Female Power Volume 5
Scenes of Absolute Female Power over the Lowly Male Slave
‘Ha! Ha! Are we cramping your style, prisoner-footslave?’
The beautiful, petite, 20-something, blonde mistress is standing directly in front of me, alongside her tall and mighty freemale boyfriend, and mocking me as I languish on my knees in the public stocks. She is referring to the fact that I must wait for her to graciously hold her dusty, red-and-white-plimsolled and white-lacy-anklesocked foot up to my face before I can kiss it, since my neck is not free to lower itself to the ground – like it usually would on my public-footslave stall. I thus feel powerless to kiss female feet without the lady’s gracious assistance – even though every bone and sinew in my maleslave body aches to pay labial homage to superior, feminine footwear.
Indeed, every bone and sinew in my wood-confined body just plain aches, as I have now been confined in the town-square kneeling stocks for some 5 hours – watching the world go by; or watching it occasionally stop by, as a not-so-kindly-mistress, such as this current blonde girl, chooses to tease and torment me with her so near, and yet so far, feet and footwear.
My pain is made all the worse by the fact that these are a set of ‘wonky stocks’, or ‘contortion stocks’ to give them their judicial name – designed to confine my kneeling torso at an unnaturally wonky angle, thereby putting added pressure on my already strained neck, back and shoulder muscles. It also makes it even more difficult for my mouth to make contact with the dainty feet of my female tormentresses, in order to pay respectful and penitential homage towards them – which only adds to my sense of footslave loss and pain. Even swallowing sweet feminine shoedirt is made difficult!
I can only tell that my current tormentress is blonde from her haughty attitude high above me. I’m afraid I can’t actually look up at her, or see her facial loveliness above her lacy, white anklesock-top. I am obliged to look only at her feet and lower legs from my 45 degree angular confinement. But that, of course, is the whole point of being punished in the wonky kneeling stocks – everything is designed to humiliate and degrade the already lowly footslave!
For example, I am well used to living my life on my knees; I haven’t been permitted to stand up since my 21st birthday (I am now 53 years old!). But, because I am now being punished, as well as required to lickshine and kissworship female feet, I am forced to kneel at an awkward angle on cobbled stones. The authorities have deliberately positioned the stocks in the town square because of the ancient cobblestones, which dig mercilessly into my bended-knee cartilage.
It’s sheer agony – matched only by the muscle cramps in my bended neck and shoulder!
Of course, I am completely at the mercy of the crowd down here – both male and female, though it is, naturally, the females who take the lead in my torment, since only they are allowed to impose their smelly feet on my kneeling face. A uniformed, female police officer is seated next to me on a high stool in order to ensure such compliance with the female law – and protect me from male feet; her own, uniformed, female feet hovering in the air as she sits, cross-legged, on the stool; her right, black leather, chunky-heeled and round-toed, laced-up ankleboot and matching, black cotton bootsock looming particularly large in my peripheral vision as she relaxes dominantly on the high stool; and with just a flash of smooth, white, upper ankleskin becoming fleetingly visible with every subliminal flexing of her shapely, sombre-black-socked anklebone!
Of course, if any drunken or recalcitrant freemale were to take advantage of me in any way in the stocks, he would merely be reprimanded by the female-police guard, and would then have the pleasure of watching me whipped on his lawbreaking behalf, since one of the paradoxical and conflicting laws of the Gynarchy is that a male footslave undergoing punishment in the public stocks can never be humiliated enough! He is fair game for everyone to humiliate!
Mind you, the current manly master-sir (the male consort of the blonde-haired, red-and-white-plimsolled, and white-frilly anklesocked, 20-something tormentress who is right now mockingly ‘apologising’ for cramping my shoelicking style) is being very well behaved – apart from making a witty comment about his having a ‘hunch’ that my back must be very sore indeed; a barbed reference (which goes down very well with the two ladies present) to the hunch-shape in my back caused by the deliberate wonkiness of the stocks.
