Gynarchy Fools Volume 2
A further selection of Gynarchy Footslave-Fools for your delectation.
She has come to cane me – the beautiful, young officer-woman with the greasy, red hair and the skull tattoo on her shapely, right anklebone beneath her finest-denier, flesh-toned nylons.
Officer-mistress Fiona is her name, and pain is her game!
I kiss her regulation, black leather, low-heeled courts on her dainty, feminine feet, beneath her knee-length, navy-blue, police-uniform skirt, in feverish greeting – not because I am genuinely pleased to see her entering my punishment cell with the whippy, rattan cane, but because I know I must ingratiate myself to her if I am to stand any chance of mollifying the pain I am about to undergo.
She smiles smugly down at me as I kiss-greet her shoes, and her right ankle-tattoo, beneath her tan nylon stocking material. She permits me to continue kissing her on the shoes and ankle for some 5 minutes, enjoying my fear and trembling – the fear and trembling of a much older man; a weakling.
She then ostentatiously practise-swishes the cane through the air above me, causing her tan-nylon stocking to simultaneously crease on her ankle beneath my lips:
‘Assume the position over the beating bench, prisoner-slave no. 7778!’ she barks, unmoved after all my desperate footkissing.
Hangdoggedly, I assume the ordered position. I am then forced to watch as her low-heeled, black leather courts and tan-nyloned legs walk ominously behind me – the tip of the dreaded cane dangling in the air next to her officious-looking, knee-length, uniform skirt. Her right foot and leg position themselves outstretched on the dusty floor as she readies herself to swing the cane down across my bare, exposed, prisoner-slave buttocks.
Then – a dainty twist of her left ankle; a crease of the nylon gauze over her tattooed, right anklebone; the sound of the cane swishing keenly through the air; followed, a skin-splitting second later, by both the crack, and the burning, searing sting, of the thin, whippy cane across my bare buttocks.
Aiieeee!
My pitiful, male pain-scream echoes down the corridor, permeating all the other cells; and I’m sure a dozen, confined, individual male buttocks are now flinching inside those solitary-confinement cells in prisoner-slavish sympathy for the poor, male devil who is being female-fustigated by the highly proficient, redheaded officer-mistress Fiona!
Don’t get me wrong – she is not perfection; she has her flaws – like her greasy hair, and the dust marks on her shoes. Oh, but she is 1000 times better than me, and worthy of my respect; for she is a young woman with absolute power over me; and she’s the one wielding the cane!
Swish…Crack!
Aiiieee!
At the tender age of just 19, she has been promoted to the rank of senior officer-mistress in the Gynarchy's Female Police. And rightly so – for ‘senior’ officer-mistress Karoline is bleach-blonde ponytailed and beautiful, albeit in a somewhat podgy sort of way.
But, as an elderly, male-prisoner slave trustee – who is more than 3 times her age – you have to respect her youthful rank, and admire her uniform-issue, thick black boots and socks, not least because of her reputation for feminine adeptness with the punishment-whip! Indeed, there are those who say that she has whipped her way to the top, building her brief career on the lacerated backs of the poor prisoner-charges on her wing!
And, even though she is now a 19 year old, ‘senior’ officer who could delegate such matters to one of her subordinate officers, she still likes to lead by example - and whip the prisoners herself. So, trusted prison-orderly or not, you lower your neck and kiss her dusty, reinforced, uniform-issue, black leather ankleboot-toes, and/or and thick, black cotton socktop that may just become visible below her outstretched, navy-blue-uniform, trouser hem as soon as she deigns to enter your cell in order to berate you for some problem with another prisoner on your wing, for which she holds you responsible.
You submit to her impetuous, young-womanly chiding, and vicariously bear the sting of her punishing whip on behalf of (or, more accurately, as well as) the offending prisoner-slave on your wing, and contemplate in your lonely, post-whipping pain what a privilege it would be to accompany blonde, senior-officer mistress Karoline home one day – on day release, on your hands and knees to heel – so that you might massage her sticky, warm, black bootsocks on her feet after she kicks off her hard-whipping boots, and whilst she relaxes with her feet up on the sofa in the loving arms of her hunky, freemale boyfriend – the only man to whom she submits, and goes all weak at the knees over, since she is sexually attracted to him and is deeply in love with him.
Not to put too fine a point on it, she has a crush on him – even though, or perhaps because, he is nearly twice her age! He makes her feel safe.
