Female Power Volume 2
Scenes of Absolute Female Power over the Lowly Male Slave
My new, tall and slim, clever black footmistress has now weaned me onto her socks – all in the space of one day!
- She began my first day of enslavement to her by letting me follow her to heel as she went about her business, with my nose ignominiously attached to the V-shaped groove at the back of her right, black leather, low-heeled, laced-up ankleboot, thereby resting continuously on the bobbled back-upper of her soft, anklelength, black cotton bootsock – so that I literally got a feel, and a hankering for her sock on my nose
- Then she made me beg her for permission to untie her bootlace, so that I might see, and run the tip of my nose over, the rest of her sweaty, black bootsock – whilst she was still wearing it on her dominant, right foot
- Then, finally, she made me want to respectfully remove her sweat-imbued, black anklesock from her pretty foot, and take it away with me to my household slave-hole where I could ‘really get to know it’ through sniffing it, smelling it, and tasting it – just the one sock at first. I wasn't allowed to worship both socks until the following day; day two of my footslave-nose on her sweaty feet!
Yes – my mistress's black bootsocks are an acquired smell and taste; but I am now well and truly weaned onto them. All that now remains is for me to be weaned onto her black whip!
My 21 year old, blonde-haired, tomboyish, but incredibly beautiful, mistress is seated in her beige-coloured, baggy, cut-off dungarees on the bar stool, chatting up the barman, whilst I kneel obediently and humbly by her feet at the base of the stool, admiring her beige, low-top, laced-up, canvas sneakers, and her fully-pulled-up, almost calf-length, white, crew socks with the ribbed tops.
Indeed, I am forbidden by law to do anything other than admire my mistress's socks – so close-up and personal to my kneeling and humbly bowed face! Everyone else in the bar is at liberty to look at whatever they so desire. As my mistress's personal sockservant, however, I have no choice – it must be at her socks.
Fortunately I desire her socks!
In particular:
- I am mesmerised by the light and shade playing on the outer surfaces of her socks beneath the bar-stool
- I like the way the ribbed, upper halves of both her white, ankle-length socks (crossed over one another fetchingly at the shapely, feminine anklebones) are in the shade; whereas the lower parts of her white sports socks, just above the beige-canvas, upper shoeline, are brilliant white – illuminated by a highly-directional spotlight in the ceiling of the bar!
- I particularly like the way I can see all the little bits of fluff and dust stuck to her perpendicular sock-stitches on the lit-up parts of her socks – and thus I begin to count them
- Frustratingly, I must frequently begin my socklint-counting all over again, thanks to the involuntary spasms and creasings in my blonde, tomboy-mistress's socks caused by her semi-inebriated laughter at the barman's cheesy, chat-up jokes
- All the while I am cognisant of the fact that the hunky barman is a much better man than me, in that I am not worthy to chat up my personal sockmistress, as I am clearly fit only to silently study the light and movement in her socks whilst she drunkenly drools over a real man (and besides, he is much better looking than me, and is sexually attractive to young women, unlike me)
- And so I try hard not to get ideas above my barstool-base, sock station, and do my utmost to concentrate on my blonde tomboy-mistress's lovely, white crew-socks, as befits the slave of a girl's socks. And I hide my ugly, maleslave head in the shade – so as not to get in the way of my courting mistress and her new barman-beau
- I have seen the light (on my mistress's socks) and without a shadow of doubt, I shall remain in the dark about the rest of my mistress's beautiful body, and in the shadow of her new boyfriend's manliness!
She’s just an ordinary, 22 year old, dirty-blonde girl from the local sink estate. But whenever she deigns to enter the local swimming baths I must, in my capacity as a customer-assistant slave:
· Prostrate myself before her at the entrance to the Female Changing Room, so that she can wipe her dirty, sink estate bootsoles on the back of my maleslave head
· Then kneel before her and unlace her scuffmarked and well-used, black leather ankleboots from her sink estate feet
· Admire, sniff, kiss-worship, and then remove her cheap and sweaty, navy blue and pink, flower-themed bootsocks from her feet
· Respectfully look away whilst she changes out of her jeans and hoodie-top into her skimpy, sink estate bathing costume
· Remain with her temporarily discarded, but still warm and sweaty, sink estate boots and socks in the Female Changing Room, sniffing them out loud for anyone else in the changing rooms to hear
· Respectfully, and again without looking at her, towel down her beautiful, naked, sink estate body after she returns from her swim
· Wait until she is ready to be resocked and rebooted
· Then respectfully reapply her socks and boots to her shapely, sink estate feet
· Kiss her sink estate boots on the scuffmarked, rounded boot-toes as she exits the changing room
· Contemplate my great good fortune in being privileged to not only have her dirty, sink estate bootmud all over the back of my unworthy head, but also to have the lingering taste and smell of her sink estate boots and socks in my mouth and up my nose
For she is, in actual fact, a 22 year old, dirty-blonde, sink estate goddess, as far as I am concerned; and most certainly my infinite better!
