Five A Day – Day Two
Your five portions of footslave-fantasy per day – for seven days on the trot!
Day 2
My 23 year old, short and somewhat unprepossessing, dark-haired, personal footmistress, mistress Joanne ('Jo' to her friends), totally despises me. She sees no use for me – other than as an automaton to clean her dirty boots and wash her dirty socks – and, precisely because I am nothing more than an automaton to her, I am forbidden to speak to her, or even to cry out with pain under the whip.
Likewise, talkative and friendly though she is with others, she barely ever speaks to me; only three words:
- 'Boots' – which can mean either 'fetch my boots'; or 'put my boots onto my feet'; or 'kiss my boots'; or 'lickshine my boots'; or 'stare at my boots'; or 'nose my boots'; or 'take off my boots'; or 'polish my boots' – depending on the context (and woe betide me if I get it wrong when it comes to serving her boots!)
- 'Socks' – which can mean either 'fetch my socks'; or 'put my socks onto my feet'; or 'kiss my socks'; or 'sniff my socks'; or 'stare at my socks'; or 'massage my socked feet'; or 'nose my socks'; or 'take off my socks'; or 'wash my socks' – again, depending on the context (and, again, woe betide me if I get it wrong when it comes to serving her socks!)
- 'Whip' – which only ever means one thing: 'fetch my whip; I'm going to whip you!'
My mistress Joanne never even dignifies me by calling me by my name – 'Slave'!
Nor does she ever smile at me; or sympathise with my plight being at the constant beck and call of her scruffy boots and sweaty socks (for, although I admire her, she is not the most fastidious of young women when it comes to her personal foot and footwear hygiene!); nor does she spare me the whip, which, as I have already explained, I must suffer in silence – under pain of even more whip! That's because she, quite rightly, views me as being beneath contempt.
I am beneath contempt because I am a male without a working penis, and therefore unable to satisfy her sexually, which is the only thing my mistress Joanne really cares about. She loves sex, and the many men who can bring her to orgasm (for there are many free men out there who like a bit of 'skank'!). And so, since I am prohibited by law from going anywhere near her private parts – even with my mouth – I am of little or no consequence to her, other than as a background status-symbol; the personal, pussywhipped footservant crawling perpetually behind her to booted and socked heel!
Of course, all her friends – both male and female – despise me also; those that even notice me that is – since I am nothing more than a chain-smoking skank-girl's dirty bootlicker and stinky socksniffer, righteously whipped by her! They admire her command and control over me – her taciturn and docile, impotent automaton-slave. And the men in her life, in particular, see me as no threat to their masculinity! They'll soon show me how to earn a lady's respect and admiration – through the power of their fully-functioning penises – whilst I cower in the corner of their master bedroom, sniffing my mistress's stinky-warm, hastily-discarded boots and socks in fear of the whip!
Blonde-ponytailed officer-mistress Sandra is doing her rounds of the punishment cells, coiled up, black leather whip in hand.
As she enters my individual cell I quake in my kneeling stocks at the beautiful sight of her black leather, lace-up, uniform ankleboots – mainly from fear, but partly also from lust, as I know is wearing her thick, pink cotton bootsocks inside those hefty, merciless boots (I witnessed the occasional, tell-tale flashes of pink beneath her navy-blue, uniform trouser-hems whilst she had been vigorously punishment-whipping me earlier in the day!)
She stretches forth her right boot on the dirty cell-floor beneath my kneeling face and I instinctively kiss the scuffmarked, rounded, reinforced toe-area – out of respect for the young officer-mistress and her boot. We then repeat the ignominious (for me) process on her left boot.
Sadly, on neither occasion does her navy-blue, trouser hem ride up enough to reveal a tempting slither of pink, fluffy sock.
'Pain?', she chirps.
She is not enquiring as to my well-being, or whether I am still in pain from my recent punishment-whipping of 20 harsh lashes which she herself delivered to my bare back shoulders just some 6 hours ago. Rather, she is asking me if I wish to have any more pain – like she were offering me a cup of tea!
Under the prison rules I am duty bound to answer in the affirmative as follows (even though my poor, whipped, male-prisoner body is crying out for respite from the lingering pain of the whip):
'Oh pray, officer-mistress Sandra miss. Yes please, officer-mistress Sandra miss. I am a dirty, male prisoner-slave, miss, and I need pain to keep me in line, if it pleases you officer-madam?'
It does indeed please the black booted and pink-bootsocked, blonde, prison-officer mistress to 'keep me in line', and so she obligingly unfurls her black leather, single-tailed, prisoner-punishment whip and gives me a cutting blow across my already red-raw, prone and vulnerable shoulderblades, sending me from dull pain into smart agony once again as I humbly watch my saliva kiss-marks drying on her rounded boot-toes in front of me:
'Aiiiieeee!... Oh pray, officer-mistress. Oh thank you, officer-mistress Sandra. Oh do mistress!'