How her knight in shining armour would laugh at your unmanly, whipped back beneath him – a back marked by his girlfriend's whip – whilst you massage her stinky-socked feet in front of him. He too would compliment her on her feminine prowess with the whip, and joke about how glad he is that, as a freemale, he cannot be subjected to the stinging penalty of the female whip. Off-duty senior officer-mistress Karoline would laugh and reassure her beloved that she would never sully his manly, muscle-bound back with the whip as she gently strokes it with her soft, feminine fingernails – altogether different strokes from the strokes of the whip she had earlier belaboured your own back with, back in your trustee prison-cell!
But dream on – you are never going to be granted day release, and the very tops of her bootsocks are the only parts of her socks you are ever going to feel (with your mouth). Instead, 19 year old senior officer-mistress is going to leave you all alone in your cell to contemplate the agony of the whip-wounds she has just self-righteously inflicted on you, whilst she returns to the bosom of her manly boyfriend in his warm bed.
Yes – this is a young woman's world, and as an elderly, male prisoner-slave you are at the bottom of the pile; fit only to kiss young women's sweaty, thick bootsock-tops, and bear the slings and arrows of their high-ranking discontent – despite your nominal ‘trustee’ status!
I am a male pole-dancer in the Gynarchy – a somewhat different concept from a ‘pole-dancer’ in the rest of the world: for I must dance to the beat of the female whip around the ‘pain-pole’ ( i.e. the male whipping post in the female town square) by ‘doing the writhe’.
It amuses the local, female populace no end to see the town fool dancing his writhe of ignominious pain whilst he is suspended from the whipping post, for normally they would only see him crawling on his hands and knees through the dirt, kissing their feet to order. Even now, my burly, male whipper will interrupt my dance from time to time, in order to slowly lower me to the ground for a brief respite period during which the female onlookers can surge forward and present their dirty sneakers, ankleboots, ballet-flats or courts for feverish kissing beneath my pain-wracked, fevered brow.
How they mock me at such moments – calling me the ‘town crier’, for I sob with unrelenting whip-pain into their outstretched footwear, cleaning their dirty shoes or boots with my tears of maleslave anguish! Then I am ignominiously hoisted up again, so that I may resume my ‘dance’ for another session, under pain of the whip!
Sometimes, I am even required to pole-dance the night away, if and when an insomniac-mistress approaches me at the pole, requiring me to perform a private, nocturnal dance for her. Although my ‘resting’ position overnight is to be tethered in a kneeling position at the base of the whipping-pole – with my bent, bare back aching and exposed to the bloodthirsty mosquitoes and blow-flies – by using a superhuman effort the dainty, young insomniac woman can just manage to hoist me up onto my dancing feet once more. And I see she has brought her own instrument of night-time pain with her – a thin, whippy rod that will most assuredly have me moving my feet to her late-night beat!
Yes – I shall be dancing to her tune right through into the small hours of the morning, like it or not! And so, just before my kneeling lips leave the ground, I respectfully kiss her dusty and scuffmarked, off-white, sneaker toes, and even manage to brush my lips against her matching, off-white, scrunched-up anklesocks beneath her skinny-tight, blue denim jean-hems – by way of acknowledging her absolute, female power over me, and of demonstrating my feeling of simultaneous honour and shame that I should be about to dance naked for her in the moonlight.
Although she is free to rod-whip me with feminine abandonment, I must try to keep the noise of my pain down – for, although the cruel townsfolk ordinarily love to listen to a male slave wail, I would not wish to disturb them with my noisy, all-night raving whilst they are sleeping soundly in their master beds!
After several prolonged hours of night-time ‘clubbing’, the rod-wielding, besneakered and bejeaned, young woman tires of my restless writhing, and gently lowers me to my knobbly knees once more. I fervently kiss her now even dustier sneakers, and sweatier sock-tops, by way of thanking her for keeping me thus ‘entertained’ all night. Of course, she is now at liberty to retire to bed and catch some female beauty sleep (not that she needs it, being a beautiful, bright redhead), but I, sadly, shall be required to pole-dance in the coming daylight again, since I have been sentenced to three whole days and nights on the ‘pain-pole’; and this had only been the first day and night!
I expect that even now my daytime, professional whipper is fine-tuning his whip before breakfast, ready to entertain the young ladies of the town once more with his ‘dancing bare’ (yet another Gynarchy euphemism for a naked, male slave undergoing the punishment of the whip!), and I, for my humble part, must pucker up my dry and parched lips for yet more feminine foot-kissing.
For, although I am not exactly in the mood, the pain-show must go on!
She towers above me – my beautiful, statuesque, black mistress, as I kneel on the floor by her booted feet.
