angered by my perceived, personal-footslave disloyalty towards her plain and ordinary boots, in favour of the exotic tart’s boots! And yet, I see that those red-tart boots are also standing in the crowd, right next to the flat-heeled pixie boots of my supposedly aggrieved mistress; so the two young women have clearly kissed and made up! Hopefully, after my whipping, I shall get to kiss both pairs of boots – respectfully and penitently, of course; the one pair, for having neglected them; the other, for having inappropriately lusted after them, and viewed them as sex objects!
The streetwalker-mistress in the bright red ankleboots nonchalantly picks her nose as the first whip-stroke strikes my back, and curls around my torso.
The biting pain of the whip forces me to contemplate deeper, even more self-deprecatory, thoughts about my female audience, as they feminine-cheer at my anguished cry of helpless, maleslave pain and distress; to wit:
1. That none of them shall ever know the burning sting of the whip which I am experiencing now
2. That even their freemale partners are protected, by law, from the sting of the male end of the female whip
3. That my watching women are all fallible, with millions of unseen bacteria crawling all over their hot feet and footwear right now, creating the odour of sweat on their respective feet inside their boots, sandals and shoes
4. And yet that they are all, without exception, my betters, deserving of my maleslavish respect and fearful admiration – for they are female, and therefore members of the superior sex. Likewise their chosen, freemale partners, standing gallantly beside them in the crowd, deserve my respect – for having been selected by their female partners as companions and lovers.
Yes – everyone in this cruel crowd of now jeering onlookers has the right to enjoy witnessing my public suffering under the male-wielded, female whip, and I shall bow down and kiss their dusty feet (or the dusty ground in front of their feet, in the case of the free males) just as soon as I am released from my bonds.
For I know my place – and it is at the feet of my magnificent betters.
It’s the shift changeover time for the lavatory attendants – though not for the toilet cleaner himself; he must continue to lickshine the floor where his betters walk.
Shift Change by patheticus on GoAnimate
I think my master-sir is very possessive of his pretty, young wife – and he therefore insists on a looped series of recorded, verbal instructions being played through my footslave-brain over and over again, whenever I am alone with his wife, and kneeling at her heels (and very pretty heels they are too – invariably black patent leather, spiked ankleboot-heels, worn with scrunched-up, black anklesocks!)
My master’s recorded voice is relayed to me via an earpiece, so only I can hear it. And this is what he is repeatedly saying:
‘Slave, concentrate on my wife’s bootheels and ankles... Look only at her boots and socks... Admire the dirt stuck to the soles of her boots… Admire too the creases in her shiny, black boot leather, and study the creases and folds in her black cotton socktops… Imagine what her socks must smell like inside her warm boots… Do not look up at her bare, white leg skin… Instead, count the creases in her black socks… For you are my wife’s slave, not her lover… And I am your master... So do as I say, or I shall have you roundly whipped… Loser... Footslave… Limpdick…’
When my master-sir says that he will have me ‘roundly whipped’, he means what he says – for he is an expert with the whip, and shall make sure the lash wraps around my quivering torso, biting into my bare flanks! So his words are not to be taken lightly!
And so the recording of my master’s voice goes on, minute after minute; hour after hour; day after day. Sometimes my jealous master-sir even deliberately leaves his recorded instructions running in a loop in my ear after he has joined us, and even though I am therefore no longer alone with my mistress. Or he will even ‘forget’ to switch off his masterful words in my ear at night, when I am asleep – so that the following, ignominious words are constantly being played into my subconsciousness:
‘…Loser…Footslave… Limpdick….’
I am desperately running alongside my fit, young Mongolian mistress’s equally fit, young horse – my face near the back of her left, shapeless, musty-smelling, beige-brown, calf-length sheepskin boot – as she transports me to her home in the steppes north of Ulaanbaatar, where she works as a goatherds-woman.
Which is ironic, really, since my own steps are stumbling and faltering as I try to keep up with her horse – not that I have much choice, given that I am tethered by means of a rope to the galloping animal. The heavy, wooden cangue around my neck doesn’t help my balance either!
But what does help me to keep up with her riding-boot is the pleasing sight of the multicoloured, stripy, thick woollen socktop peeking out over the upper rim of the thick, furry, sheepskin boot, since the very thought of her inner-Mongolian sock smell enlivens me. I can’t wait to get inside her yurt and sniff the warming, thick woollen, stripy sock just as soon as her musty, beige-brown boot is off her shapely, outer-Mongolian leg!
I am sorely disappointed, though, when we eventually arrive at her village and her yurt. For I am ignominiously tethered outside her yurt on my hands and knees in a pile of wet muck, as I am considered unworthy to enter her living space. Even her horse is given shelter from the bitterly cold, Mongolian wind in a nearby stable; and one of her prized goats is even allowed to dwell inside the family yurt! But I, being the lowliest of her ‘livestock’, must languish in the bitter, Mongolian cold outside – semi-naked apart from my flimsy, white slave-shorts and my heavy cangue (which, at least, keeps my neck warm!)
Mercifully, my Mongolian mistress does permit me, however, to both taste and smell her dirty socks, as she leaves them to soak inside my mouth overnight, and then dries them on my cangue in the morning. All day long I must crawl around the village and the fields behind my Mongolian mistress’s sheepskin ugg-style boots and her replacement, thick, grey calf-socks, with yesterday’s brightly-coloured, stripy socks hanging humiliatingly from the wood surrounding my prisoner-slave face. How her fellow tribes-people laugh at me and mock me – ‘Toquchar-iin sock bool’ (which means ‘Miss Toquchar’s sock-slave’) – whilst she tends to her goats!
The metal slave collar with the four protruding spikes, which he was forced to wear at all times by his personal footmistress, was especially cruel for a number of reasons:
1) It was publicly humiliating for him to have to crawl around with four carefully selected totems of his pretty mistress’s feet and footwear attached to the end of each spike, namely:
a. A well-used and scuffmarked, chunky-heeled and round-toed, purple-lined, black leather ankleboot
b. A dirty, white, lacy anklesock, with brown footprints on the stinky sole
c. A sweat-stained, black leather ballet-flat
d. A see-through container filled with his mistress’s dead toenail-clippings
2) It was privately humiliating for him to know that all of these desirable items were kept permanently out of his reach. Like a carrot held on a stick in front of a donkey, he could never quite reach them with his mouth – no matter how hard he tried, and wanted to taste and smell them
3) It made him look utterly ridiculous – like a foot-freak
4) The collar could be adjusted round by his cruel mistress, so that a particular spike, together with its pungent item, was directly in front of his face at any given time – according to her mistressly wishes and discretion
5) The collar was inordinately heavy, and weighed him down. The lack of equilibrium caused by a lightweight anklesock on the one side and a heavy ankleboot on the other caused even more strain on his neck and shoulder muscles
6) He could not sleep well in his collar, since he could not lay his head to rest – not even on the dirty floor (a footslave’s usual pillow!)
It is, therefore, for all those reasons, a collar fit for a footslave. They are all the rage at the moment, throughout the Gynarchy; every self-respecting footmistress wants one for her personal footslave.
I think the only major drawback is that there is often not enough space for more than one such collared slave on the floor of a train or a bus, or underneath a Gynarchy restaurant table!
The pathetic sneaker-licker is kicked to the kerb by a beautiful, new girl in town!
Kicked to the Kerb by patheticus on GoAnimate