The 'do' in that last sentence is a prisoner-slave's respectful way of asking, reluctantly, for yet more pain – and for another cut of the terrifying, female whip. The ever-obliging, blonde officer-miss Sandra duly delivers three more red-rawing cuts to my kneeling back – from where she is standing in front of me!
All I can think about (apart from the new pain), as I blubber my mandatory words of enforced gratitude to her for so graciously topping up my suffering, is the softness and sweatiness of her thick, pink, towelling socks hidden beneath her laced-up, black leather ankleboots and navy-blue, uniform trouser-hems in front of me. And about how I could really do with a drink of her superior, female socksweat to ease my raging male-prisoner thirst!
But she smugly turns and exits my cell, clanging shut the door after her – job done!
I look longingly at the track-marks on the dusty cell-floor where her heavy bootsoles have just been, and wish my wood-confined neck was free to reach down and kiss them; for I would then be kiss-worshipping the ground beneath her pink, fluffy socks!
The magnificent, Muslim-girl face in the crowd,
Is furtively filming me with her phone.
Not because she fancies me (though I am turning her on),
But rather my whipper behind me – masculine and strong.
With every male cry and contortion of my face,
Her pretty-girl heart leaps apace.
For she loves to see justice being done,
Attending a flogging is such public fun!
Still, she keeps her joy private, inside her hijab,
And modestly prays for the humbling of the bad.
As I rot in my dark and lonely cell, my only pleasure in life is the occasional chance to kiss the block-heeled boots of my beautiful, Sri Lankan prison-officer guard mistress, miss Natharie, if and when she deigns to visit me. It’s the highlight of my day!
I’ve even written a (not very good) poem about it:
‘Not for me, the bright high-heels;
Not for me, the spike-heeled boot.
Not for me the musty, black ballet-flat;
Not for me, the soft, brown foot.
For me ‘tis only the block-heeled boot,
Of my Sri-Lankan, prison-guard mistress.
But that, praise be, is just enough
To ease my male misery and distress.’
The Highlight Of His Day by patheticus on GoAnimate
She’s a young (early twenties), slim and petite, Taiwanese temptress – and she knows it; full of herself, and her own sense of self-beauty as she graciously takes up her seat on the public-shoelick throne of power in front of me – her arrogant, black-anklebooted feet resting on the two metal footrests at my kneeling-face level.
She has her plain black cotton anklesocks fully stretched up so that they are almost calf-length, as if to protect her lower-leg modesty, even though she is wearing the shortest of short, black and white checked miniskirts beneath her tight, pink, breast-enhancing top.
She casually flicks her bobbed, black hair back as she dismissively orders me in her cute, Taiwanese accent to ‘lick clean’ her boots. I fancy she means ‘lickshine’, but I can forgive her lack of knowledge of Gynarchy English since she is clearly an overseas visitor to the Female State.
‘Yes, pretty mistress. At once, pretty mistress!’
She sneers down at me through her dark, designer sunglasses. Though she may be perpetually on the pull – hormonally seeking the approving glances of hunky free men – I am just a deeply unattractive, naked and whipped, wrinkly old, public slave-man to her; a licker of boots; the lowest of the low. She is having me lickshine her boots for the benefit of other, much younger and more attractive, men – young men who can sweep her off her feet, and not just sweep her footwear of everyday dust and detritus!
Her upper anklesock on her shapely, left leg is catching the light on his bright, sunny afternoon as I begin lickshining her right boot-toe. The sun accentuates the streetdust-particles on her left sock; I look forward to having a closer view of her dusty, black sock when I move my mouth over to her left boot.
But for now I must concentrate on lickshining her right boot – and a very nice boot it is too; modern; round-toed; blocky-heeled (to give her the illusion of extra height, no doubt – just as her tight, pink top gives her the illusion of bigger breasts!)
Her phone rings, and she stops concentrating on my humble tongue-work on her boots – an opportune moment for me to move my face over to her left boot, and that sun-enhanced, dusty black anklesock! Truly I yearn to de-dust her sock with my mouth; to suck the offending streetdust out of her thick cotton sock-material, in the forlorn hope of tasting some of her upper anklesweat into the bargain! But not even I – an incorrigible oriental-girlsock admirer – would dare to touch a customer-mistress’s socks without her explicit, young-womanly permission; for it is such an intimate thing to do – to taste a girl’s sock, whilst she is still wearing it!
Some seagulls pass overhead and mock my male soxual frustration as I dutifully continue to focus my face on the Taiwanese girl’s boots. And exactly how do I know she is Taiwanese, since she hasn’t deigned to introduce herself to me? Because the sun also highlights a little white label sewn into the elasticated top of her left anklesock ‘Made in Taiwan’.
