Gynarchy Fools Volume 4
She’s a beautiful, black girl from head to toe – fit and lean; afro-style hair; even her blue and white tracksuit looks designer-athletic!
So why, then, is she wearing a manky old pair of scuzzy, nominally white but in reality grey, running sneakers on her shapely feet and ankles? Is it just to humiliate me – the public footservant – as I am ordered to lickshine her scuzzy footwear, by demonstrating her utter contempt for me (i.e. by not getting ‘foot-dressed up’ for me?)
Or, is it just that she knows no real men are looking at her feet, but rather at her shapely body and pretty face? Only I need be concerned at the state of her sneakers, since I am responsible for sprucing them up – with my publicly-owned tongue!
Her slovenly, grey-white sneakers dominate my face as her own pretty face laughs at the approving, complimentary gestures and wolf-whistles of some semi-drunken, freemale passer-by. She’s loving his manly, male attention – and blissfully oblivious to the utter humiliation of the lowly, head-in-the-wall, male slave at her scuzzy-sneakered feet!
I love being the personal footslave of an amateur, female cyclist. With every revolution of her legs I get to see, close-up and personal, the power of her shapely, young-womanly, ankle tendons inside her pink and yellow sock on her left foot, as her ankle-muscles flex on the pedal and her sock creases in tandem.
That’s because I am ignominiously attached to her female cycle as a kind of male human-sidecar – on castors, with my lowly head at her left-pedal level whenever it reaches the bottom of each 360 degree turn. I therefore get to witness, at first face, the sheer girl-power of my beautifully helmeted and lycra-shorted, bicycling mistress’s ankle-muscles as she propels us both along the female city streets.
And I shall have the honour of mouthwashing those sweaty, hardworking, pink and yellow, cycling socks at the end of the day whilst my mistress relaxes in the arms, and strong thighs, of her male cycling buddy – master Robert sir.
She is still modestly clad, as befits a representative of the pinnacle of femininity – in an outfit consisting of a silken, green salwar kameez suit and headscarf – even whilst she jogs along the city streets on this hot and sunny day.
But that doesn’t stop the twenty-something, Pakistani, Muslim jogger-mistress from showing me a flash of pure, white running sock as she stops for a quick breather and to have her green and black running sneakers suitably lickshined and kiss-worshipped by the street-corner, public footservant.
I lick with alacrity, for I sense her checking her dainty wrist-watch, and just know that she’ll be wanting to jog off again soon. More’s the pity – for I would very much like to nose and nuzzle her ribbed, white anklesock-tops, if she had the time; just to ascertain how moist and sweaty they are from her road-running exertions!
32 year old, slim and svelte, blonde office-mistress Juliette is leaving on well-deserved promotion today, and she is paying me a visit – the communal, basement office-footfool – because, she says, she has some unfinished business with me.
Namely:
· A pair of officewear ankleboots (the ones she has on now) which require lickshining
· A pair of soft, black leather, officewear ballet-flats with ingrained scuffmarks on the toes, which need to be ‘erased’
· A pair of to-and-from-work walking sneakers, which, being predominantly white, show up all the street filth and dirt that she walks in (and which must, therefore, be removed by my tongue)
· 24 harsh strokes of the office cane, which she still owes me from having marked down my performances on her office footwear throughout the previous reporting year (she explains today that she kept meaning to beat me, but was too busy with her work; at least all her hard work has paid off for her, now that she has been promoted!)
Being an office footfool-cum-beatboy I am positioned permanently prostrate over a wooden whipping trestle, with my male face hanging down on one side at shoe-cleaning level, and my male buttocks arched high on the uppermost part of the trestle, fully naked and exposed to the cane-strokes of my dissatisfied, female-office betters. So office goddess-mistress Juliette can both have her footwear cleaned, and beat me, at will.
As she positions her spiky-heeled, pointy-toed, zip-up, black leather ankleboot with the bright red lining onto the wooden footblock beneath my hangdog face, I am gratified to observe that, beneath her now slightly-raised, black-pinstriped, trouser hem she is wearing her plain, black cotton bootsock – and that the latter is somewhat creased and twisted around the top of her shapely, 32 year old, blonde-girl anklebone. I shall thus, at least, have a nice view, whilst I am diligently lickshining her office boot; and I shall have the nice memory of her twisted, black bootsock-top inside her red-lined, office ankleboot when she eventually moves to stand behind me and deliver her biting cane-strokes to my bare buttocks!
