A Cruel Twist

It’s a particularly cruel twist – and literally so!

As I must kneel in the town square stocks – on cruel cobblestones which dig mercilessly into my kneecaps – in front of me, at my ignominious eye-level, is a self-rotating drum, which displays humiliating words on a continuous loop, designed to remind me of my pain and predicament, thereby adding to my sense of public shame and suffering.

The words are individual to each prisoner-slave who is placed in the kneeling stocks – and are chosen either by the prisoner-slave’s female accuser or, as in my case, by the Female Court authorities (since I had wronged no-one in particular, but was deemed to merit the stocks for poor performance generally on my public shoelick-stand!)

How everyone laughs as the words go slowly round and round on the drum. And they do rotate slowly – as if to give me time to fully contemplate their import and relevance to my plight. Indeed, although there are only 8 words, each one remains in front of my face for a full 20 minutes; so a complete revolution takes 160 minutes (or 2 hours and 40 minutes in real money!).

Still, when you are languishing in the stocks, time is the one thing you have. And, since I am sentenced to 4 whole days and nights in the painful kneeling stocks, I shall have the humiliation of seeing my court-appointed, descriptive words 36 times each!

That should teach me a lesson in humility and respect!

Scattered throughout the Gynarchy are members of the so-called ‘Word Revolution Club’ (a clever play on ‘World Revolution’, I think!). These are mainly bright, young women who get their kicks out of sitting on top of the kneeling-stocks crossbeams (for there is a set of slave kneeling-stocks in virtually every town!), with their feet tucked beneath the chin of the male-miscreant incumbent, and reading out and discussing with the prisoner-slave the significance of the accusatory word currently displayed in front of him. They do so on a purely voluntary basis, as they enjoy tormenting the prisoner-slaves in this way – but they are also encouraged by the Female State to do so, and often win community awards for their public-spiritedness!

They also tend to bring packed lunches with them, as they will normally be sitting on top of the stocks for one full revolution of the word-drum in front of the prisoner’s face – and, as I indicated earlier, the standard length of time for just one revolution of 8 words is two hours and 40 minutes – long enough for a vibrant and cheeky, young woman to get hungry and thirsty! (needless to say, the 4 day long hunger and thirst regime of the male prisoner-slave is of no concern to anyone – except him!)

Today, I am blessed to be visited in the stocks by one such, bright and breezy, female member of the ‘Word Revolution Club’ – a redhead by the name of miss Abigail (Abby to her friends but, as she makes crystal clear to me, I am not her friend!). Before we discuss my word drum, she delights in informing me all about her wonderful, superior, female life, including her love-life, at university where she has, apparently, just begun a 3 year course in Gynarchy History and Philosophy, with the aim of becoming a teacher. She also informs me that she has joined the ‘Word Revolution Club’ primarily because one of the older, male, postgraduate students, whom she has taken something of a shine to, was already a member (yes, there are some male members in the ‘Word Revolution Club’ – but you just have to hope and pray you get a female member sitting over you!), and she wanted to impress him with ‘selfies’ of herself sitting over a helpless prisoner-slave in the stocks – a prisoner-slave like me.

In fact, she goes on to say that ‘Malcolm’ (for that, apparently, is the postgraduate freemale’s name) must be about the same age as me (i.e. in his mid thirties) though she assures me he is much better looking than me.

I have to say, miss Abigail is a bit of a looker herself – a young, redheaded woman in her prime. Early twenties; cutely stocky-build; and wearing short shorts and a T shirt (thankfully I am being confined in the stocks during the summer, so at least the days and nights are balmy and warm, and the clothing of my tormentresses skimpy), with lace-up, low-top sneakers and full-length anklesocks on her podgy feet. Her sneakers and socks are a dull beige colour, but they belie her bubbliness and vivaciousness as she callously gloats over me.

Her socks also provide some softness and comfort to my aching neck muscles as she wraps her socked ankles around my cheeks just as soon as she has made herself comfortable on the wooden crossbeam on top of me, and immediately takes out her packets of biscuits (cookies), crisps (potato chips), and a takeaway coffee.

She then proceeds to wait for the first word to come up on my drum (i.e. the first word to display in front of my kneeling face for the full 20 minutes since her arrival, since it is a rule of the ‘Word Revolution Club’ that the prisoner-slave’s thoughts and musings on each of his disparaging words must be recorded in full in her notebook, and that the prisoner-slave must be ‘given the opportunity’ to fully contemplate his thoughts regarding each deliberately disparaging word.