The side-splitting master-sir is actually standing well back, so that his ugly and hairy male feet and legs are not interfering with my masochistic enjoyment of his girlfriend’s (or possibly wife’s – for they might, for all I know, be lawfully married; they are certainly in an intimate relationship together, I can somehow sense) sweet-feminine, plimsolls and socks, as her dainty, right foot is now, finally, lifted up to my dry and parched lips so that I may kiss the rubbery-red, scuffmarked toe-area of her cheap, strap-on plimsoll, whilst admiring the concomitant creases in her short, frilly-white anklesock.
The lacy top of her short sock inadvertently brushes against my fevered forehead, adding my unmanly sweat to her sweet-feminine ankle perspiration. I inwardly apologise to the mistress for sullying her upper sock with my face, though I dare not mention it out loud! (The female police-guard’s whipping strap is never far from my back whilst I am languishing in the punishment stocks!)
I wonder if the blonde mistress has been working out – or even making out – in those frilly, white anklesocks this morning? They certainly look well-used when you see them close-up and personal like this – bobbled, and literally creasing up with laughter at me as she teasingly rotates her plimsolled foot around my humbly kneeling face, making it difficult for my footslave-lips to gain purchase on the grubby and scuffmarked, red rubbery toe-end!
Meanwhile, the cherished and loved master-sir is, quite rightly, laughing out loud at me – the despised, male prisoner-slave – from a respectable distance, in his deep, manly voice. Even the professionally aloof, police-officer mistress can’t resist a discreet, girlish giggle at my plimsoll-faced torment in the stocks. Well, she is herself only a junior officer – in her early twenties; it would be hard for her not to giggle at a fellow, 20-something female shamelessly teasing a 50-something, male prisoner-slave with her scruffy, student-girl footwear!
The latter rubs the dirty and street-soiled, black-ribbed, rubber sole of her elevated, right plimsoll all the way down my skewed face, in order to, as she herself explains it, ‘purge her sole of its sin and filth!’
Oh, so she’s a religious blonde-girl – with high, moral standards? It just shows you how a male prisoner in the stocks should not rush to judgement on a seemingly cheap and nasty tormentress – for her bare-leg-exposing, capri-style jeans had suggested anything but female-moral rectitude on her part! Perhaps, therefore, I was wrong? Perhaps she is not shagging the master-sir who accompanies her, but is merely courting him, as a deeply religious girl should? Unless, of course, they are indeed married – in which case she has every religious right to be intimate with him!
It’s evidently not just her sole, but her soles, that the young woman is concerned about, as she deftly switches plimsolled-feet beneath me so that her left sole is equally rubbed up and down my face. At this point the master-sir gallantly steps forward in order to help steady his female partner, and assist her in maintaining her balance whilst she rubs the streetdirt she has been walking in into my helplessly confined face.
She simultaneously swoons into his gentlemanly arms, kissing him on the manly lips whilst my unworthy slave-lips make intimate contact with the dirt-stains on her left plimsoll-sole. I can closely observe her bare, white legskin just above her frilly, white anklesock-top whilst she passionately kisses the master-sir on the mouth; I sense that, religious scruples or not, he is in for a good time tonight (if he hasn’t already had a good time this morning?!)
The couple eventually lose interest in me, and walk off – leaving me with the businesslike, black bootsocks of my female-police guard in my peripheral vison, but the smell and taste of cheap, red and white plimsoll on my face and in my mouth. A wretched cramp in my left shoulderblade is a timely, and painful, reminder to me that I still have hours to go in the wonky stocks – and doubtless many more feminine shoes and socks to pay celibate homage to as they stop by me for a laugh and a mock.
The police-officer mistress’s right ankleboot is certainly writhing in anticipation of my continued humiliation, and even her staid, black, no-frills, uniform sock is creasing up with laughter at me as I groan involuntarily at the spasms of pain rippling through my puny, contorted, 53 year old body.
But I deserve all I get – for the Female Law has convicted me of a maleslave felony (impertinence towards a customer-mistress). And the Female Law is always right!
I kiss their feet in, and I kiss their feet out again. I am a female feet-greeter at the lobby entrance to a Public Ladies restroom inside a busy shopping mall …
The Feet-Greeter by patheticus on GoAnimate
She’s an absolute, top-notch, Class A customer-mistress, because:
· She is oriental
· She’s stroppy and full of herself
· She has bright, red hair
· She is wearing black
· She has thick, black, ribbed anklesocks inside her street-soiled boots (I take a sneaky peak down inside her black leather ankleboot-tops whilst I am dutifully tongueshining her boots’ uppers).
