Gynarchy Fools Volume 1
A selection of Gynarchy Footslave-Fools for your delectation.
At 14:59 precisely this afternoon, my 24 year old office-deskmistress’s white, cotton socktop, just above her upper ankleboot rim on her left foot, creased in front of my kneeling eyes.
This was, obviously, the highlight of my day – which is partly why I remember the time so precisely. I should, perhaps, explain that I am supplied, by my employers, with a watch and notebook, so that I can time and note down my daily observations about my brunette-haired, office-deskmistress’s boots and socks – as proof of my diligent, slavish concentration and focus on her feet throughout the working day!
And there is no point in making it up – for my mistress wears a discreet activity monitor on each shapely ankle (beneath the sock), so that my employers, if they so wish, can compare her involuntary foot-movements with my sock and boot-crease, written observations beneath her desk!
If they care to check, for example, via the tacograph print-out from her ankle activity-monitor, what my beautiful, brunette deskmistress was doing at precisely 14:59 hours today, they will see that she was bending down to pack her bag and get ready to leave work (my deskmistress works part time) – and it was this activity on her part which caused the subliminal creasing in her soft, white, vertically-stitched socktop.
Had I not observed and recorded the sock-crease as having taken place at the correct time of 14:59; or, if I had lazily and sloppily recorded it as having taken place at 14:58 or 15:00 hrs, I would be severely punished by my employers when they came to check my deskmistress’s activity-monitor tacograph at the end of the day, and seen that the formation in her sock must, in fact, have occurred at 14:59 precisely!
I would be punished by having to receive 12, harsh strokes of the office riding-crop across my bare, kneeling back, whilst repeating the following mantra before each stinging crop-cut to my back:
‘At the first stroke, it will be 14:59 precisely…’
Swish…Crack!
‘At the second stroke, it will be 14:59 precisely…’
Swish…Crack!
‘At the third stroke, it will be 14:59 precisely…’
Swish…Crack!
etc. etc.
Clearly, my ignominious repetition of the speaking clock is designed to teach me how to tell the time properly, and to be more observant of my beautiful, brunette, part-time deskmistress’s sock and boot activity.
As the famous, Gynarchy, tongue-twister saying goes:
‘Clock the sock, or cop the crop!’
I am kneeling and sobbing in the dirt with my freshly whipped back bared for all to see.
My whipper, the master-sir (my mistress's other half) is standing behind me - with the still warm and wet whipping-stick dripping in his hands.
In front of me, the mistress-madam demands that I convey my appreciation and respect towards her:
'Whipped slave, come forward and kiss my feet. Thank me for having you whipped, and beg me for my female mercy!'
'Do as your pretty mistress says, dirty whipped slave,' chips in the master-sir, threateningly, behind me.
'Yes, master-sir. Yes, mistress-madam,' I sobbingly reply (for I am not a manly slave - I'm just a dirty, whipped fool).
I immediately crawl forwards through the dust and dirt to my mistress's feet (where I belong), and start to shower them with humble and penitent kisses. I haven't really done anything wrong to merit being whipped, but I deeply regret that my mistress felt the need to take out her monthly frustration upon me, by having me whipped in any case!
She is wearing her nice, green, low-top, lace-up sneakers and red and white tube socks. I notice, as I begin by kissing her left sneaker, some dusty marks attached to the creased stitching of her predominantly white kneesock around her shapely anklebone:
'Oh pray, mistress, if it pleases you clean mistress, this dirty slave praises and blesses the mistress for having him whipped, madam, and he humbly begs the mistress to spare him from any more agonizing lashes of the cruel whipping stick, most beautiful and all-powerful mistress-madam! I kiss you on the sock, madam!'
I then daringly raise my lips from her dusty, green sneaker-toe to the dusty ankle-crease on her lower, white sock. I feel the dry dust coming off the superior cotton sock onto my wet and unworthy, blubbering slave-lips.
