Gynarchy Fools Volume 3
He is the middle-aged, personal footslave of one of the Gynarchy’s young elite – a 19 year old female-university student. But she is not just one of the young elite because of her undergraduate status; she is elite because she is younger, better, cleverer, more beautiful and more high-class than he is.
He is just her personal footfool – fit only to crawl behind her to calf-booted-heel, desperately hoping and praying for a furtive glimpse of the scrunched-up tops of her elite, thick, grey, cotton bootsocks above her shapely, black leather boot-rims.
Because she is so high above him, both literally and socially, she does not deign to speak to him; but she has no need to; her snooty orders are quite clear – to constantly nose and admire the backs of her blonde-student-girl boots and/or socks, as a gentle reminder to the female wearer of those everyday boots and socks of his inferior, maleslave presence, and of her superiority and absolute girl-power over him.
She also makes him wear a jester’s hat with ignominious bells on it, which jingle every time he cocks his head to one side in order to get a better slave’s-eye view of her bootside or socktop. The bells are a public demonstration to all and sundry (as if it were needed!) that her boots and socks are likewise better, and more important, than he is; that he is their humble servant; and that he has no business even thinking above her upper sockline, for he is just a bright young woman’s personal foot, sock and boot-fool. A well and truly pussy-whipped (not to say back-whipped) bell-ridden footfool of one of the Gynarchy’s female elite.
And, at the end of her college day, when she kicks off her boots and socks and relaxes on the sofa in the arms of her manly, freemale-student boyfriend, the middle-aged fool must kneel at the end of the sofa, ardently sniffing her now exposed, grey bootsocks on her shapely feet, and familiarising himself with their clammy and intimate smells – the lofty sock-smells of his young, female better; the only air he is fit to breathe. He must keep his foolish head perfectly still whilst he does so – so that the bells on his jester’s cap do not disturb his mistress’s nearby canoodling with the superior, young lord and master-sir!
How he admires the weave of her thick bootsocks as he sniffs them.
They gather drunkenly around me as the local, town hall clock chimes merrily at midnight and I languish painfully in the town square kneeling stocks; like bees to honey – the greasy-blonde, straggly-haired, miniskirted skank girl (cum queen bee) and her similarly attired, girlgang mates. All part of the Gynarchy's female underclass – but still infinitely higher up the social and evolutionary scale than a mere, male prisoner such as myself.
The lead skank is noisily slugging beer from a bottle and belching in and around my confined face, much to the amusement of her equally inebriated cohorts, but, cruelly, she doesn't offer me any of her cold, refreshing beer – dry and parched of throat and mouth though I am. Instead, she pours some of her beer down the stinging whipmarks on my outer back, making them smart even more – again, much to the approval and girlish merriment of her fellow beer-gurgling-members!
Then she, somewhat unsteadily, holds her musty-smelling, soft black leather, brothel-creepered, right foot up to my kneeling lips for the dusty, platformed toe-end to be respectfully parch-kissed by the teetotal prisoner in the stocks. I notice how her multicoloured, flowery-patterned, thin cotton anklesock is slovenly creased and misshapen around her tattooed anklebone, though I dare not attempt to lip-straighten her sock without her explicit, skank-mistressly permission. This young woman is drunk with power and I am very much at her mercy, so I concentrate on mouth-worshipping her dusty brothel-creeper.
She laughs triumphantly down at me as my still fresh whip-wounds glisten beneath the moonlight with her beer, for she knows she has found her inferior – someone who must, quite literally, look up to her from his law-enforced kneeling position when she pushes his male chin upwards from underneath with her girl-sized, brothel-creeper toe, even though it strains and hurts his wood-weary neck muscles to do so!
She then spits her beery saliva down onto my face, as a final act of her self-imposed superiority over me, and is soon joined by her fellow girlgang-members, until I literally reek of girl beer-spittle.
I only have myself to blame – for I am a male lawbreaker in this normally quiet, provincial town in the Gynarchy of Barbaria, and I thus deserve everything I get!
My 25 year old former goth-footmistress, miss Lauren, and her 42 year old goth boyfriend, came to mock me today as I rot in the foothole dungeons.
As the guards had instructed me to kneel and look out the bars of my cell door at ankle-level at my visitors’ feet, a delighted miss Lauren deliberately positioned her right foot so that I was obliged to look at the twisted, elasticated top of her pure, white cotton, bootsock atop her biker-style, black leather ankleboot just below her shapely and soft, right anklebone. Even in the forbidding murkiness of the dungeon corridor I could clearly make out the pure, feminine brilliance of her elasticated, white bootsock.
It was torture to have to look at it – so near, and yet so far – through the rusty bars of my cage; such a seemingly pure sock, and yet no doubt laced with sweat!
'Ha! Ha! Take a good look at what you're missing, slave!' mocked the 42 year old, goth master-sir, whilst putting his masculine arm supportively around my, no doubt smiling, former footmistress's shapely, feminine waist.
I have never liked him, nor he I; but I am forbidden to answer him back, for I am just an impotent footfool consigned to the dank and dismal foothole dungeons for life; whereas he is my young mistress's lover. I had my chance to serve her, and her socks, and I blew it! Now she has every right to tease and torment me with her crisp, white cotton bootsocks inside her black leather, biker boots; and her boyfriend has every right to revel in my maleslave impotence and discomfort – my inability to even respectfully nose or kiss his pretty, goth girlfriend's pure, white bootsock; symbol of her superior femininity!
I start to sob with footslavish frustration, and they laugh out loud. Their combined male and female laughter echoes gothically down the gloomy corridor of female power, as her black biker boots turn to click-clack away from me, alongside the black leather shoes of the freemale victor.