A glorious, young woman to have to serve – and I tell her as much!
She initially feigns anger, but her pretty face betrays soon her contentment with my verbal (and bootlicking) homage towards her…
Grade A Customer-Mistress by patheticus on GoAnimate
The pathetic, solitary-confinement, prisoner-slave’s hopes are raised…and then deliberately dashed!
And rightly so…
Plenty More Fish In The Sea by patheticus on GoAnimate
I never forget a pretty sock – especially not a thick, black, ribbed kneesock, worn with low-top, laced-up black plimsolls. This young woman has checked me out before; yesterday morning I believe it was?
She must be a potential purchaser!
I therefore ensure I am on my best behaviour, and kiss her black rubbery plimsoll-toes – the toes of my potential new mistress – even though she is wearing her thick kneesocks over dark nylon tights a sweaty combo I wouldn’t normally be overly-enamoured by; I like sock to be in direct contact with soft, female skin!
But what I like isn’t really here nor there; I’m just a slave. The question is – does this young woman like me enough to want to purchase me as her sock, nylon, plimsoll and foot slave?
She is certainly very pretty – mid twenties; dressed nearly all in black, apart from her white shirt underneath; black plimsolls; black socks; dark nylons; black, knee-length dress, with a black leather waistbelt around her midriff; a black, faux-fur coat – slightly longer than her black dress; a beautiful, swarthy complexion – possibly Southern European, though her language and accent suggests Eastern European (Romanian perhaps?); the only thing not naturally dark about her is her dyed, auburn hair.
Above all, though, she looks cruel – like she enjoys applying the whip to a maleslave’s back.
She is not alone this time – a tall and muscular, young man, also in his twenties, is with her; her boyfriend, I’m guessing. She certainly seems to want his valued opinion about me:
‚Ce crezi, draga mea? E destul de bun?’
I’m guessing that’s what she’s asking him, based purely on her intonation:
‚E un pic cam vechi, nu-i așa?’, comes the manly reply. It sounds sceptical, so I redouble my efforts on the young woman’s arrogsantly outstretched plimsoll.
She laughs:
,De aceea e atât de ieftine, dragă!’
She switches feet beneath me – as if giving me the opportunity to impress her boyfriend with my devotion to her cheap, black plimsolls. I kiss them ardently (for a showroom-footslave must always endeavour to sell himself; it is against the Law not to!)
One of the sales reps makes his slimy way over sensing a potential purchase (with, of course, commission for himself):
‘I must say, his face goes very well with your black plimsolls, madam! Are you thinking of buying him?’
She switches to English:
‘Yes, but my boyfriend thinks he is too old for me?’
The sales rep needs to quickly nip that one in the bud, and addresses the sceptical master sir:
‘Oh, but elderly footslaves are all the rage today, sir!...’ (NB: I’m 53!). ‘…They make for very loyal footslaves for young ladies; and, of course, they represent no threat to your manhood, since they are so old and impotent!’
The swarthy, young man seems swayed by this argument:
‘Of course – it is up to my girlfriend. I am just wondering if he can withstand the whip?’ he says in his East European accent.
‘Oh yes sir! All our slaves are regularly beaten – as you can see from the state of his back!...’
The salesman roughly pulls up my horsehair shirt to reveal my fresh, red stripes – delivered just yesterday morning by way of my weekly whipping. We showroom slaves are regularly whipped to keep us humble and keen to sell ourselves. Nobody wants us getting too comfortable in the footslave-showroom – we are there to be sold!
‘…And might I just add,’ continues the eager salesman, ‘we always throw in a complimentary whip with your slave-purchase – a genuine, leather, single-tailed whip!’
The Romanian couple deliberate with one another in their native tongue once more – thereby rudely cutting out the non-Romanian speaking salesman (and, not so rudely, myself – since I’m just a slave and don’t have a say in the matter) from their conversation:
,E foarte ieftin, dragă! Cred că ar trebui să-l! Și avem un bici gratuit!’ says the girl.