She snootily says nothing as I lickshine her right boot, followed in due course by the left (same style of twisted, black bootsock inside her left boot). Nor does she make any comment, as she then slowly walks behind me; unhooks the dreaded, whippy, rattan cane from the corner of the punishment trestle; positions herself with her right, booted foot stretched forward behind me (but sadly not enough for her pinstriped, bootcut trouser-hem to ride up again and reveal a snippet of her creased, black anklesock); measures my bare buttocks and her intended target area by placing the wooden rod across it; and then, with a flutter of her right trouser-hem, raises the thin, whippy cane up into the air behind her, before bringing it back down again a skin-splitting second later with an ominous whoosh – the end effect of which is a thin and ultra-intense bar of fiery, red pain spreading across my central buttock region, temporarily distracting my thoughts from the hidden, black cotton sock inside her outstretched boot.
She repeats the process 5 times, before replacing the cane on its hook, and silently moving back towards the front of the punishment trestle (where I am now breathing heavily and blubbering); bending down to unzip first her right boot, and then the left; sliding off her warm boots; and momentarily standing in her black-socked feet in front of me, before taking her worn ballet-flats out of a carrier bag and casually slipping her socked feet into them.
I am to lick away the scuffmarks in her office flats, it seems, with the sting of 6 biting cane-strokes still throbbing in my poor, beleaguered buttocks!
Once again, the right ballet-flated foot is presented for my oral attentions first, and I desperately ty to lick away the offending, grey scuffmarks on the rounded toe-areas. An impossible task, really, which may be why, following my lacklustre tongue-efforts on both her flats, she moves to the backside of the punishment trestle to give me a full twelve strokes of the cane!
Truly my buttocks, and the tops of my fleshy thighs, are red and swollen by the completion of this second stage of my caning punishment.
At least I got to see her warm, black socks creasing and folding as she caned me this time in her freshly-licked, sock-revealing, ballet flats.
You know what comes next – the grubby-white, streetwalking sneakers (i.e. the sneakers she changes into in order to commute to and from work). They really are quite dirty and muddy and, whilst they go nicely with her plain, black anklesocks, I am actually quite relieved when she eventually deems them to be sufficiently divested of mud for me to desist from licking them on her feet, and prepare myself for my final round of cane-cuts – six remaining in all!
They turn out to be, predictably, six of the very best – delivered with real, female venom and an accompanying swish of her trouser-hems, revealing more of her black, office sockwear. It’s not that miss Juliette has any particular reason to hate me; she’s just good at her job – including her job of giving the office footfool-cum-beatboy his just desserts for his unfinished business of keeping her office footwear suitably pristine and clean.
No words of goodbye or good luck towards me as, still in her going-home sneakers, she turns to leave me in abject pain; just a satisfied, smug grin on her pretty, blonde face – the face of a bright and intelligent young woman who is going places, and leaving a well-beaten underling sorely behind!
‘Th…thank you, m…miss J…Juliette m…madam. God b…bless you, m…miss,’ I sob unmanfully.
My 50 year old, Pakistani footmistress –mistress Shazira madam – has ordered me to remove her shiny, black leather, office loafers from her bare, brown, post-work feet, and to replace them with her pink and white running-sneakers and socks. My mistress is very fit and lithesome for her age, and is getting ready for her regular, early evening jog around the local, suburban streets in the city neighbourhood where she lives with her husband, master Iqbal sir. She has already changed out of her office clothes and into her blue tracksuit (which I guess means she must have taken off her shoes and then slipped them on again, just so that I can be humiliatingly made to manually remove them from her sweaty feet again!)
My fingers are all of a tremble as I kneel down in order to remove her superior shoes from her superior feet, with my head respectfully bowed over them, as befits the head of a humble and fearful slave. I am fearful because my mistress Shazira is quick to anger and slow to forgive – and her household whip is never far from my back!