I feel honoured. Though I am but a lowly, ornamental footkisser in the Female Town Square, the (slightly inebriated) punk girl in her early twenties with the bright, pink hair and lip piercings is gleefully holding her black-plimsolled and frilly-pink-socked foot up to my ground-level face and having me kiss her on the side of her socked anklebone whilst her student-boyfriend takes a picture of the joyous event on her mobile phone.
Of course, when the humiliating picture is subsequently uploaded to her social networking page, everyone will be admiring of the beauty of her black, canvas, low-top, laced-up sneaker and frilly pink anklesock – not of my ugly, maleslave face next to them. My face is just an appendage to her plimsoll and sock.
But – like I said, it is an inestimable honour for a face-in-the-ground, middle-aged, male public footservant such as myself to even be associated with a pink-haired, punk girl’s sneaker and sock – let alone to have my face photographed next to them!
How I envy my public-footslave colleague in the busy town square! Never a dull moment – morning, noon and night he has a plethora of female feet and footwear to lickshine and kiss. Why, I’ve heard tell that he even has female tourists queuing up to have pictures taken of their pretty, feminine feet next to his ugly face?!
I, on the other hand, am a public footslave on the outskirts of town – at the entrance to a ruined nunnery. We don’t get so many tourists nowadays!
Don’t get me wrong – I fully understand why the Female Authorities have placed me at this god-forsaken site; the female tourists who do venture this far out of town must have something to wipe their feet on before entering the ruins of this once hallowed place, especially since it is located in the middle of a muddy field. It’s, quite literally, a dirty job – but someone male, and enslaved, has got to do it!
But the problem is I can go for literally days without a snifter of sweet feminine sock; or a taster of bitter female boot or shoe leather!
Which makes it all the more disappointing is when my one visitor of the day – a studious-looking, bespectacled, young, dark-haired French woman with delightful, red-canvas, lightweight sneakers and frilly white anklesocks – fails to stop and wipe her dirty feet on my upturned ‘boot-scraper’ face (for ‘boot-scraper’ read also ‘sneaker-scraper’ and ‘ballet-flat scraper – for my face is suitable for all forms of female footwear to be wiped on, including lightweight, laced-up, red canvas sneakers!)
Perhaps she didn’t understand the sign advertising my facial footwear-cleaning services in English; or perhaps she didn’t think her beige-rubbery sneakersoles were dirty enough to require wiping clean on my face prior to her entering the holy site; or perhaps she was just too engrossed in her French telephone conversation to care?
But, whatever the reason, I feel aggrieved to have missed out on what would have been the undoubted highlight of my lonely day – the sight of her lacy-white sock frills framing her shapely, twenty-something anklebones beneath her skin-tight, pink cotton leggings as I lick-cleaned the muddy, beige soles of her secular, red sneakers above me.
It would have been an act of worship in a place now devoid of worship; but the young French woman clearly has better things to do with her time than have her sneakersoles cleaned. Indeed, her entire visit to the nunnery barely lasts five minutes, and she totally ignores me again on the way out, still engrossed in her Franco-phone conversation!
I notice, as she walks right past me, that her white anklesocks are uneven on her ankles; the left one, in particular, is wonky. Oh the agony of not being able to straighten it for her with my lowly mouth!
Like I said, she was my only visitor of the day; even my female ‘minder’ – a student from the local Female College – failed to turn up and feed me today.
Oh I wish I could be a town square footslave – with tons of female tourists using my footwipe face to clean their soles every day; instead of nun!
Yes it's true, my friend, that my lips are never far from female feet, and they are rarely unoccupied with kissing female shoe, boot or sandal leather here in the town square. But having to quickly kiss a succession of female tourists' feet has its frustrations too!
Take the Japanese-female tour group who have just been utilising my mouth, for example. Twenty delightful pairs of female, foreign feet in all to show my respects to. It might sound like heaven – but none of them linger. A quick kiss; a photograph; a snigger or a giggle; and they're gone; with barely enough time to even study and appreciate the various patterns in the stitching of their individual sneaker-socks, or to soak up the taste of their individual sneaker-canvas or sandal-strap leather!
Just a fleeting glimpse is all I get, before it's time to move onto the next one. I feel like some sort of sneaker and sandal slut! At least, on the rare occasions when you do get a visitor to your face, they must surely tarry a while, whilst they scrape their dirty, muddy, feminine shoe or bootsole across your turned-up face, giving you time to study their shoes and socks properly, albeit from below?
You think? My customer-mistresses at the isolated, old nunnery are just as likely to be in a hurry as yours are in the busy town square! And besides, I'm not saying I never get any female tour groups; in actual fact, I get a religious tour group about once a week – come to wipe their feet on me before entering the old nunnery. But it's very difficult to properly admire feminine footwear from below when your eyes are full of boot and shoe mud!
I guess we share the same frustrations – only mine are punctuated by long periods of footslave-boredom! We are meant to actively serve female feet – it's in our DNA!
Just be grateful for small mercies, then; you could be living in a non-Gynarchy State – with little or no opportunity to abase yourself publicly at the feet of young women; a footslave celibate! Ha! Ha!
That's true! The muddy grass is always greener, as they say!
The master-sir is clearly aroused, as he watches his pretty, 18 year old girlfriend humiliate me in public at my public-shoelick stand by making me lickshine the street grime off the fronts and sides side of her grubby-white, canvas plimsolls beneath her short, white anklesocks!
It's not that he envies me! He is glad not to be the one with his face so close to her grubby and unkempt sneakers and socks! On the contrary, his manly arousal comes from witnessing his pretty, brunette girlfriend dominating and degrading me with her unappealing, everyday footwear!
I only wish I could become aroused like him as I go about my humble, female-footwear-cleaning business…
…for she is indeed such a pretty, young woman towering over me!