,Cum vrei, draga mea! La urma urmei, el va fi sclavul tău picior!, replies the man.
Sclavul. That sounds like the word for slave? And picior – foot or feet?
Things are sounding much more promising – in Romanian!
The body language confirms it. The couple kiss one another passionately on the lips above me, and the young woman’s right, plimsolled and socked ankle raises up into the air directly in front of my kneeling face as she swoons into her manly boyfriend’s embrace, causing her thick, ribbed, black kneesock to crease and fold around her shapely, raised anklebone.
That’s what she thinks of me – fit only to observe her socked-ankle creases as she lustfully worships the real man above me; a much younger and better-looking man; a sexually active man; a better man.
And richer too, it seems – for he hands over the money for me in cash to the delighted salesman. I am, it would appear, a gift from the young, Romanian man to the young, Romanian woman!
I am unchained from my post – though only temporarily, since the far end of the chain is quickly attached to the back of the young woman’s black leather belt; a black leather belt to match the black leather whip now being complimentarily handed to the muscular, Romanian master-sir! He looks like he can’t wait to try it out!
But first the happy couple must get me home – and so I crawl to plimsolled heel behind my new Romanian mistress, observing the heels of her tall, black socks creasing and folding with every step she takes as they head towards the tram stop.
Seated on the tram, they kiss all the way home. It seems I am an aphrodisiac, as I kneel beneath the tram seat on the dirty floor with my face next to my new mistress’s plimsolled feet. And part of my role in their foreplay – as I unfortunately discover when they get home – is to be whipped by the master sir as I kneel in front of my new mistress’s feet:
‚Mai tare! Mai tare! Bate-l mai tare!’, she exhorts him.
Harder! Harder! Beat him harder!
You see, I’m learning Romanian already! The whip is a great teacher!
What do you think, darling? Is he good enough? He’s very cheap, darling! I think we should take him. And we get a free whip! Harder! Harder! Beat him harder!
The office-restroom, Indian cleaner-mistress’s younger sister – 40 year old miss Raga – mops the floor with a limp. She has a slightly gammy, left foot – in that it is permanently turned inwards.
That makes me respect her foot all the more, of course – and I make a point of worshipfully cupping it as I kiss it, each and every time she presents her left foot to my perma-kneeling face for kissing in the ladies’ restroom (where I am based as a respectful, ornamental footkisser).
That’s not the only reason why I respect hardworking, replacement-cleaner mistress Raga’s left foot, of course; I respect it also because:
· It is a dainty, feminine-sized foot
· It is clad in white cotton, trellis-stitched sock, and cheap, musty black leather loafer, beneath her skinny-tight, and dusty, black denim jean-hem
· I can see her soft, brown, sweat-emitting footpores through the trellised stitching of her white anklesock
· Her loafer leather tastes, as well as smells, musty
· Miss Raga doesn’t speak much English – not even as much as her full-time cleaner sister, miss Pratima (who is currently away visiting relatives in India), and is herself just arrived from India on a Gynarchy Visitor’s visa. Hence miss Raga is actually working here illegally – making me admire and respect her illegally working, gammy left foot all the more, since it is the precious foot of an outlaw (of course, if caught working illegally, miss Raga won’t be the one to be punished by the Female Law; that honour will befall some hapless courtroom whipping-boy, who shall be whipped at her loafered and socked feet. I wish it could be me!)
· Because of her limited English, she appears to ‘bark’ her contempt down at me in her authoritative, Indian-lady accent:
‘Slave kiss shoe. Not touch sock!’
‘Slave dirty. I clean!’
‘You a whore! You a feet whore!’
· Needless to say, such contemptuous remarks only serve to engender in me a sense of even deeper humility and respect for her Indian-female superiority. I wish for two things:
Ø That miss Pratima, the regular cleaner, has a long and relaxing holiday
Ø That when miss Pratima eventually returns from visiting her family abroad, she arranges for me to be smuggled back to India with her sister, miss Raga, so that I may be the one working illegally in a foreign country – as the hidden, household footservant of miss Raga’s gammy, left foot, which, no doubt in the heat and humidity of India, will be most of the time bare and/or sandalled, and therefore fully exposed to my admiring footslave-lips!