There isn't much to see, as she is standing up straight with her black, polyester trouser-hems covering the tops of her black leather, laced-up, round-toed, chunky-heeled ankleboots whilst she talks happily to her freemale lover on her cellphone above me. But, I know for a fact she is wearing thick, grey cotton, ankle-length bootsocks inside those, somewhat musty-smelling ankleboots; I know that because I had the inestimable honour of smoothing them onto my black mistress's shapely feet and ankles this morning, after she had showered and breakfasted – in a humble and respectful manner befitting a good and obedient, black girl's, personal household sockservant!
I imagine her thick, grey socks are a bit more creased inside her boots now, in line with the subliminal creases and movements in her outer, black bootleather as she talks; but, for the moment at least, I can only imagine her delicious, grey sock-creases, since I am not privileged to see them.
But all that changes when she moves to sit down at her office desk and log on to her computer. Now her rounded boot-toes are foolishly turned in towards one another as she files her fingernails above me and waits for her office computer to boot up, and her black, bootcut trouser-hems have ridden up to expose the creased tops of her thick, grey socktops against the glorious backdrop of her smooth, black, upper ankleskin! I am in sudden sock-heaven – though, frustratingly, I am not permitted to touch her grey socks throughout the day; not even just to nuzzle or nose them.
Again I must be patient – this time until my black mistress kicks off her heavy, black leather workboots at the end of the day and relaxes on her sofa above me in the arms of her manly boyfriend, with her sweaty-socked feet resting on my upturned face whilst she splays her grey-socked toes around my nose in order to release more of the stale, warm sockstink up my unworthy, footslave nostrils!
Other mistresses may permit their personal footslaves to nose and nuzzle their socktops throughout the day whilst they are wearing them inside their laced-up ankleboots; but not my black mistress – as the untidy, haphazard whip-scars on my bare, kneeling back bear angry witness to! As far as my statuesque, but modest, black mistress is concerned I can look at, but not touch, her grey socks on her feet, until she gets back into the privacy of her home and the loving bosom of her manly boyfriend!
Then I become her legitimate sweaty-sock rub – lying loyally beneath her in the presence of her boyfriend as befits an elderly and unattractive, male household-slave; the bastard slave with shameful whip-scars on his back from when he previously sought to take unauthorised liberties with his black mistress's bootsock-tops whilst she was wearing them inside her boots during the daytime!
I shall never make that same mistake again – though I shall probably be whipped at some point again, since my beautiful, black mistress is easily displeased, and her whip is never far from my back!
Just as her socks are never far from my thoughts!
My petite and comely, red-headed mistress Emma is a real man-admirer! She can’t resist strong and masculine men; they make her go all weak and spreadeagled at the knees. She has several boyfriends on the go at any one time – and rightly so; for she is a beautiful and impressive, young woman.
By the same token, she utterly despises weak and feeble men – slave men, like me. I hardly get a look in in my capacity as her personal foot, sock and boot servant. Indeed, she regards my role as to be seen and not heard – automatically kiss-washing her bare feet; suck-washing her dirty socks; and tongue-polishing her street-soiled, chunky-heeled and round-toed, zip-up, black leather ankleboots without being specifically bidden by her to do so, since she cannot be bothered to bark her blindingly obvious female orders down at me. She expects me just to get on with it!
And if I don’t – she has one of her many, manly boyfriends whip me at her booted feet, for, again, she can’t be bothered to waste her precious, female energy on whipping me herself! And besides, she enjoys watching another man whip me – it turns her on, and makes her even more responsive to his manly charms when he moves to seduce her!
And so, at such times I am left with a smarting, sore back and her hastily removed, black leather ankleboots, and usually black or cream-coloured bootsocks, in the corner of her student bedsit, listening to the sounds of my betters making love behind me whilst I mouth-attend diligently to my mistress Emma’s dirty, discarded footwear, like I should have done in the first place.
I hear the mighty master-sir (a married man) invite my mistress to a lovers’ tryst in a hotel this weekend; he suggests to her that she may even bring her ‘queer socksniffer’ along with her. That’s me, of course – the master-sir knows full well that he can invite me along to their secret rendezvous, as I am absolutely no sexual threat to him when it comes to the mistress, being utterly despised by her; I am her impotent footfool – fit only to sniff-clean her worn boots and socks.
She giggles and accepts his kind offer – and then moans in female ecstasy as he pleasures her like only a real man can. You’ve got to admire him!
Meantime, I continue to sniff and suck on her discarded, sweaty, cream-coloured bootsocks – concentrating on the yellowy-brown areas along the insteps.