The mistress and master-sir remain unimpressed, however. I must kiss harder.
The Freshly Whipped Fool by patheticus on GoAnimate
An ornamental footkisser must convey many things to a young mistress when he kisses her foot in public (all non-verbally, of course – since ornamental footkissers are, generally, forbidden to talk):
1) Humility
2) Respect
3) Admiration – not just for her superior female personage, but for her choice of footwear (whatsoever it may be)
4) A sense of his innate inferiority before her, and his concomitant unworthiness to be her ornamental-footkisser in public
5) A sense of her innate superiority over him, and of her female graciousness in condescending to have him publicly kiss her feet
6) Fear and trembling – of what she might do to him if she is displeased by him (kick him in the face; have her boyfriend beat him about the face; or report him to the authorities, and thus have him whipped)
7) Gratitude – for the honour of kissing her dirty footwear
8) Fascination and wonderment at the detail of her feet and footwear (the direction of any sock stitching; the condition of her shoe or boot leather; the provenance of any mud or dirt stains etc.)
9) Resentment, at the disgusting and degrading nature of his self-abasing task
10) At the same time combined with a pathetic, slavish contentment at his humble lot
11) His best wishes to her, for her bright future
12) His fervent desire that she will grace him with her superior, dirty foot-presence again
Ha! Ha! What a fool! A foot-fool! No wonder he must wear a footfool’s ignominious mask!
My master and mistress are kissing and canoodling above me on the train - quite vociferously, as they have not seen each other for some time, since the master-sir has been away on a college field-trip. However, they can be as demonstrative in their physical lust for one another as they like, since the late-night train carriage is empty of other passengers apart from me - and I don't count, being my blonde mistress's mere down-in-the-dirt, 50 year old, personal footslave, kneeling on the dusty train-carriage floor by her sneakered feet as she sits next to the manly, young master-sir above me.
My young mistress is wearing her standard pair of white, lace-up, low-top, leather sneakers with just the tiniest hint of black cotton sneaker-sock showing beneath her shapely, bare, right anklebone next to my face beneath her skin-tight, blue-denim, jean hem. I humbly focus on that tiny slither of elasticated, black cotton socktop since I am acutely conscious of the fact that I am not worthy to observe the young-womanly lust pulsating through her right ankle-vein as she 'snogs' the virile master-sir above me.
I'll bet the happy couple can't wait to get home to my mistress's bedsit and rip off their clothes in order to mate, at which point I shall no doubt be required to kneel silently and discreetly in the corner of my student-mistress's dingy bedroom with my nose buried in her hastily discarded and still warm and moist, crumpled up, plain black sneaker socks whilst I listen to the sounds of their vigorous lovemaking.
After their first mutual climax, the mistress will probably invite the master-sir to whip me whilst I remain kneeling in the corner of the room with my nose buried in her dirty socks, in order to get him all fired up and lustful for her again; for my blonde, 22 year old mistress does love her multiple orgasms! It will be an honour for me to assist with the superior, young couple's foreplay in this way, since I am not worthy to stimulate the sexual organs of my betters in any other way other than through my suffering under the whip for their mutual pleasure.
Ha! Ha! The handsome, bearded master-sir - a student of Latin and Archaeology - knows that he can go away on his frequent field-trips leaving me alone with his smooth-skinned girlfriend in the full confidence that I shall not be engaging in any sexual activity with her whilst he is in absentia - not even humble cunnilingus - since she finds me sexually repulsive, and I am just a dirty-sock sniffer to her; a whipped gooseberry-fool!
Brunette guard-mistress Olga definitely has it in for me!
When it’s feeding-time for the foothole prisoner-slaves – and we are all waiting anxiously, with our heads humiliatingly protruding into the foothole-dungeon corridor from the ground-level hatches in our individual cell-doors, for the highlight of our miserable and lonely days i.e. our ‘dinner’ time, when we get to tuck in to our one, daily, bland and tasteless, but supposedly nutritional, bowl of ignominious slave-mush – she is in the cruel habit of pushing my bowl away from beneath my face and replacing it with the dusty, chiselled toe of her black, loafer shoe for respectful, prisoner-slavish kissing.