‘You a fool! You kiss miss Raga foot, or I go get whip! Make sting dirty slave back!’
Miss Raga’s threat of fetching the ladies’ restroom whip in order to ‘make sting’ my back spurs me back from my daydreaming to the reality of her leather-loafered and white-socked, gammy left foot beneath my kneeling face.
I fervently cup and kiss it.
My longstanding, personal footmistress of some 5 years – miss Adishree, who is of Indian origins – has kindly proposed that I become permanently ‘wedded’ to her 30 year old, feet and footwear in the following manner, at a 3 day ceremony due to take place in front of her friends and family in a month’s time:
· That on day one of the ceremony, I be required to kneel in front of her, and respectfully cup and kiss each of her feet 30,000 times at one second intervals (she says she will be wearing her usual, everyday, black leather , chunky-heeled and round-toed, zip-up ankleboots, and plain grey cotton bootsocks with black denim jeans at the ‘wedding’ ceremony, and therefore must distribute my kisses evenly across her boots and socktops)
· That on day two, I shall then be whipped 3,000 times at her feet by her two brothers – one on either side of me (she says that, because of the severity of the whipping, it shall be delivered in batches of 100 lashes at 30 minute intervals; thus it will take a full 15 hours for my back to become fully striped on day two!)
· That on day three I be tattooed with the words ‘Eternal footslave of goddess-mistress Adishree’ on my forehead; along with an image of her ubiquitous, black leather ankleboots on my left cheek; and an image of her equally ubiquitous, plain grey bootsocks on my right cheek. That I then be fitted with a permanent set of thick, wooden blinkers, attached to a heavy, wooden, slave-collar around my neck known as a cangue – both the blinkers and cangue being made from unvarnished and rough, ignominious wood, and with the cangue being just loose enough around my scrawny slave-neck to allow me to breathe and swallow, but tight enough to be permanently uncomfortable and overbearing, causing perpetual muscle cramps and pain in my kneeling neck. She further stipulates that if I lose weight whilst I am wedded to her feet and footwear, the cangue can be tightened further; but it shall not be loosened in the unlikely event that I gain weight (unlikely – because I shall be deliberately malnourished and underfed, as befits a slave!)
· She goes on to explain that, because the blinkers and cangue are designed to keep me only unto her feet and footwear – by making it much more difficult for my perma-kneeling eyes and face to stray, without permission, onto the feet and footwear of other young women – the punishments for any such wedded-footslave disloyalty shall be quadruple what they would otherwise be; thus 40 lashes across my bare back and shoulders for a furtive glance at another woman’s boots; 80 lashes for a surreptitious nuzzling of another woman’s socktops; 400 lashes for an unauthorised kissing of another woman’s shoes or boots!
I praise and bless my goddess-mistress Adishree for her kind proposal of wedded footslavery to her personal feet and footwear, and humbly accept (as I am obliged to do under the Female Laws of the Gynarchy), making out that I can’t wait for my heavy blinkers and cangue to be fitted! In truth, I am very nervous about the whole forthcoming ceremony in a month’s time – not least because of the prospect of receiving 3,000 lashes on Day two!
My 30 year old, personal footmistress, miss Adishree, is explaining to me how I am to greet her 28 year old cousin, miss Nitya, on her forthcoming visit to the Gynarchy from India (for my ‘wedding’ ceremony to my mistress’s feet and footwear!):
‘Dirty, about to be whipped slave, when my cousin-sister enters the house you will kiss her on the boots. If she is showing you her sock you will kiss that also. Never, you will be looking at her above the sock, for she, like me, is being much better than you! Am I making myself clear, Indian woman’s boot and sock slave?’
‘Yes mistress Adishree madam!’
I certainly would never dream of looking my mistress Adishree above the plain grey bootsock (especially not when the promised heavy cangue and wooden blinkers are permanently fitted to my permanently kneeling face!). And when miss Nitya eventually arrives, sure enough – thanks to the outstretched positioning of her foot in the porch – I see a tiny slither of plain, black, elasticated and vertically stitched ankleboot-sock above her upper, black leather, ankleboot-rim. Mindful of my mistress Adishree’s crystal clear instructions, I kiss Miss Nitya first on the outstretched, rounded boot-toe, and then on her elasticated cotton socktop, taking great care not to look at her soft, brown, Indian-girl ankleskin above the plain black sockline (Oops – I mean, I presume her ankleskin is soft and brown above her black bootsock!)
