Female Power Volume 4
Scenes of Absolute Female Power over the Lowly Male Slave
Well, that’s interesting!
The tall and athletic looking, black customer-mistress’s black anklesock on her left leg, peeking out above the top of her shiny, black patent leather, Chelsea-boot rim, and just below her long, stylish, ankle-length dress, is seemingly more creased above the bootrim than the sock on her outstretched, right leg currently beneath my kneeling face, and yet it is simultaneously higher up her brown leg than the sock on her right ankle – from which seeming paradox I can only deduce that the sock on her right leg is more sweaty, thereby causing it to slip down her shapely, brown anklebone a bit further, deep inside the warm and clammy confines of her shiny, black bootie.
Of course, the only way I can test my theory for sure is by undertaking a surreptitious sniff-test as I lickshine the upper rims of each boot. And so I steal myself to do just that…
That’s interesting! The right ankle didn’t smell any sweatier than the left, after all! But, now that I have had the humble opportunity for a close-up view of both black socks, I have ascertained that they are not, in fact, a pair – but are slightly different in their stitching, texture and, of course, as we already know, length!
Carelessly odd socks on a beautiful, black customer-mistress; now – that’s interesting, if you’re a public footslave! (I shouldn’t think anyone else is much interested?!)
When the party of three, pretty, uniformed prison-officer mistresses enter your cell in order to administer your caning punishment, begin by crawling over towards them, through the dirt and dust of your solitary-confinement cell floor, and humbly kiss their dusty, black leather, uniform boot-toes.
Lick your dirty cell-dust off their thick, uniform boots, and apologise to them for sullying their unisex, female footwear.
If you can see even just a slither of their socks inside their boots, kiss those also – as a gesture of your undying respect for each of them. If they are patterned socks, kiss the patterns intelligently – like you admire the pattern. If they are cartoon-character socks, kiss them on the cartoons – out of respect for the stern officer-mistress’s subliminal sense of non-uniform-compliant, secretive sock-humour.
Do not baulk if the boots are dirty, and the socks manky; get stuck in with your quivering, quaking and dry with fear lips, for you are at the mercy of these three all-powerful, young women in uniform, and must convey your abject, male fear and trembling to them in a manner befitting a weak and impotent, male prisoner-slave.
Then submit yourself with humility and resignation to being ignominiously woman-handled and secured, face downwards, over the deliberately uncomfortable, prison punishment trestle. Focus on their threatening boots and socks as they move around you, tightening your bonds. Be ashamed – for you are now butt naked in front of some fully-uniformed, young ladies. Soon they will make your bottom blush (and weep!).
During the administration of your caning, which they will all take in turns – one caning you on your left flank; one on your right; and one standing in front of you with your head pinioned between her shapely, booted anklebones – cry out with the pain, and in male fear and anguish; for they are professionals, who will enjoy hearing you suffer.
After the caning, as soon as you are released from the trestle and allowed to slump onto the dirty, cell floor at their feet, kiss their boots (and socks) again, and thank them, through your pathetic, self-pitying blubbering, for caning you in such a lovely way. Extol their virtues as caners, and assure them of your absolute, male-prisoner penitence and contrition.
Then think about their boots and socks after they leave you alone to throb in your cell. Think about how those boots and socks will be making love to their freemale boyfriends tonight – enthused and inspired, no doubt, by the suffering they have so judiciously caused you!
Think – and be grateful that your female caners took the female time and energy to physically hurt you, and harm you. Be grateful that you have been broken by three of the female best!
Her thick, cotton bootsocks are very feminine – pink with large, white spots. They keep my blonde-ponytailed, 21 year old mistress’s feet warm inside her scuffmarked and street-soiled, black leather, zipped-up, blocky-heeled and round-toed ankleboots – as they need to do on a cold and frosty morning like this, when she must sit outside in the semi-cold of her bus station information booth.
I am her boot and sock warmer – employed by the bus company, and required by law to kneel on the cold, rough concrete at the base of her high stool, in order to blow warm air onto her socked ankles.