Of course, none of us minds being interrupted during our diner to be made to kiss a prison-guard mistress’s feet or footwear, but the crunch comes when the superior guard-mistress decides to walk away – will she ‘remember’ to push the unfinished bowl of mush back beneath our face, so that we can finish our meagre dinner, and keep our hunger-pangs at bay?
In my case, guard-mistress Olga always seems to smirkingly ‘forget’, meaning that I must starve for another day!
As prisoner-slaves, we are not allowed to speak, and so, when another guard-mistress – blonde-ponytailed, officer-mistress miss Susan – stops by to collect my bowl of unreachable, unfinished mush, and she sarcastically asks me:
‘Aw…not hungry then, prisoner-slave no. 555?’
She knows full well what is going on, but I am nonetheless obliged to merely kiss her cruelly complicit, rounded boot-toe (most of the guard-mistresses wear heavy, uniform-regulation, laced-up ankleboots with tick, reinforced toes beneath their navy-blue, uniform trouser-hems; only guard-mistress Olga and one or two others wear loafer shoes instead of boots, due to being flatfooted, or something?) by way of thanking her for her young, blonde-womanly ‘concern’, and assuring her of my regret at not being ‘able’ to finish my dinner. I feign an expression of shame at not finishing my meal on my enforced-silent, footslave face; after all, one wouldn’t want the other guard-mistresses genuinely thinking that I was off my food – or, even worse, turning my nose up at my tasteless food – in case they simply stop feeding me at all (there are no alternative items on the prisoner-slave menu down here in the foothole-dungeons; only the same, insipid, beige-brown coloured mush, day in and day out!)
All too soon the same, blonde guard-mistress who has collected my uneaten bowl of mush, and whose dusty, reinforced, black-leather, uniform boot-toes I have penitently kissed, pushes my still-hungry head back through the hatch into the perma-darkness of my tiny, foothole cell with the side of her boot, her black bootlaces seemingly whipping the side of my ‘ungrateful’ face as she does so, and locks the hatch-door down from outside for another, long 24 hours. I then hear her prison-officer-mistress keys jangling outside my pitch-black cell as she pushes the unfinished, dirty bowl out of the way with her boots, and marches off down the dungeon corridor.
Feeding time is well and truly over!
I am alone again in my cell, lying prostrate in the dirt and still hungry – all thanks to cruel and selfish, brunette guard-mistress Olga, who, for some reason, has it in for me! At least I have the lingering memory of the pleasant sight of the creases in her shapely, plain black cotton anklesock, from when I was obliged to kiss her outstretched foot where my bowl had been. The sock of my female better – creasing up with mocking laughter at me beneath its mistress’s ubiquitous, navy-blue-uniform, trouser hem – as I begged and paid maleslavish homage to its non-nutritional covering of dusty, black, feminine shoeleather!
Hungry Foothole-Fool by patheticus on GoAnimate
She is a somewhat kindly soul, who gets her kicks out of visiting, and sitting upon, freshly whipped prisoner-slaves in the stocks – ostensibly to ‘comfort’ them and keep them company; but, in reality, because she just enjoys watching and listening to them suffer.
23 year old, slim and svelte, dark-haired, miss Li-Feng, who is of Chinese Hong Kong origins, specifically likes to sit on their imprisoned necks on the traditionally heavy wooden crossbeam, adding to its weight despite her petite and very feminine frame – and thus adding to the prisoner-slave’s suffering – whilst eating an apple, and dangling her dainty-sized, soft black leather ballet flats and matching, black cotton anklesocks beneath her black denim jean-hems beneath their chins, even, occasionally, wrapping her slender, socked, oriental anklebones around their face.