Fearful... suspended by wrists… vulnerable…
Blonde mistress…slim, pretty…standing behind me…confident… black leather whip… black shoes… laced up…black socks… movement…shoeleather creasing
Swish…Crack!
Pain!...pain…pain…pain…pain…pain…pain
Swish…Crack!
Pain!...pain…pain…pain…pain…pain…pain
Swish…Crack!
Pain!...pain…pain…pain…pain…pain…pain
Swish…Crack!
Pain!...pain…pain…pain…pain…pain…pain
Swish…Crack!
Pain!...pain…pain…pain…pain…pain…pain
Swish…Crack!
Pain!...pain…pain…pain…pain…pain…pain
Swish…Crack!
Pain!...pain…pain…pain…pain…pain…pain
Swish…Crack!
Pain!...pain…pain…pain…pain…pain…pain
Swish…Crack!
Pain!...pain…pain…pain…pain…pain…pain
Swish…Crack!
Pain!...pain…pain…pain…pain…pain…pain
Swish…Crack!
Pain!...pain…pain…pain…pain…pain…pain
Swish…Crack!
Pain!...pain…pain…pain…pain…pain…pain…Pain!... pain…pain…pain…pain…pain…pain…Pain!...pain…pain…pain…pain…pain…pain…Pain!...pain…pain…pain…pain…pain…pain…Pain!...pain…pain…pain…pain…pain…pain…Pain!...pain…pain…pain…pain…pain…pain…Pain!...pain…pain…pain…pain…pain…pain…Pain!...pain…pain…pain…pain……Pain!...pain…pain…pain…pain…pain…pain… Pain!...pain…pain…pain…pain…pain…pain…Pain!...pain…pain…pain…pain…pain…pain…Pain!...pain…pain…pain…pain…pain…pain…Pain!...pain…pain…pain…pain…pain…pain… Pain!...pain…pain…pain…pain…pain…pain…
Untied… pain… slump… pain… dirt… pain… dust… pain… ground… pain… black shoe… pain… dusty… pain… black sock… pain… in front of me… pain… kiss shoe… pain… kiss sock… pain… plead… pain… mercy… pain… blonde… pain… all-powerful… pain… submit… pain…
Broken!
The junior prison-doctress in the underground slave-mines opines that I am merely suffering from laziness.
She does acknowledge that I have a debilitating fever – caused probably by an infection picked up by my mouth as I was lickshining one or other of my beautiful taskmistress’s dirty boots. But the blonde-ponytailed doctoress feels that my fever is nothing that the whip, and a bit of hard work, won’t cure – and so prescribes just that for me: work and the whip!
Needless to say, my pretty taskmistresses-cum-nurses are only too happy to carry out the doctor’s orders, and within 3 or 4 days I am back to my old slave-self again – breaking rocks with alacrity and lickshining my taskmistresses’ muddy, black leather kneeboots with abandonment. The only difference is that my back is now permanently lacerated and scarred by the whip – but that’s the price a male slave has to pay for being sentenced to life in the slave-mines.
You know what they say – ‘A whipping a day, keeps the doctoress away!’
The back-alleyway bootlicker licks boots all day. Nobody ever speaks to him – and rightly so; for he is beneath them.
He’s just a bootlicking thing for his betters’ amusement…
Back-Alleyway Bootlick by patheticus on GoAnimate
Her uncle thinks she’s still a virgin!
My 20 year old, straggly-blonde-haired, semi-righteous mistress, miss Prudence, admittedly, looks like butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth – but I know for a fact (because I must follow her to heel everywhere she goes) that she has had many boyfriends over the past year. Indeed, amongst her peers, she has a bit of a reputation for ‘sleeping around’ (which, incidentally, is a good reputation for a free, young woman to have amongst certain sections of polite Female Society here in the Gynarchy; but not amongst the somewhat prudish, ‘Semi-Righteous’ cult to which my mistress and her extended family belong!)