I, of course, respectfully kiss the slightly scuffmarked, rounded toes of her otherwise shiny, black loafer-shoes, as footslave-protocol dictates, before slipping them off her footskin. I admire the hue of her soft, brown, Pakistani-woman footflesh, and contemplate how my mistress Shazira's skin shall never know the burning pain of the whip, like mine. I then respectfully kiss a prominent, blue vein on each bare anklebone, before rolling up each white sneaker-sock in turn and pulling it onto her lower foot.
Each bare, white sock is then kissed over her impatiently wriggling, beautiful-Pakistani-woman toes, before I venture to lace-up each low-top, plain white sneaker onto her socked feet. A final, fearful kiss to each flaky, white leather sneaker-toe signals that I believe my humble job of besocking and besneakering her is done. All I can do now is await her surly inspection of my work, and brace myself for the wrath of her whip if she is dissatisfied with my performance in any way.
She looks even younger and fitter now, in her blue tracksuit and white sneakers and socks; stronger!
I cringe with fear as she stands up, and flinch as she stretches her right arm down in order to 'loosen up' prior to her run. Is she loosening up her arm muscles in order to better whip me?
No – thankfully it would seem not, for she merely turns and exits the lounge, leaving me kneeling and breathing a sigh of footslavish relief. No words of thanks emanate from her pretty lips, of course, for all my hard, slavish work on her footwear; but I don't care about that. I'm just grateful that my back survives another day without new scars of pain from my Pakistani mistress Shazira's persistently petulant whip!
At this rate, I fear I shall become complacent!
As I kneel on the office floor with my head forcibly bowed next to the black, laced-up, Oxford-style brogues and plain, black, cable-cuffed anklesocks of the beautiful, but surly, 32 year old, redheaded manageress in the office where I am to be employed as a communal footslave, she matter-of-factly explains to my newly-designated supervisor – a 40 year old, Indian-immigrant mistress wearing flat, brown, strappy open-toed sandals – how she wishes me to be mistreated:
'Constantly whip him, Radhi. Make sure he is never free from the sting of the whip on his bare back and shoulders. And likewise make sure that he is always working hard – whether it's lickshining the office-ladies' shoes; or kissing or massaging their feet; or just lick-cleaning the dirty floor. Also, I never want to see him raise his ugly head above our knees. As you can see, I've had the fool fitted with a heavy, wooden cangue-collar to facilitate this, but the whip is the other tool you may freely use to ensure his compliance with this stipulation. I will have his respect and humility in front of the superior ladies of this office, including your good self, Radhi!'
The redheaded mistress's black anklesock on her right ankle flexes in front of my kneeling, cangued face at this point, as if to emphasise the manageress-mistress's absolute determination to enforce my maleslave compliance and obedience to her superior-female wishes.
Meanwhile my Indian supervisor-mistress reassures her employer, in her cute Indian accent, that she need not worry – and that the whip and hard work shall dominate my humble existence from now on:
'Please to not be worrying, madam! I am making damn well sure that the slave is always working! And always I am whipping him and making him pain! He is just a damn fool, and will be constantly kissing your shoes and socks, madam. Isn't it, dirty slave?'
And with that the beautifully-besandalled Indian lady, with her unpainted and somewhat toejammy toenails, fiercely whips me with one cutting stroke of her brown leather, bulls-pizzle whip across my bare back and shoulders in order to signal my need to comply with her impromptu, sock-kissing pledge to the redheaded, manageress-mistress!
Needless to say, I hastily kiss manageress sock off the cuff, directly over the shapely, feminine anklebone!
The all-night, over 18s rave in the abandoned, muddy field may be illegal, but the underground organisers are perfectly within their rights to insist that I serve as a human footwipe for the many young women attending the illicit event!
Such a scruffy, muddy collection of sneakers and bright, wellington boots you never did see! But it was truly an honour for the likes of me – a 50 year old, insignificant-has-been of a male footslave – to serve the superior, female youth of the country in such a humbling way. Never has a middle-aged, human-male face been scraped by so many muddy, youthful-female sneaker and bootsoles, and never has such a bright collection of multicoloured and multifaceted, partying socks on shapely, young legs been admiringly observed from deep down below (socks festooned with bows; beaded ankle-bracelets; tinkling bells; and mud!)