Needless to say, the whipped and broken prisoner-slave in the stocks – whosoever he may be – very much appreciates the Chinese girl’s company, for her ballet-flats and socks help to take his febrile mind of the residual, burning sting of the whip, and the dull ache in his confined and downward-looking, neck muscles!
Take prisoner-slave no. 7816, for example – suffering the after-effects of a harsh, 25 stroke, public whipping and the confined ache of some 20 continuous hours in the kneeling stocks; ache in his knees; ache in his shoulders; ache in his neck. He is particularly enamoured by the 23 year old, Chinese girl’s patterned grey sock-heels on her otherwise plain, grey socks – for that little diamond of grey at the back of her socks, which disappears down into the back of her ballet-flat, is constantly creasing and folding – on both heels – as miss Li-Feng subliminally flexes her foot-muscles in tandem with her noisy and unforgiving munches on her juicy, green apple.
She also mocks him with her mouth full – enquiring of him whether he is liking his suffering? And whether he has learnt his lesson (whatever it was; she doesn’t much care!)? And whether he likes her pretty socks on her well-turned ankles? She also, deliberately, pops her shapely, socked heels out of her ballet-flats beneath his face so that he can see the diamond-shaped, grey pattern at the reinforced backs of her otherwise unremarkable, plain grey socks, and slave-speculate as to whether or not the sweaty toe-ends of her teasing, oriental-girl socks are likewise grey-patterned?
That little secret she never reveals to her prisoner-slaves – for she likes them to suffer the additional pain and trauma of never knowing her socks fully. These male prisoners are being publicly punished, after all – and all they really need to know is that she is their better; that she has absolute power over them; and that they shall never get to sniff or kiss the toe-ends of her black ballet-flat socks.
She may, however, if they appear penitent and contrite, allow them to feel the softness of her socked anklebones rubbing against the sides of their confined and downcast cheeks, as she takes another, noisy, unsympathetic bite out of her big, juicy apple, and once again pops her grey, reinforced, oriental sock-heels out of their ballet-flat sockets for the prisoner to admire and study in wonderment whilst she consumes her apple down to the core – and then casually chucks it away, without even offering its stem to the hungry and thirsty prisoner-slave as a meagre relief for his dry and parched lips.
She then wipes her own pretty lips; giggles; takes a ‘selfie’ of her socked and ballet-flated ankles wrapped around his forlorn face; and then gaily jumps up off the crossbeam and moves around to stand in front of him in order to have her rounded, ballet-flat toes kissed in turn by the nervous and penitent prisoner-slave, who is just relieved not to have her additional weight on his neck any more, and that she does not appear to be a cruel ‘nit-picker’ i.e. one of those cruel young women who enjoys picking at a freshly-whipped slave’s open-wounds!
No, miss Li-Feng appears to be nothing more than a ‘mocker and a socker’ – and as he duly kisses in turn each of her graciously proffered, street-dustied, possibly grey-socked underneath, black leather, ballet-flat toes, the whipped, stockaded fool is actually grateful for such small, feminine mercies!
This Gynarchy fool is, quite rightly, being mercilessly mocked by his betters as he toils in the stone quarry…
Mocking The Hard Labour Slave by patheticus on GoAnimate
Slim and svelte, jet-black-haired, 23 year old miss Lucretia was showing her blonde, 22 year old cousin from America – miss Amy – around her father’s farm; all the usual stuff – the chickens; the pigs; the cattle; the prisoner in the stocks; the geese…
Hang on! The prisoner in the stocks?...
This was, of course, a Gynarchy farm, but Amy was still somewhat taken aback – not to say sexually aroused – at the sight of the helpless old farm labourer all cramped up on his hands and knees in the kneeling stocks inside a worn-out and dilapidated old barn.
‘What’s he done wrong?’ she asks her cousin tour-guide in all innocence.
‘Ahh… he probably just wasn’t workin’ hard enough, or somefing? Rufus – that’s our overseer – he sometimes just whips ‘em if they aren’t workin’ hard enough. But for the real, lazy slackers – they have to spend some days confined in these here stocks!’