I am a souvenir sock-kisser for female tourists to the Gynarchy.
Day and night, all along the ‘Gynarchy Embankment’ in the capital city of Barbaria, I must kiss young women’s touristy socks as they are presented to me at my public sock-kiss stand on their fully-shod, female feet. Thus, unless they are wearing open-toed sandals, it tends to be on the creased ankle-areas of their socks that I must place my souvenir kisses.
Often I must pose for photographs with my mouth on their socks, so that they can take ‘sock-selfies’ of me humbly kissing the sides of their socks using their mobile phones, which they then gleefully upload to their blogs and photo-sharing websites.
In my humble experience:
· Japanese girls giggle when having their socks publicly kissed
· Swedish girls are serious when having their socks publicly kissed
· African-American girls are triumphant when having their socks publicly kissed
· Indian girls are haughty when having their socks publicly kissed
· Korean girls are shy when having their socks publicly kissed
· Latina girls are wanton when having their socks publicly kissed
· Filipina girls are joyous when having their socks publicly kissed
· Romanian girls are raucous when having their socks publicly kissed
And the freemale, sexual partners of all he above are demanding when their girlfriends or wives are having their socks publicly kissed – demanding that I show proper respect not just for the feminine socks, but also for the female wearers of the socks.
If I am deemed not to be sufficiently humble and respectful of their female partners (and or their female partners’ socks), they leave me with a painful souvenir of their visit to my public, sock-kissing stand – namely a stinging, red cut of the public-use whipping stick across my bare back and shoulders!
So I have come to respect all the sweet feminine socks presented to my face for souvenir kissing – be they long socks, short socks, thin socks, thick socks, clean socks, manky socks, patterned socks or plain socks. For they are all the chosen socks of my female betters, and I am truly honoured to be photographed worshipping them with my lowly sockslave-mouth!
Just think – those photographs will exist on the internet in perpetuity, and I shall forever be known as ‘that souvenir sock-kisser along the Gynarchy Embankment’!
Often, late at night, after the tourists have gone, some local free men (perverts) will come up to me and drunkenly (or soberly) ask me if I like it – having to kiss young women’s sweaty socks all day? Some of them have clearly been watching me for hours – for they’ll quiz me about a particular sock e.g. a spotty, pale blue and grey sock on a young blonde woman’s ankle that I may have kiss-worshipped hours ago. Did I enjoy kissing the blue, or grey, spots the most? My lips certainly seemed to linger on one of the grey spots? Or was that just because the young woman, and her boyfriend, wanted a picture of me kissing the blonde girl’s grey sock-spot? Was it a soft spot? Did I have a soft spot for the soft, grey spot? How did it smell? Etc. Etc.
I think they are actually quite jealous of me!
Today is ‘White Socks Day’, when all the young women of the Gynarchy traditionally wear white socks, to emphasise and accentuate their femininity.
For a public footservant (shoelick) such as myself, it is a rather colourless affair – though, in the absence of multicoloured socks, I still get to see a wide variety of differing, white-sock styles, of course. Everything from plain-stitched; to fancily stitched; to knee-length; to frilly and lacy (some with the lace coming unstuck); to ultra-short and supposedly ‘no show’ – though a footslave like me, perpetually kissing feet, can detect a ‘no show’ sock inside a feminine sneaker with no hesitation whatsoever!
The penalty for disrespecting a young woman’s white socks on White Sock day is double the normal penalty – hence 50 lashes. So we public footslaves must redouble our efforts to ensure compliance with the Female sock-laws!
Fortunately, I like white socks on a lady – and have no problem respecting and admiring them as I lick shoe or ankleboot! And if the socks are soiled by street dirt or dust, I discreetly suck it off the outer surface of the customer-mistress’s sock – for no young woman likes to walk around in dirty socks on White Socks Day!