One hyper-drunken, young goddess – a non-natural redhead – even lies down and sits on my face so that, aided and abetted by her equally high boyfriend, I can be forced to kiss the little, pink bows at the tops of her black woollen, thigh-length socks beneath her whorish, black leather miniskirt-hem. Her soft, white thighs wantonly spread out across my face, almost smothering me in her youthful, upper-leg fleshiness!
Truly, these foul-mouthed and rebellious, young women can carry on partying all night as far as I am concerned, for this is, most probably, the simultaneous highpoint and lowpoint of my long, bootface-scraping career!
It is common throughout the Gynarchy for mistresses' ankleboots to have a little groove at the back, in the upper rim, into which a footslave's nose can fit so that it is effectively attached to her sock.
Some personal bootslaves are thus permanently attached to the backs of their mistresses' thick, cotton bootsocks, and are known pejoratively as 'socknoses'. Even when the mistress removes her boots and socks at the end of the day, the sock will remain attached to the slave's nose until such time as he is ordered to mouthwash it, and then dry it on his upturned, sleeping face all night.
The point is that the socknose's face must forever be associated with his mistress's socks (or at least one of them – usually her right sock) because she is better than him; and thus so is her sweaty sock!
I am one such socknose – to my beautiful, blonde mistress Caroline, a 32 year old office-worker with a penchant for wearing heavy, laced-up, low-heeled, black leather ankleboots with plain, grey bootsocks beneath her black cotton, bootcut trouser-hems. Throughout the day my socknose is resting in the 'socknose-groove' at the back of her right ankleboot, and is simultaneously touching her sock. My mistress Caroline likes the feel and constant reminder of my socknose-presence, and likewise I feel honoured to be so intimately associated with her plain grey, scrunched-up, bootsock top.
Occasionally she will even have me nuzzle the top of her sock, like an animal, as a public demonstration of my footslavish love and admiration for her sock (and woe betide me if I don't come across as respectful enough of her sock, for then I shall be sorely whipped!)
Of course, there are a number of practical considerations to take into account when serving as a bright, young woman's personal socknose-servant:
- Whenever she is walking along, it is physically impossible for one's nose to remain perpetually in contact with the back of the mistress's sock without impeding her movement. Thus the socknose's nose is actually attached to the sock by means of a stretchy, elasticated band which is pierced through his nasal septum, the other end of which can be attached to the back of any suitably-lengthed, female sock, and which consequently permits some degree of flexibility and space between the back of the mistress's sock and the slave's face whilst she is in boot-motion (but only whilst she is in motion; as soon as she is stationary again, the elastic band must retract and the slave's humble nose must one again make worshipful contact with the back of the superior, female bootsock along the upper bootrim, under pain of the whip!)
- Whenever one's socknose is resting in the back-of-boot groove and is thus very up close and personal to the mistress's sock, it is not naturally possible for the slave's eyes to be able to focus on the individual stitches in the mistress's sock – even on the thick, grey stitches in a beautiful, soft bootsock such as my mistress Caroline's. Thus she has had my eyes surgically readjusted so that they MAGNIFY her sock in front of my face, thus enabling me to distinguish the individual stitches in her sock, and concentrate on them. The downside of this (if it is a downside) is that I am now incapable of seeing anything beyond the girlsock in front of my face; everything else is just a blur. But it doesn't really matter, since I have no business looking at anything other than my mistress Caroline's sock, since I am her socknose-slave!
- I can, of course, be attached to any of my mistress's bootsocks – not just her grey ones. And it is always exciting when she attaches a new sock to my nose! But the system only really works with full, ankle-length bootsocks. Sadly sneaker-socks, even if worn inside her boots, are not high enough for me to be ignominiously attached to them! Likewise, it isn't practical for her dainty, feminine, lightweight, low-top sneakers to have a sufficiently large groove at the back for a maleslave nose to fit into (though I do know of some socknoses who spend their time attached to the backs of their mistresses' high-top sneakers!). So my life is dominated by thick, ribbed, woollen or cotton bootsocks, rather than short, thin, or lacy anklesocks. But that's okay, for there is inevitably much more sock-material for a devoted socknose to bury his nose into in a thick, warming bootsock!