Perhaps because I know all her ‘dirty’ little secrets, she frequently makes up allegations of impropriety against me – her unofficial, personal footservant (‘unofficial’ because, technically, she should be 21 to own her own household footslave; but her doting aunt & uncle, with whom she lives, turn a blind eye to the secular law in this regard!) – in order to discredit me in front of her uncle, and have me whipped.
And so, I am frequently whipped at her slutty, high-heel-shoed and socked feet – specifically, this morning, her grey, blocky-heeled and round-toed, single-strapped, mary-jane style shoes, and scrunched-up, stripy, grey and black ‘ankle’ socks (more like calf-length socks which have been rolled down in an untidy and slovenly fashion around her shapely, white anklebones!)
Again, sitting demurely on the living room sofa in her grey, below-the-knee, pinafore dress, and with her mary-janed feet resting demurely on the floor side by side in front of my kneeling face, she looked like butter wouldn’t melt as her uncle furiously laid into me, with the single-tailed, brown leather, household slave-whip, for allegedly ‘oggling’ his 20-year-old niece’s calf muscles on her sweet and innocent, pure bare white legs! (I had been doing no such thing, of course – and had been dutifully eyeing up only my mistress’s stripy, grey and black socks; but she loves seeing, and hearing, me whipped!)
‘Never look thee at my pure and chaste niece above the sock, thou dirtiest of slaves!’ shouts her uncle angrily as he belabours my bent back with the whip in front of her. ‘Keep thine ugly head down amongst her socks, or, so help me God, I shall stripe thy knavish back red-raw!’
As I said, they are a ‘Semi-Righteous’ family – not quite as religious as the puritanical cult of ‘The Righteous’ – but believers nonetheless; hence her uncle’s somewhat archaic language and references to God (and my mistress Prudence’s incongruously demure attire – for a libidinous 20 year old girl!)
She smiles – a sweet, non-innocent smile as her uncle belabours my back at her belligerent behest. Like I said, butter wouldn’t melt…
But butter most certainly would melt on my back right now – so hot is it from the burning, red sting of the whip!
The irony is that, in a supposed, ancient gesture of penance on my part towards his ‘pure and chaste’ niece, her uncle will now have me handwash her bare feet immediately after my whipping; so I will not only be looking at, but touching her soft, bare skin – albeit only from the sweaty ankles downwards! But I shall also make damned sure to only look humbly downwards as I perform the feetslavish act; the freshly throbbing stripes in my naked, male back shall remind me of the prudence of doing that!
Throughout the day I must kneel silently and unobtrusively next to my 21 year old, blonde sockmistress’s snowy-white, scrunched-up, ribbed, calf-length, cotton-rich slouch socks, above her grubby-white and scuffmarked, Velcro-fastening, high-top sneakers, and beneath her knee-length, beige-coloured, student-girl dungarees, and diligently study her thick, white scrunch-socks whilst she is:
· Scrunching on her female breakfast
· Seated on the female bus on her way into female college
· Seated in her female lecture hall (studying Female Quantum Physics)
· Enjoying a relaxing coffee break in the female, student cafeteria
· Discussing physics with her female Physics Tutor
· Seated in the female college campus grounds, eating her female, packed lunch
· Reading up on Female Physics in the female college library after lunch
· As she films a male, public flogging in the female town square on her mobile phone
· On the female bus on her way home
· Dining with her parents and brother
· Out on the female town with her car-mechanic boyfriend
· Seated in the darkness of the local female cinema with her boyfriend
· Smooching with her car-mechanic boyfriend in the dark alleyway out the back of the local female cinema
· Making love with her car-mechanic boyfriend in his dingy, freemale bedsit (on this occasion I am obliged to bury my nose in my blonde mistress’s temporarily discarded white socks and sneakers – which are still warm and sweaty from having been on her pretty, female feet all day)
· Walking home through the late-night, female, city streets, happily arm in arm with her car-mechanic boyfriend
· Having her female supper – alone – in her female bedroom
· Sleeping – alone – in her female bed (again, my face is preoccupied at such time with her discarded, white, high-top sneakers and white socks)
As I study her sneakers and socks throughout the day, I find it best to mentally immerse myself in her white socks, by focussing on such banalities as:
· The beautiful, feminine whiteness of her publicly-visible, slouch socks
· The magnificent contrast between the seemingly pure whiteness of her slovenly socks, and the grubby white of the canvas uppers of her converse-style, high-top sneakers
· The hidden, yellowy-brown, female, footsweat stains on the dirty soles of her otherwise pure-white socks
· The patterns in the ribbed stitching of her white socks (a mixture of horizontal and perpendicular)
· The number of stitches in any given groove in her thick, white socks
· The creasing and folding in her white socks as she goes about her superior, daily business above me
· Any pieces of lint, or loose stitching, developing on her, outwardly perfect, white socks
· Any alien dust or dirt marks attached to the surfaces of her soft, white socks
· The feel of her white socks, via the occasional, surreptitious and discreet brushing of my unworthy nose against the backs or sides of her socks (but not so that my blonde mistress would ever notice – under pain of the whip!)