Now witness another occasion on which miss Emma, the real-man admirer, strings me along as her socksniffing gooseberry!
The Socksniffing Gooseberry by patheticus on GoAnimate
Blonde, off-duty prison-officer mistress Lyssa – one of my regular customer-mistresses to my street corner, public shoelick stall near to the prison where she works – has me all of a dither as I lickshine her dusty and well-worn, black leather, chunky, lace-up, uniform boots after her day shift has ended.
The reason for my turning into a dithering idiot is due to the following conversation of manifest unequals:
'Hurry up, slave! I'm on my way to headquarters to pick up my new uniform boots this afternoon, and I need to get there before they close!'
'Oh pray, officer-mistress Lyssa! Oh bless! Oh your new boots, mistress! Oh please will you drop by me again this afternoon and let me smell the insides of your brand new boots, mistress? Oh pray, mistress! Oh do! Oh, I love the smell of new female boots, madam!', I blither, without querying even for one slavish second exactly why she needs me to lickshine her old boots on her feet, if they are about to be replaced?
She tuts impatiently:
'Tch! Don't be silly, slave! I haven't got time to indulge you in your boot sniffing fantasies! I've got a party to go to tonight! And besides, it's not your place to sniff the insides of my boots! That honour goes to my personal footslave at home. Your job is merely to clean the outsides of my boots! Now get a move on, like I said, or it'll be the whip for you!'
'Yes, mistress Lyssa. Sorry, most respected officer-mistress Lyssa. Please don't have me whipped, madam!'
I've blown it! If I'd played my cards right, I should have respectfully asked her to bring me her old boots for sniffing, at a time of her convenience when she next deigns to visit me, so that I may subsequently keep them as a smelly trophy. For, whilst it's true that brand new, as yet unworn and unsullied by sweet feminine footsweat, ankleboots undeniably smell better than well-worn and socksweat-soiled boots, a public boot and shoe slave like me should not be getting ideas above his bootlicking station and, like the mistress says, the inner smell of fresh boots is not for the likes of me! I should be happy enough just to taste such glorious boots – on their exteriors!
I daren't even ask her for her old boots now, for I have clearly angered and upset her! And so, blithering idiot that I am, I lickshine the outsides of her well-worn, leather ankleboots for what will probably be the last time ever, in the knowledge that her discarded boots will now, in all probability, go to her personal, household footservant as a kindly keepsake – when they could have been mine!
I hope he appreciates them as much as I would have done!
'Enjoy your party tonight, officer-mistress Lyssa', I blither, as she climbs down from the public-bootlicking chair in front of me.
She walks off in her freshly licked boots, saying nothing. But then, why would she exchange pleasantries with a blithering, public-footslave idiot? I'm just lucky not to be whipped!
The 20-something, good young lady lay-judge listened to my pleas for clemency, but was not moved by them. She pronounced sentence on me as follows:
‘Prisoner-slave in the dock, you shall be placed in the public kneeling stocks, on cobbled stones, for 4 days and nights without any food or water.
On the fifth day, your female accuser shall be invited to sit before you so that you may penitently kiss her feet a full 5000 times, in full public view.
I would ask that she wear the same black leather, mary-jane style, flat shoes and plain black cotton socks and slacks that she is wearing today, that you may concentrate your kisses on the exposed sock areas either side of her central shoe-straps.
Each kiss to her black socks shall be monitored for humility, thoughtfulness and respect; and any kisses deemed not to meet such strict standards shall be required to be repeated.
On completion of your 5000 kisses to her socks, you shall be whipped at her feet 500 times, whilst you remain kneeling in the stocks.
After the whipping, you shall be verbally mocked and criticised by all and sundry until the sergeant-at-arms deems you fit enough to resume kissing your female accuser’s socks a further 5000 times. As before, each kiss shall be monitored for humility, thoughtfulness and respect, and any sock-kiss deemed unworthy shall be discounted and must be repeated; no allowance shall be made for the soreness of your back.
After a further 24 hours in the stocks, your accuser shall decide whether to forgive you and release you into the custody of the slave-mine taskmistresses, where you shall work for the rest of your natural life as a hard labourer. If your accuser does not see fit so to forgive you, you shall be ignominiously left to rot in the stocks.
Bailiff – take him down please!’
My heinous crime? Looking at my female accuser’s socks ‘in a funny way’!
My new, fat, blonde slave-owner is certainly full of herself. Whilst she could be described as being of 'average' looks, she describes herself to me as a ‘super-blonde goddess’, who ‘demands unquestioning obedience from her footslave’ (that, it seems, is to be my role!)