Needless to say, socknoses are amongst the most mocked and despised footslaves in the Gynarchy – and rightly so; for we are more or less permanently attached to the back of a young woman's sweaty bootsock!
'You can bring your socknose along with you, if you like darling?', a master-sir will often say when he invites my mistress out on a date, for he knows I am no sexual rival to him for my mistress's loving respect and admiration, and that I must remain impotently attached by my nose to her hastily discarded bootsock in the corner of the master-bedroom whilst he makes manly love to my mistress in my blurry, short-sighted, sock-sniffing presence.
Some master-sirs even pull their girlfriend’s discarded sock away from my face as tight as the elastic band will let it go, and then painfully snap it shut on me again! But I wouldn't change my humble position as a socknose-slave for anything in the world. Being my mistress Caroline's socknose gives me a pathetic, slavish sense of purpose and belonging – to a girl's sock!
Socknose For Rent by patheticus on GoAnimate
The demure, Mediterranean mistress in the smart, grey business jacket, short grey-pinstriped miniskirt, and plain black, flat loafer-shoes with full-length black anklesocks with white, elasticated trims, seems a bit wary of me at first – the public footlick beneath the park bench. But, having observed how I am secured firmly on my hands and knees in shackles, and therefore that I am totally helpless, and powerless, and at her Mediterranean-girl mercy, she summons up the female courage to eventually approach me; stretch forward her right, loafered foot onto the dusty ground beneath my kneeling face; and order me, in her cute, broken English and her sultry, Italian accent, to kiss her foot.
My dry and parched, public-footslave lips almost bounce off the softness of her shoe leather. I feel her Italian-girl toes twitch underneath. This is the acid test; will she, like so many footkiss first-timers, gigglingly withdraw her pretty, socked ankle from my block and run away in sensuous overload? Or will she stay for more?
The signs are good; she bravely stays put, switching feet beneath me. No need for her to verbalise her orders to me this time; my lips go down on her second shoe.
She then withdraws her pretty, Italian foot from the block; now she laughs; now she turns to walk away; but not before she takes a picture of my humiliated face on her mobile phone. A sadistic souvenir.
After she's gone, I lick my lips as a masochistic memento of her dusty, Mediterranean shoeleather.
I envy him; I actually envy him – the footfool kneeling next to his beautiful, black mistress's feet at the bar stool!
Unlike me, he doesn't have to try to impress her; to chat her up; to woo her with the aim of getting her into bed and having it off with her. And then, he doesn't have to perform for her – satisfy her sexually and bring her to orgasm.
He doesn't even have to interact with her – other than to silently obey everything she says, and kneel admiringly at her feet, staring at her black leather ankleboot-tops and matching, black cotton, elasticated socktops beneath her calf-length, black cotton leggings, whilst she enjoys her drinks and the freemale suitors (myself included) who flock around her.
The footfool-slave at her feet knows she is well and truly out of his league, so he is content just to stare at her sock. He knows she already despises him, and she always will, because he is just a down-in-the-dirt and impotent, black girl's footslave! His only hope and dream is to be permitted to sniff, and then mouthwash, her sweaty, discarded, plain black bootsocks in the corner of my mater-bedroom whilst I make mad, passionate love to her.
If I fail to satisfy her (by not bringing her to orgasm) I have my male self-esteem to lose; if he fails to satisfy her (by not sucking all of the stale sweat from her black socks) he only has the skin on his back to lose! Oh, I know they say that the angry, female whip really stings (I'll have to take their word for that since, being a freemale citizen of the Gynarchy, I've never experienced the cut of the whip – and never will!), but what's a bit of physical pain compared to the emotional trauma of failing to satisfy a sexually-demanding, young woman?
Yes, I sometimes wish that I could be a humble footslave, like this impotent idiot before me, without a care in the world other than the state of his beautiful, black mistress's feet, boots and socks – and the occasional pain of a well-deserved whipping!
Lucky b*stard!