Miss Amy moves over to inspect the prisoner’s back:
‘Looks like he’s been whipped too!’ she exclaims, in feign shock and dismay (but actually surreptitiously rubbing herself down below!)
‘Yep!...’ conforms miss Lucretia, nonchalantly. She’s seen it all before – whippings; brandings; stockading. Male slave suffering means nothing to her.
‘… You can make him kiss your feet, if you like?’ she continues, equally as nonchalantly. And with that she moves over to stand in front of the elderly, kneeling prisoner, and helpfully stretches forward her right foot on the dusty ground beneath his face in order to show her cousin-friend what to do…
From The Prisoner’s perspective
55 year old slave-labourer no. 7778 steals himself as the two young women enter the dirty old barn. He immediately recognises the dirty and scuffmarked, off-white, low-top, lace-up leather sneakers of his master’s feisty, dark-haired daughter – miss Lucretia; but the plain black, lace-up keds of the other girl – a blonde – are unfamiliar to him.
Both pairs of sneakers make their way towards him – with the off-white sneakers in the lead. He hears miss Lucretia discuss his laziness above him, and the inquisitive questioning of the other girl in a cute, American accent. She sounds sweetly naïve, and he instantly finds himself longing to kiss her dusty, soft, black sneakers.
Fortunately miss Lucretia – albeit for reasons of cruelty rather than through any desire to fulfil his elderly, maleslave wishes – suggests to the American visitor that she might like to have her feet kissed by him! The latter sounds excited at the prospect – but a little bit shy; and so miss Lucretia graciously offers to show the American girl what to do.
Farm labourer no. 7778 is very familiar with not just the sight, but also the feel and the taste of miss Lucretia’s sneakers on his lips; all the farm labourers are – since they are required to bow down and kiss the master’s daughter’s feet whenever she enters their hard-labouring presence’ even when they are not languishing in the punishment stocks.
He is gratified to see that she is wearing her cream-coloured, full-length anklesocks inside her (matching) off-white sneakers, and below her dusty, skintight, blue-denim, jean hems. Miss Lucretia has exceptionally shapely ankles, even in socks, and kissing them (along with her scuffmarked sneaker-toes) is considered a great honour for any sex-starved farm labourer on the plantation. Put it this way – it’s the nearest he’ll ever get to kissing female flesh; the female sock over the shapely, feminine anklebone.
Or maybe not?! For he has already noticed that the innocent and naïve American girl is wearing ultra short, plain black sneaker socks inside her dusty, black keds – revealing an expanse of bare, young-womanly ankleskin that he, and his fellow labourers, rarely if ever get to see (miss Lucretia is much too cruel a young woman to gratify her father’s ‘slaves’ with a glimpse of her bare ankleskin!)
Prisoner no. 7778 therefore respectfully kisses the cream-coloured sock creases of miss Lucretia’s anklesocks in the sure and certain knowledge that his nose and face will soon be close enough to young-womanly, bare ankleskin to brush against it.
He feels an unseemly stirring in his loins at the prospect!
He kisses miss Lucretia’s sneakers and socks – in turn, as they are presented to him – with alacrity and enthusiasm, by way of demonstrating to the other, young visitor-woman that he pathetically likes kissing dusty and dirt feet, and that she has nothing to be fear or be ashamed of, even if her keds and socks are not in the best and cleanest of condition.
It works – for the young, blonde, American woman tentatively presses her right foot forwards in the dirt where her more experienced Cousin’s had been, and again seems to rub herself over her tight, black denim jeans as his lips make intimate contact with her right sneaker-toe.
She giggles, and flinches – even withdrawing her rubbery, black sneaker-toe from his lips for a split second. But soon it is back for more – and more it gets! Prisoner no. 7778 – an experienced footkisser – literally showers her black sneaker rubber and canvas in respectful kisses, before moving his mouth around to the side of her black sneaker-sock – or rather, the elasticated top of her sock, for only the top of her short sock is showing (he does have limited neck movement in the ancient set of kneeling stocks – thank goodness; a more efficient, modern set of kneeling stocks would probably prevent all neck-muscle movement altogether!)