As I do so, I am acutely aware that her pink and white, spotty socks are better than me, as they rise up her shapely, white calf muscles, below her blue denim jean-hems, higher than my kneeling forehead. They therefore seem to tower over me – especially when she subliminally reaches down to pull her socks up.
I blow harder, for her subliminal, sock-strightening gesture suggests her legs are feeling the cold. I too am feeling the cold – on my bare, kneeling back. But I don’t want it to be warmed up with the whip, thank you very much!
How everyone, from the commuters to the bus station cleaners, despises me – the blonde information-assistant’s subhuman sock heater, blowing hot and cold on her pink and white, spotty socks all day long; unable to look at his mistress above the pink-spotty, sock top – so lowly is his head!
No wonder I am kicked and spat at as I do my menial job!
I have to admit it – as I was kissing office-mistress Tahira’s black leather ankleboots (in the Ladies’ Restroom, where I belong) with footslavish vigour and enthusiasm, as she is a very powerful and dominant, young lady, I was particularly enamoured by the secretive sight of her thick and bobbled, plain grey cotton bootsock-tops inside her turned-over ankleboot cuffs, and her socks were inspiring me to even greater efforts on her divine, office boots.
What I hadn’t noticed, however, was that skinny cleaner-mistress Pratima was jealousy watching me from behind her mop – jealous, that is, of the slavish attention I was paying to her fat office-colleague’s boots. It seems that I ‘never’ show such fervent respect for her white rubbery, cleaning-girl boots?!
As a result, she angrily confronted me after office-mistress Tahira had exited the restroom, and threatened to have me whipped. Which she duly did.
See for yourself!
A Cleaner's Jealousy by patheticus on GoAnimate
‘That’s made my day, slave!’
I can smell my round-faced, blonde-haired mistress Angelica’s halitosis as she crouches down to gloat over me in the basement kneeling-stocks. She is referring to the fact that she has just witnessed her strong and mighty husband beat me to a pulp on the false pretext of her accusation that I had ‘disrespected’ her by longingly looking at another young woman’s black leather, laced-up ankleboots and bright, turquoise bootsock-tops out on the streets – thus ‘ignoring’ my own mistress’s plain, soft, black leather loafers and tan-nylon tights!
Loafers and tights which she still has on, and which are now creased and folded beneath my face as she crouches in order to gloat over my sore, freshly-whipped back!
Her husband – the whipper – has retired to their boudoir in readiness for his sexual reward for so proficiently whipping me; the reward of making mad, passionate love to his horny and turned-on wife, who has been sexually stimulated by the sights and sounds of a lowly and helpless, male slave being soundly beaten by a much better man – the man she loves and to whom she is married.
I blubber over her plain, ordinary loafers – sadly unable to lower my lips to their surfaces in order to pay my labial respects to them (due to my kneeling neck being so ignominiously confined in the heavy, rough wood of the kneeling-stocks crossbeam). But we both know that I have learnt my lesson, and that I won’t ever give the erroneous impression of lusting after another young woman’s feet and footwear – however enticing and appealing that boot and sock footwear-combo may be!
Yes – it is strictly my own mistress’s much less inspiring loafers and nylons from now on. I shall think of them, lying untidily in a hasty heap on the master-bedroom floor above me as the mistress and master are noisily making love, and regret that I cannot be there with those discarded nylons and loafers, my nose buried in their freshly-worn smelliness.
My mistress Angelica giggles at my evident discomfort – and then leaves me in my lonely pain, locking the basement door behind her.
Whist my brunette and bespectacled, 23 year old, postgraduate, personal footmistress is seated in the female-university lecture hall, absorbing the information about existentialist philosophy, I am kneeling quietly and unobtrusively with my face next to her feet, absorbing the subliminal movements in her black leather, blocky-heeled, round-toed, zipped-up ankleboots, and matching, black cotton anklesock-tops, as they, in turn, absorb her daily, feminine foot-perspiration inside those everyday, student-girl boots.
One way or another, we are all fully absorbed in what we are doing – though I am the lowliest of all the things mentioned.