· The moistness of her thick, white socks if/whenever I am ordered to massage her relaxing, socked feet
· The smell of her white socks – though, regrettably, for most of the day it is only the relatively fresh-smelling cotton of her socks’ uppers that I get to inhale
· The sound of her white socks – especially when she reaches down to straighten them against the soft, white skin of her lower legs
· The taste of her white socks, on those all-too-rare occasions when I am ordered to either kiss-worship them on her white ankles, or suck the vinegary sweat out of the yellowy soles
· The way her white socks seemingly tower over my kneeling head – oppressing it
· The self-evident superiority of her feminine-white socks over me – a dirty, male slave. My mistress’s white socks are better than me, and worth more than me, since they are the socks of a beautiful, young woman, and are in intimate contact with her feet and legs
I am largely ignored by the general populace, like some unpaid extra in a television soap opera, as I go about my humble business of following my blonde, slouch-sockmistress to heel, and staring at her female-white socks. The public are only vaguely aware of yet another girl’s white-sock slave kneeling obediently in the background at his superior mistress’s feet. Girls’ sockslaves are two a penny.
And tomorrow I shall do it all over again – albeit with a fresh pair of scrunched-up, white-ribbed socks on her shapely feet and ankles, in front of my sock-mesmerized face. That’s because I am my blonde mistress’s personal sneaker-and-sock slave, and, though I may be largely insignificant and ignored, if I fail to show such routine, sockslavish obsession towards her everyday, common-or-garden, white footwear, her father, her big brother, or possibly her car-mechanic boyfriend, will sorely whip me; and gleefully so.
At the end of each week I am ignominiously ordered to bury my maleslave-face in the personal stench of my private sockmistress’s stinky, white-sock, laundry basket, and to inhale her week-long sock-stink in all its vinegary glory, before mouthwashing and then hand-laundering all her dirty, white socks – ready for the following week. The free men of the house make damn well sure I launder my blonde mistress’s socks respectfully and diligently – as befits a household sockservant.
And if my hard-to-please, personal sockmistress remains dissatisfied with my sock-laundering efforts, all she has to do is say so, and I shall be justly whipped. All too often I am obliged to re-launder her socks with a sore, red back.
And all because she is the blonde girl, in the scrunched-up, white, slouch socks, with all the female power!
My cruel mistress Jacqueline is in one of her monthly bad moods – and boy am I suffering for it!
· 20 lashes for allegedly not answering her summons to her feet immediately (I did come as soon as I heard her calling me, but I’m a bit deaf and seemingly missed her first summons!)
· 25 lashes for ‘abusing’ her concession that I may look at her pink, elasticated bootsock-top whenever the rest of her navy-blue bootsock is hidden inside her boot (it seems I ‘abused’ this particular privilege by not subsequently lowering my slave-eyes down onto the navy-blue part of her sock whilst she was seated, and whilst the top of her boot was folded so as to reveal an expanse of navy-blue sock below the inner bootrim!)
· 20 lashes for her boyfriend being late to their dinner date
· A further 20 lashes (delivered by her aforementioned boyfriend himself) for ‘disrespecting’ him i.e. for casting a non-reverential look in his direction (all I was doing was looking at him quizzically to try and determine a possible reason for his tardiness – tardiness for which I was to be whipped on his behalf!)
· And 30 lashes just to facilitate my menstrual mistress in relieving her monthly tension!
That’s 115 lashes in one day – and I don’t believe I’ve actually done anything wrong!
P.S I received a further 40 lashes when my mistress discovered the contents of this blog post – and rightly so!
The two young ladies enjoy teasing the whipped slave in front of his manly master…
To Master Victor Sir, The Spoils by patheticus on GoAnimate