And so we idly chit-chat for 10 minutes or so (or rather, the mistress Abigail regales me with stories of her studies and newfound love) until the next word comes around into its 20-minute slot, which, if memory serves me correctly (for I have already been confined here for 13 hours) will be the word:

Impotent

I am correct!

‘Oops!’ exclaims miss Abigail, licking salt and vinegar flavouring from her crisps off her podgy, white fingers before opening her packet of biscuits, as she is caught somewhat off-guard by the sudden rotation of the word-drum to that next word (some of her biscuit crumbs have actually dropped onto her socks, for she is a messy, noisy eater – but, sadly, they are out of reach of my mouth, even if I were permitted to eat crumbs from a girl’s socks; which I most definitely am not!)

She laughs with her mouth full (so rude!) as she writes down the first word in her ‘Word Revolution’ notebook:

‘Ha! Ha! Impotent! Do you think that’s a general reference to your powerlessness and helplessness in the stocks? Or is it a scathing reference to your sexual impotence, slave? For I’m assuming that, being a slave, your dick is, like, permanently limp and that? Ha! Ha! Discuss, slave!’

She then opens yet another packet of crisps (come to think of it, miss Abigail is a bit on the portly side for a petite 20 year old; she wants to watch her student-girl diet!), and continues to stuff her face, as her beige-brown socks crease up with laughter at me on either side of my confined head.

I give the girl my considered response, using the humblest and most respectful of slave-speak, of course, since a male prisoner-slave in the stocks, surrounded by a girl’s socks, is in no position to use any other form of language:

‘Oh pray, miss Abigail, if it pleases you, pretty mistress Abigail, this slave believes that the court-appointed word most probably refers both to his impotence in the kneeling-stocks, and his impotence as a man, if it is pleasing to you most respected and erudite Word Revolution Club member, miss Abigail?’

She writes everything down with her greasy, crisp-covered fingers:

‘Ha! Ha! I’ll bet you’ve never had sex, have you, slave? Being a slave, and all that? Ha! Ha! I mean, who would want you, even if you could get an erection? Ha! Ha!’

‘Yes, miss. Indeed miss. Thank you, miss!’

‘Ha! Ha! Impotence is a good word to describe a slave. Whenever I get my own slave I might call him that – ‘Slave Impotence’! Or maybe just ‘Limpdick’ or somefing like that! Ha! Ha! I’m sure glad my Malcolm isn’t a limpdick! Quite the opposite, in fact! Ha! Ha!...’

Miss Abigail isn’t a very good Word Revolution Club member, as yet, for she is easily distracted – and proceeds to spend most of the next 20 minutes or so talking about her boyfriend’s sexual prowess; which is just what I wanted to hear, of course - NOT!

However, there was one bonus to her lustful reverie – as she rubbed herself lubriciously above me whilst thinking about her manly, potent boyfriend, her fat socks rubbed against the sides of my face, ironically causing a stirring in my own loins that I hadn’t known for many a year!

I have to admit, though, I’m still ‘impotent’, since I can’t do anything about it!

The next word to flash up was:

Impertinent

I should explain that the Female Court thought it would be funny if all the words on my particular rotating drum began with the letter ‘I’, which at least makes them easier for a dumbass like me to remember them!

Miss Abigail’s mood darkened, as she wished to know in what ways I was ‘impertinent’ towards my customer-mistresses – her fellow females? Impertinence towards the female is considered a serious crime here in the Gynarchy, so miss Abigail is right to draw breath and be shocked.

I humbly tried to explain to my redheaded tormentress above me that the ‘public-footslave quality-control officer’, who had observed my work over a three day period, was a recent immigrant from the Far East, and may not have understood my weaselish, slave-speak words to my customer-mistresses, as I always endeavour to be polite and respectful to the superior female!

This denial earned me a stinging slap from miss Abigail across my helplessly kneeling face, as she thought it actually proved the point that I had not yet learned my maleslave lesson, since accusing a mistress quality-control officer of inadequate English is, itself, an impertinent remark!

I can see miss Abigail’s point – especially when it is reinforced with a stinging backhand-rebuke! However, she is not an unkindly, young woman, and her soft socks are soon back on my face, soothing the recent red-hand burn on my right cheek.