Prisoner no. 7778 likes the way the sweet, American girl’s prominent blue ankle vein running all the way down the outer side of her right anklebone and down into her sock, pulsates and quivers with young-womanly sexual enjoyment at his humble sneaker and sock-kissing efforts, but he still can’t bring himself, under the watchful eye of his mistress Lucretia who disapproves of such things, to touch the American girl’s bare ankleflesh with his eager lips. The flesh is willing, but the spirit is weak and broken – he is already being punished enough, with twenty harsh lashes followed by three days and nights in the stocks (this is only day two!)
He does not need any more pain and suffering – other than the internal anguish of being so near, and yet so far, from naked, female flesh; albeit just ankleflesh.
Still, at least her black socktop feels soft on his stiff upper lip; he can feel the little vertical ridges of elasticated stitching on it, whilst his lower lip gently touches the soft, black-canvas of her sneaker-upper.
He repeats the process with the blonde girl’s now much more confidently extended left foot – again kissing sneaker and sock, but respectfully, and self-denyingly, avoiding labial contact with her superior, bare ankleskin. It really is the only way to keep more of his own skin on his bare, kneeling back!
The two young ladies head off out of the barn to see around more of the farm, leaving him destitute, frustrated and alone. That blonde girl can satiate her obvious lusts by herself later on, if she so chooses; but he must remain in stimulated frustration – unable to touch himself in any way, shape or form.
He licks his elderly lips, in an effort to taste more of the girls’ socks on his lips – and perhaps even pick up a stray piece of cream or black sock lint…
Am I dreaming, or is this for real?
I am trapped inside a beautiful, young blonde woman’s black leather ankleboot, clinging to her sock. My life, literally, hangs by a thread as I hold on to a precarious piece of stitching on the side of her trellis-patterned, white anklesock in a sweaty air-pocket between the beige-coloured, inner side of her boot and her right ankle, just above her prominent, socked anklebone.
If I could only rest my tiny feet on the top of that outer anklebone, my position might become more stable – but, although she is seated at her university desk, every subliminal flexing of her right ankle muscle, and thus in her right sock, buffets me around in the sweaty wind that surrounds me inside her warm and clammy, fully zipped-up boot.
I suppose I’m lucky that this gap exists between her inner boot and sock – otherwise I should be crushed, like millions of other bacteria inside her sweaty, warm boot!
I eventually manage to climb into the relative safety of her white-trellised sock-stitching, and even hold myself up against her bare ankleskin. I hope I’m not tickling her – for one inadvertent scratch would kill me!
Her sock feels sturdy – when you’re this small. I breathe a sigh of relief. I think I may be able to survive here or a while. When you are a miniaturised sockslave, 1 second becomes like 1 hour, and 1 hour becomes like 1 year. So, if I can survive until she takes off her socks this evening and throws them into the washing machine, I shall have lived for some 12 years in minislave-time – an almost unprecedented lifetime for a slave who is no better than a bacterium!
And all because of the relative safety of her white sock! No wonder other foot bacteria cling to it in desperation!
I must now make the most of my life in her sock, and explore it as best I can; get to know the texture and design, and appreciate its worth; for this sock is now my home!
Hel, I might even venture out again onto the outside of the sock, and seek to climb up the trellis to the cuffed-over top – if my nerves don’t get the better of me. Or, I might just stay here, amidst the safety of the stitching, and wait my inevitable washing-machine fate with humility and resignation.
Decisions! Decisions! Oh, how I wish I had a bigger brain!...
Here we see a Gynarchy fool desperately trying to impress his new mistress – so that she will agree to keep him!
She Likes Him; She Like Him Not? by patheticus on GoAnimate