And she not only has me kiss her fat, and somewhat unkempt, bare feet, in her dirty-pink, cheap and nasty, household flip-flops 100 times – by way of an ‘introduction’ to her feet; she then beats me 100 times across my bare back and shoulders with her black leather, single-tailed, household whip – by way of an introduction to ‘slave-pain’ and, she said, as a ‘demonstration of her skill and dexterity with the whip!’
As I smarted and sobbed over her fat and flabby feet she then exposed her fleshy, private parts to me, explaining that I would never get to touch them, as I was a mere footservant, but that whenever a real man was 'servicing' her I was to keep a respectful distance in the corner of the room and focus on lickshining her discarded, pink sneakers – cleaning them off her ingrained footsweat (the nearest I would ever get to tasting her bodily excretions!)
She then reinforced her stipulations by whipping me again, before locking me in a set of heavy, wooden stocks in her basement – my new sleeping quarters. To stop the sound of my perpetual slave-sobbing she also stopped my mouth with one of her dirty, black socks, before getting herself all tarted up for a night out on the town, prowling the streets in her high-heels looking for a real man to satisfy her young-womanly lusts.
She seemed confident she would pull – and rightly so!
Her thick cotton bootsocks may be feminine pink, but they still masculine-smell as my petite and comely, 23 year old, blonde-haired mistress Tiara rests her pink-socked feet on my upturned sockrest-face in her living room at the end of her long, hard day at the office.
To her husband and other family members, her sweaty feet are far enough away from their noses not to be a noticeable problem; but I am enveloped in a clammy, warm mist of perpetual, pink socksweat. And I can see the imperfections in that pink – the ‘hidden’, browny-sweatstain areas on the bobbled soles of her otherwise still pastel-looking bootsocks; nobody else can see those rancid stains – not even the pretty wearer of the socks; but then, nobody else has a sockslave’s-eye view of the bottoms of blonde-haired miss Tiara’s bootsocks; nor would they wish to!
Only a fool like me – a de facto human sockface – would hanker after such dirty sights and smells, and would delight in having the tart, vinegary girlfoot-sweat rub off from the socks into his gaping, facial pores!
I am kept permanently tethered over the rough, wooden punishment trestle in my solitary-confinement cell. My only company each day are the female guards who enter my cell in order to deliver their regular canings to my bare, and permanently sore, backside.
They are under strict instructions not to speak to me, and I am unable to communicate with them since I am gagged and my voice box has been surgically removed. I can't even cry out with the pain – and so must suffer my daily pain in abject silence.
It's not that they hate me – my guard-mistresses; it's just that the female court had sentenced me to 55 cuts of the brutal, female cane on my bare, male backside every day for the rest of my imprisoned life, and so the uniformed, prison-guard mistresses are duty bound to carry out the wishes of the court, and to impose the female law upon me.
But nor do they sympathise with me, for they are not my friends; they are professional caners doing their best to inflict the maximum amount of punishment-pain upon me. And, after my caning, they can leave me in pain, alone in my punishment cell, in the blink of an eye and without fluttering a sweet feminine eyelid.
Not that I ever get to see their pretty faces. I come to recognise them only from their individual boot and sock styles; or rather, from their individual sock-styles alone, since their boots are all the same laced-up, chunky-heeled, black leather, uniform-issue boots – but I often catch a glimpse of their glorious, individualistic sock-tops inside their boots, thanks to their navy-blue, uniform trouser-hems getting caught up in their upper ankleboot-rims as they position themselves at a suitable caning distance behind me!
Take officer-mistress Kelly, for example. I think she's blonde, and quite buxom, but I only know it's her because of her ubiquitous, off-whitish, thick and bobbled, towelling-style bootsocks inside her heavy, laced-up, uniform ankleboots. She never wears any other colour of socks whilst she is beating me, so I know it cannot be one of her pink or black-socked colleagues belabouring me from behind as my prisoner-arse stings!
And that's the other way I get to know my caners – from the swish and cut-style of their canes. Officer-mistress Kelly's style is to overlay, leaving me with a narrow, 55-canecut strong, single-ridged weal of pure red pain across my central buttock region; and a burning desire to kiss her thick and bobbled, off-white, cotton bootsock-tops, as a maleslavish demonstration of my admiration for her feminine prowess with the female cane.
Oh, if only I could scream, I would beg to kiss officer-mistress Kelly's socks! But, as I have explained above, I can't – and so I just suffer in silence!