Next up was:

Incompetent

Another serious offence in the Gynarchy – though much more common than ‘impertinence’, since a male slave can have no control over his footslavish competence or otherwise, and thus it is generally assumed by the greater female populace that all enslaved males are bound to be incompetent to some degree or other.

Mind you, miss Abigail goes on to defend the ‘competence’ of free males – like her boyfriend Malcolm. She is not a man-hater, who believes all men are useless. If nothing else, master Malcolm sir is really good in bed – as we have already established!

She goes off on a dreamy, lustful tangent once again, saving me from having to explain my incompetence in any great detail for her notebook!

Idiot

is the next word to show up. Though I’m not employed as a ‘footfool’ as such, I would be the first to admit that I have all the requisite qualifications:

· I’m ugly and anonymous-looking (hence suitable for the footfool-mask!)

· I am forever making mistakes and annoying my female betters (hence my current sojourn in the stocks!)

· I have no other slave skills or training, other than the tongue-service of ladies’ feet and footwear – so I would be unsuitable as a work slave or lady’s ‘fancy-slave’ (as we have already established, I am, in any case, sexually inexperienced, and thus physically incapable of being a ‘fancy-slave’ – unless she would want me to make love to her socks!)

By the end of the twenty minutes, we both agree that I am a complete idiot, and the word is fully apt!

Ignorant

As miss Abigail kindly points out, I am ignorant – compared to her.:

· I am not the one studying at university

· Indeed, I have no formal academic qualifications at all (I was stripped of my Doctorate in Evolutionary Sciences when I became a slave)

· My whole life revolves around serving the dirty feet and footwear of others

· Everyone is better than me

· Her boyfriend Malcolm is far from being ignorant. In fact, he is super clever…

And she’s off on one again! 20 more minutes of eulogising master Malcolm sir! I’d actually quite like to meet him, and congratulate him on being the perfect male (though ‘Irony’ is not one of my allotted words!)

My next allotted word is actually:

Imbecile

There then follows a philosophical debate (in which I agree with everything miss Abigail says) about the difference, if any, between an ‘idiot’, and an ‘imbecile’, though the conclusion of my discussion of unequals with miss Abigail is that both words are apt descriptors of me!

Indeed, she writes down gleefully in her notebook that I am, by mutual agreement, an ‘idiotic imbecile’!

The next word – inept – largely passes us by, because miss Abigail receives a text from her boyfriend Malcolm and wishes, of course, to concentrate on texting him a reply.

Just as well, really, because I fear we would have had to have yet another philosophical and lexicological debate about the difference, if any, between ‘ineptitude’ and ‘incompetence’.

Suffice it to say, miss Abigail simply records in her notebook that I agree I am inept, and thus deserving of my 4 day long punishment in the stocks.

I agree to being punished – another indication of my ‘impotence’?

The final word on my drum happens to be the most hurtful of all:

Inconsequential

I humbly explain to miss Abigail that it is hurtful, even more so than ‘impotence’, because

a) It’s true

b) We all like to think – even slaves – that our existence is of some consequence in this world!

But, as she explains to me, Malcolm says that slaves are just two a penny, and there is an over-supply of male slaves; so impotent, impertinent, incompetent, idiotic, ignorant, imbecilic and inept, public footslaves like myself are truly inconsequential, and could, and should, be thrown into the underground slave-mines at any time just as soon as they screw up, as I have clearly done!

Miss Abigail opines in her female wisdom that I am, indeed, ‘lucky’ to be given a second chance as a public footservant, after a ‘brief’ sojourn in the stocks, and suddenly requires me to kiss her socked ankles by way of demonstrating my gratitude to her; to all femalekind; and to her manly boyfriend Malcolm, for the Female State’s leniency towards me – an inconsequential, unloved footfool whom nobody would miss if I were to be sentenced to a life of hard labour under the whip and underground.

She then packs up her notebook and carelessly chucks her used crisp packets, empty biscuit wrapper, and coffee cup down onto the dirty ground beneath my face before making her litterbug-way home to the warmth and comfort of her student bedsit.

I think of her, lying all warm and cosy in the post-coital arms of her boyfriend, master Malcolm sir, as the words on my lonely drum continue to cruelly twist in front of my slave-insomniac face in the middle of the town square:

Impotent; Impertinent; Incompetent; Idiot; Ignorant; Imbecile; Inept… Inconsequential…

Below is a close-up of my face between miss Abigail’s podgy socks – the beige socks of a redhead! Note also the glorious cellulite on miss Abigail’s beautiful, fat thighs above me.