My new master-sir explains to me – as I kneel with my head respectfully buried in a pile of his 23 year old, oriental wife’s dirty, used socks – that I am to be his wife’s ‘seasonal sockslave’.
Because I’m just an ignorant slave, he graciously explains to me in more detail exactly what he means by that:
‘My pretty, young, Chinese wife only likes to wear her socks in the autumn and winter months. Therefore, your active services will not be required for half of the year, and you will spend most, if not all, of the spring and summer months locked away here in my wife’s basement sock-room with her dirty, unwashed socks. They shall remain unwashed so that you do not forget the smell of your pretty sockmistress’s feet as you study her socks in intimate detail throughout the spring and summer.
Come the autumn, you will be permitted to mouth, and then hand-wash, your mistress’s socks ready for her to wear again on her feet. You will then be required to follow her to socked heel throughout the autumn and winter months, though only during the daytime whilst she is wearing her socks inside her winter shoes or boots on her feet, or when she is relaxing on the sofa with her socked feet up.
My beautiful, young, Chinese wife does not wear socks in bed – even on the coldest months – so at night-time you will always be confined to your basement sock-dungeon, together with the sweaty, unwashed socks that she has been wearing that particular day, if applicable.
You will, of course, be required to mouth and hand-wash your mistress’s socks on a weekly basis throughout her sock-wearing months.
As you can see, and smell, slave, my wife has a goodly collection of diverse styles and textures of socks – everything from short, black cotton, no-show socks to long, thick, woolly argyle-patterned socks. Needless to say, you shall have no say whatsoever in my wife’s choice of sockwear each day – though she may consult me. Unlike you, I am not the slave of her socks, and can therefore express my manly opinions as to my favourites. You, on the other hand, must respect and admire all of my wife’s socks, as they are the chosen socks for her feet by either myself, or my wife.
If you deviate in any way from thinking about, studying, sniffing, or constantly kiss-worshipping my wife’s socks, you shall be sorely whipped. Your only legitimate business from now on is the care, well-being, and admiration of her socks. You must have ‘sock on the brain’, or I shall have you professionally whipped at the local whipping-house.
During the summer, when you are out and about behind my wife’s socks, if anyone deigns to address you, you must reply only in terms of my wife’s socks. For example, if someone foolishly enquires as to your well-being, you must respectfully assure them that you are very well, thanks to you’re being in close proximity to your mistress’s socks. You must never utter a single sentence without reference to my wife’s pretty socks.
Girlsock-servant; girlsock-face; girlsock-flunkey; girlsock-sniffer – call yourself whatever you will; but my wife’s socks shall well and truly dominate your pathetic existence from now on, even during those long summer months when she goes barefoot inside her sandals and shoes.
It’s now July – so you won’t actually meet my pretty wife – your sockmistress – for another three months or so. So I’m going to leave you now with enough bread and water for just nine weeks. I suggest you start to study my wife’s socks, and get to know their stale, sweaty aroma. We’ll then come back in the autumn and, having tested you on your knowledge of my wife’s socks, teach you how to properly mouthwash them in readiness for her to wear during the winter months.
Do you have any questions, sockslave?’
‘No master sir; thanking you kindly, master-sir; this slave is the slave of your wife’s socks, sir.’
The master exits the basement sock-room and locks the door after him – locking me in with his wife’s stale sockstink, but, thankfully, leaving the bare light bulb on so that I can begin my humble study of his wife’s seasonal, sweaty-sock collection!
It’s miss Pratima, again – the tell-tale taskmistress…
The Tell-Tale Taskmistress by patheticus on GoAnimate
The seemingly demure, miniskirted Filipina customer-mistress’s pure, white anklesocks, neatly folded over above her low-top, pink and white sneaker-rims, have a humiliating message written on them for me, in bold, black-stitched lettering:
‘You will never get to f**k me, slave!’
The message couldn’t be clearer – or more humbling.
I duly kiss her frigid, Filipina-girl socks with maleslave impotence and respect.
Luckily for me, and my back, I speak several different languages…
Polyglot Footslave by patheticus on GoAnimate
